#🍡TsuyoSpeaks
Note
Request:
-Headcanon prompt, SFW/platonic
-Uzui with a tsuguko whose personality is the complete opposite of him. They dress plainly, look plain, are very quiet, socially awkward, air-headed and seldom smile or show strong emotions. Still, they have good hearing and are very hardworking and loyal. The reader also enjoys playing the piano when they're not working.
Hello, hello!
*phew* for a moment there, I almost felt called out! This is a request that actually, hits close to home especially the plain clothes, and because of this, I had a lot of fun poking at the dynamics of the plain tsuguko versus the flashy hashira. 😂 So, please be fore warned, that these jokes are never intended to actually hurt you, or any other readers.
Counterpart Tsuguko Headcanons | Tengen Uzui
Word Count: 3143
Setting: Tengen x gn!reader [reader is his tsuguko, platonic]
Content Warning(s): brief mentions of combat, wounds, SFW, platonic.
Summary: headcanons of Tengen Uzui with a tsuguko is so unlike himself, the work relationship struggles, and room for growth for the both of you!
A/N: for whom it may concern (me, it concerns me), pianos entered Japan in 1823 making it fairly reasonable that reader can play piano.
To be honest, polar opposites will always have conflicts that occur in their relationships, whether you wish to pursue a romantic relationship, friendship, or just maintaining a friendly work atmosphere, and in Tengen’s case there are some exceptionalities to keep in mind.
Initially, you flew under his radar. No, you weren’t even on his radar, and any brief interaction whether it was brought on by a bump in the hallway upon the Ubuyashiki Estate, or the Butterfly Mansion, was quickly looked over.
Completely forgettable, the most he likely did was spare a passing thought for how sad your world must be, derived of even a hint of flashy presence.
No in fact, I believe there is only two circumstances in which you attracted his attention, such as the chance opportunity of running into one another on the field, your abilities would peak his interest and might tug his interest, but realistically. I still feel like the monotone combination of your haori choices in tune with your slayer uniform, not a single distinguishing feature met by the mutable lack of depths of your personality, he would pass you by.
Nothing personal, he is a man of flighty fancies, and anything that touches too close to his past will make him feel stifled.
Tengen Uzui’s days of living as a mere shadows on the frays of humanity are long gone, he will not allow his presence to be snubbed from existence anymore, and in some ways, I imagine the mute way in which you conduct yourself would bring forth painful memories of his clan, his siblings, his father. Best to skip you over, besides would you even give a reaction if he were to probe, or tease?
Probably not, there’s just nothing to be gained.
Therefore, I imagine that the retired shinobi would likely have to be forced to act as your master, to undertake you to training, and thrust the position of securing his Sound Hashira title upon your own shoulders. One in which he’s unsure if you’re even capable of living up to his standards, but for all his uncertainty, I was after all the Master who recommended you.
An unusual request of Ubuyashiki one in which he held such gentle regard over tea with the Sound Hashira as he gauged the sincerity of hopefully approaching retirement with his wives—a dream that the Shinobi had long since cultivated, and one that the Master wished to see through. To allow a man who had dedicated himself so much to the corps, the opportunity to relax, and taste a life of flashy normalcy.
The formal request for Uzui to consider taking a tsuguko, a tactful place on the Master’s part. The depths of his heart knowing that despite how easily Uzui could be drawn to wanderlust, he may never truly relent his ties to the Demon Slayers without someone to inherit his burdens.
Tengen of course, submitted, as any of the Hashria would if the Master inquired upon a favor. From one so minor, to one as particular as this. Allowing Rengoku to secure your meeting, the retiree ninja was of course curious. You have been on the receiving end of Rengoku’s caretaking a time or two, but who hasn’t?
How bold could one be to have garnished Ubuyashiki’s own recommendations, and the buzz of which Rengoku regarded you before undertaking the introductions had reassured him the promise you must bear.
The Flame Hashira is one of which kindles hope, energy, flamboyant in the very manner of his speech dripping to the vibrancy of his heart, and features. You must be full of promise.
What a disappointment.
Face to face with a blatant stare as stale as the one the Water Hashira so often carries. Head to toe, dressed in the standard uniform expected of the demon slayer.
No hint of individual embellishment such as the hairclips the Insect Pillar carries, nor even the touch of modification that Shinazugawa wears. No, the most unique aspect of your state of dress was the black montsuki that and women alike could be caught wearing routinely stripped of even the clan crest at the breast.
Boring.
So much to the point that the Sound Hashira was certain that if he were to sneak a peek at the in seams of the haori, there would not even be a touch of hidden pattern. Stale, practically robbed of any color, and the blank expression in which you appraised him.
Unaffected by the bold attributes of his dress, and the flex of his hard-earned muscles. The overtly formal, and polite bend of your back, if anything averting your eyes beneath the glistening of the many gemstone adornments.
The nerve of you, seemingly so unimpressed by the absolute god that stood before you.
If you’ve met him prior, Tengen will bluntly tell you that he cannot remember, it’s clearly your own fault.
No, the initial impression is likely that stale, left on the counter over night rice had more personality, but he accepted the annoying duty, nonetheless.
Only because of the Master’s request, but he will do everything he can to shake you from his care.
The beginning rounds of him trying to stifle his duty—by which I mean at your meeting, he had already come to the conclusion that he will force your resignation of tsuguko by any means necessary.
You’re haunting his presence with your plainness.
The first initiation the man will push you through is a strict raiding of your wardrobe. He will dress you head in toe with the most flamboyant clothing, under the strict opinion that if the Sound God is expected to tolerate your shadow, the least you could do is represent. How did you make a black monotsuki PLAINER than it is by default?
No, he will force you through a variety of outfit changes, adjustments, until he finds something that pleases him. The goal is entirely for you to lose your composure—either enough to humor Uzui, or to outwrite draw your resignation.
Literally, trying to force your hand, but little did the sound breather you are just as dedicated to your post as he is jiffing you. Begrudgingly, you’ve left the shop adorning your superior’s selection of a haori bearing a tiger, flame, and flowers.
It’s ugly.
You know it.
He knows it.
But who will fold first?
From there Uzui is likely to push you through so many horrible trials of training that Mount Sagiri is shamed of his tactics. Dodging kunai knives. Sampling minor poisons, forcing you through endurance run after endurance run, having elicited the assistance of his wives to force your retirement.
Each one dutiful, if not concerned as to the means in which he has determined your trials. Each one knowing that despite the way he expresses how plain you are, the reality is that he does not wish to endanger another person in his own affairs. So, they lament. Each contributing to their husband’s whims.
Makio falls more in line with Tengen upon your behavior. The stale state of which you appear unphased or unbothered is likely to agitate her from time to time, and because of this, she’s more likely to be combative.
The perfect person to force you through training in Uzuis opinion. The kunoichi is steadfast in safeguarding her family, that if Tengen has determined you are not up to par to be his tsuguko, she will carry his will into forcing your retirement.
Yet, the awkward way you shuffled around the kitchen, doing your best to begin the breakfast prep despite the way the sun has yet to rise. Your face littered with scars, scathing marks of the training of days prior, unafflicted as the way you wash the rice. She is softening.
Is likely the first to realize just how dedicated you are to upholding the position of Sound Tsuguko in all of it’s dignity—but she’s still going to push you until her husband alleviates her of her post.
Where Makio has been steadfast and temperamental, Suma will delight in the gentle way you regard her. The small blush or unsettled way you struggle when she draws near. Delighting in the obvious discomfort you have with her proximity, so unlike that of an of the Uzui clan.
She’s going to think you’re the most adorable tsuguko to have ever joined the corps. Especially in which the inevitable way you end up awkwawrdly soothing one of her tantrum spouts, the way you had successfully caught her off guard in training.
The obvious risk of disappointment Uzui may feel is in her inability to be a successful kunoichi even if she’s retired. Like he’s capable of feeling anything other than affection for any of them.
Yet, as illogical as the reasoning is, Suma cannot fight the way her tears spill over, and her wailing meets the trees ushering birds from the area. Nor can you fight the awkward shift of your blade, the internal war that has stricken between your nerves before you awkwardly pat her head, doing your best to sooth her tears in the most rigid of fashions.
Then, there is Hinatsuru who cannot ignore the gentle way Tengen says your name. The small touch of pride in his features after the wives report your progress—or well, lack of advancement to putting one sandal out the door.
The progress of your training drawing upon his esteem. The first of any of them to pick up on the real reason why it is Uzui wishes to push you from his services—the former shinobi never having been given the proper ability to communicate how having someone under his ward, under his care always leaves him unsettled.
The man is more aware of his own risk-taking behaviors than others, and as a tsuguko, your duties are to follow wherever it may be that he leads whether to the entertainment district, or to hell, and because of this, the Sound Hashira would rather you resign, or fall under another Hashira’s instruction. Like Tomioka’s.
It is in the small moments in which she bandages a scathed cheek at the end of the day, one of Makio’s kunais having successfully landed its mark in which the small slip of your mask has trembled out. The small confession that though Uzui’s methods are unorthodox, you cannot help but admire his confidence, and his pragmatic approach to life.
And in that moment, she is certain that you are more alike than either of you realize. Such as the way that you can be caught playing the piano late at night as a means to escape the way your thoughts may attempt to rob you of your confidence.
They have all heard you, yet none dare to confess their intrusion. Perhaps in fear that you may stop playing altogether, losing your resolve to combat each of Tengen’s whims.
The beautiful hit of keys, of emotions that dare to spill from your fingertips and lose yourself in the melody in the middle of the night is when Uzui has (not really) admitted defeat.
There is a touch of spark within you after all.
Though he will never state it out loud in this case, rather, he’ll allow the muted return of haori, one in which he had rejected upon your initial shopping trip to appear in your accommodations.
In the case of Tengen, you both will have to accept that your relationship will not do well unless you learn to let bygones be bygones, and try to remain open-minded to both of your needs.
Tengen is by nature, an exhibitionist.
He thrives under attention and praise. On one hand, there are perks in his ability to command a room, as well as your denial of the spotlight. In most missions, this means that Tengen will take the blows, draw all the rage of demons to his self, and allow you the opportunity to go for the kill.
He will put on a performance, while you perform discord from the shadows. Where he is the bellow of a drum, loud and demanding, Uzui sets the pace, and draws attention, you are a flute.
Quiet, outspoken, and carried by the wind. The notes are delicate and untouched allowing you to reach where others may not. But, just as with any band, timing is everything, and as time and trust solidifies, you will make for a lethal pair.
While you may at times become exasperated with his antics, and wandering, the Sound Hashira may at times feel the same way for your ability to remain in place--- he doesn’t get it, but that does not mean that either of your view points are wrong and without purpose.
In battle, in training, and even in the opportunity to ease yourself from demands, both are important. Uzui has the ability to strike first, to wander fearlessly, and blaze a trail. He can and will size vacation time without giving an absolute shit about how it may affect those around him.
The good news is, the Sound Hashira will encourage a voice you never imagined lurked beneath your surface—the ability to back talk the Wind Hashira if he has infringed upon your duties, or to allow yourself to actually take care of yourself with little remorse.
Okay, you actually feel really guilty, but Uzui is at your side shamelessly committing an escapade with little regard, and it’s kind of comforting.
You are two sides of the same coin. On one side, you have the Sound Hashira who does not hesitate to wander, and adore attention, and seize respite, and because of this, he’ll gift you the ability to take care of yourself more, without fear that you are disappointing others.
He’ll encourage bold questions, the smallest quip of a smile upon realizing that you have added a olive haori, or a small pin to your otherwise bland outfit.
Something that once would have provided you with internal discord, now a small touch of individuality upon your uniform. I mean, he thinks you could definitely use more, but baby steps. He’s so proud of you.
The Sound Hashira’s ability to step back and actually acknowledge that though it may feel like a small change to him, it is in fact a significant step for you—is all your influence.
Whereas, you have this ability to motivate him. To help him feel as though he is just a little closer and closer to retirement, and get his bones moving in a beneficial factor to the Demon Slayer Corps. Able to place a little bit more substance in his long-term goals.
On the other, while Uzui does NOT like to be tied down or stationary, as long as you allow him the ability to live life without a leash, he will actually enjoy how thoughtful you can be. The natural consideration you have for others, your ability to coordinate times, dates, in short his schedule—its all essential for him to be able to live life on the edge.
Someone is dutifully cleaning up his mess.
On top of it, he’s likely praise your ability to think out of the box, a side effect of your ability to balance life. In fact, it’s your natural ability to get along that helps to tidy up his dealings with the other Hashiras.
Connection and communication is something that as you can imagine from your initial interactions took quite some time to get off the ground. It likely resulted in a number of spats, your growing confidence giving you a touch of a backbone, and the ability to facilitate boundaries with the man, and because of this, it’s important to address how different your styles are.
Uzui is a blunt individual, and he doesn’t care if his words leave a little bit of a scar. He would much rather be to the point and scathing, than be askew, and coddle a situation rather than accept it for what it is. He is analytical, and is quick to rise to tensions.
While you may be more prone to approaching disputes from an emotional end—such as what led to the infringement. Where is it that tensions arose in the first place, and how might you approach this situation in a way that--- yeah he’s bored as hell and cannot cope with it, but as time goes on, he’ll learn to hear you out.
Just as you will adjust your own communication to details and practical applications without relying. You’re still communicating your needs, as well as acknowledging his own, but are learning that practical language and emotional language should be shifted to mee the others needs.
As time goes on, you will also have adapted to understanding that Tengen’s remarks are never personal, but rather informative ways to correct whether it’s how you handled a social interaction, or in your own swordsmen stance.
That being said, while the combination is one that you both likely met with extreme hesitation, it has the great potential to be one that is not only lethal, but allows you the opportunity to feel safe and secure in a balanced relationship.
Structured on trust, and dedication to one another, Tengen will take pride in giving you the means to meet conflicts head on, to dare to wear olive, or a mute pattern outside of solid neutrals, and you give him an unexpected place to ease into confessions. To quietly dispose concerns, confess the small nightmares of a past that crept up on him between drinks.
Similar to his wives, and the care he shows to the Kamado squad, I imagine that Tengen can and would put his life on the to protect you.
That he claims your accomplishments as his own, not in a narcissistic manner, but rather that of a father who is genuinely delighted to see how far you have come. You are the cat daddy didn't want.
Savors the rare opportunities in which you will follow his lead, the smile upon his face when he has introduced you to extravagant foods. The rare slip of a smile, and how you submit to the moments.
To laugh at his antics, to be dragged along into one of his whims. The moment in which you allow yourself to loosen up, and enjoy where the Sound Hashira will take you. The day in which you claim his position.
The day one that bears such significance to him. The distant memory of his distaste for someone so forgettable, now etched into his being. The widen of his dark fuscha eyes tucked under silver hair as he adverts his gaze with a knowing smile, drawn at the corresponding pattern seared into his face, at his eyes.
The buttons of your uniform, now golden in hue, and the faded amber haori with the faintest, familiar circular pattern at the corner of your sleeves, mirrored image of your sensei's unique marking.
He’s so proud of you.
damn it.
#🍡tsuyospeaks#demon slayer x reader#kimetsu no yaiba x reader#kny x reader#tengen uzui x reader#tengen x reader#tengen's wives#I will never write tengen without his wives#uzui clan#uzui x reader#tengen uzui
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(HELLO HELLO I HOPE YOURE DOING WELL!!💮 I HAVE A REQUEST FOR YOUU FEEL FREE TO IGNORE ME!!) so this is a KNY x kitsune uppermoon y/n!!
So the upper moons three (aka kokushibo, douma, akaza,) hearing about this new uppermoon demon and when kitsune y/n came into the infinity castle and introduced they're self they were really sly and cocky about it! What would there reactions be like??
(Also in this y/n uses a fan like douma but more detailed she is also a nine tailed fox in this!!)
(if you wanna add more stuff to y/n feel free to!! Just make sure you have fun and you are healthy!!)
-🦊
hello, hello 🦊
This is a very fun ask! I did my absolute best with what you gave me, and I hope that it meets your expectations! If you'd ever like to add more details to this reader feel free to stop by my inbox, I was a little pressed for time, and wanted to stick to as much of the details as you provided me. I had so much fun imagining a powerful, bold woman in the upper kizuki.
Beneath the Veil + Headcanons | The Upper Three Moons
Word count: 3237
Setting: Uppermoons x kitsunefemreader! (new addition to the Upper Moons)
Content Warnings: mentions violence/gore
Summary: the newly inducted, fourth moon introduced to the Upper Three Moons.
A/N: So, because the kitsune has a tendency to play back and forth from good to bad in Japanese folk tale, I chose to base the reader off of kumiho, the Korean fox demon as they are more prone to being depicted as maneaters).
The delicate hues of ambered glows that emerged from the darkness. Struct to life with a single cord, a note plucked from the night that gave birth to thousands of flames as though called damning phantoms to their duty. Cast to spent eternity in hell, guarding the depths of the hallway through the infinity castle. Glows that echoed across infinity, danced upon shadows across tatami mats. Traced silhouettes upon silk bound by lacquered panels. Deep walnuts met exquisite shades of wood that elicited the envy of foreign porcelain. Delicate as they were immaculately selected a testament to the lord of hell himself, soaked in the blood of innocents that had built the unattainable fortress; soaked with an ominous glow that threatened to snub the life of those who entered its corridors.
Each strike upon a chord a threat that abducted its victims from their refugee, dragging them to the depths of hell to answer their master’s call. A sharp note that once bore warmth, now a whisper of death’s welcome, the musician’s long lanky fingers danced across the strings. Nails gouged notes that screamed of treachery. Hair reminiscent of ink spilled in vein, dreams that would never attribute to any merit, music drowned by the depths of night to never be heard in the light of day as etched into the instructions upon her skin, and guided her siren calls. A single strum far more than capable of calling forth the undoing of man, devoid of emotion in each calculated placement. The upper ranks each a preference of their own space, save for the few.
The attendees less than they had been in prior attendance, the caution she bid with each press of her rouged lips in greeting to the newly arrivals. The first Upper Moon savoring his space, and secrecy as he so often craved. A figment of past eras, poised as the markets that etched upon his skin and refined as the well-practiced long fingers that tipped the lavish ginseng tea to his lips. The lush spread of black hair that captured the envy of the night draped upon his shoulder. The compose straight of his back, perpendicular to the floor beneath him, his ankles tucked beneath him as straight as the line that formed at his lips. Content to himself, the notes of melancholy are a mere tune to enjoy in sacred solitude.
Unlike the bickering of the two upper ranks before the biwa player. The second moon quickly seeks out the company of the third. Sunkissed hair, as pale as bright as the sun’s rays that met against sheltered, porcelain skin. Dewy flesh as soft as imported cotton, as lavish as freshly spun silk that met the highs of his thick ebony eyebrows. Playful iridescent eyes that captivated the light delighted in hues of kaleidoscope twinkled as they toyed with their prey. The number of his ranking etched into his irises. The wave of his hand jovial despite the tense atmosphere, and his voice as harmonious as the false kindness touched upon his features. Subtle childlike expressions that concealed the vile aspects of his personality, mocked sympathies as he whispered concerns to the stress lines that blossomed at Akaza’s brow. The tilt of his head projecting artificial concern, “Ah, I was so sad to hear of Hantengu and Gyokko.” Cooed as the way he attempted to draw near the Third Moon, the equip of betraying his façade. “I was so worried about you Akaza.”
A mere growl the only evidence of speech dormant within the tense expression bore by the redhead. His doll-like crimson eyelashes furrowed dripping with spit as he averted his eyes from the taunting blight. The markings at his brow crinkled, and creased at the highs of his cheeks, the shade of midnight etched into his flesh. Wrinkled at the grit of his teeth, the amber of his emblem eyes quivered at the clench of his muscles. Restrained trembles resolved agitation confined to the hierarchy embroiled on his mind from the prior meeting of the upper kizuki. The small growl of at the base of his throat, threatening the vein that drew at his temple. “Oh dear, Lord Aka, you’ll wrinkle,” the predatory nature in which he considered drawing his nail at the outer marking upon the Third’s cheek, with draw upon the strike of a biwa cord resonating within his bones. The corner of his lips rid of any tease of concern, elicited amusement and joy. His canines revealed as the happiness emulated his features, “My, my, it would seem our new little fourth has arrived, I’ve heard rumors. I’m so excited to meet Lady [YN]. To think, she is so close to acquiring your rank, Lord Aka—” Shattered fist that drew upon the bottom of the Second Moon’s jaw. Snapped bones fragmented and teeth that struck the floor. Splatter of black blood, followed by the press of silence. The delight warm in the demon’s eyes despite the dislocation of his jaw torn from the hinges of his skull.
“Akaza,” slow and stern. Deep and rich, drawn authority. “You will show respect.”
The hum of his voice resignation in the quiver of his shoulders. The touch upon his vest offering no concealment, exposed to the calculating gaze of Doma, who merely delighted in the well place fear of his subordinate. The growth of his jaw snapped and grotesque as the grin that met at his teeth. “Ah, Lord Kokushibo, you’re so considerate, but please, we wouldn’t want to scare the little Fourth Moon.” Mocking, and depraved of sincerity the glint upon his gaze, a den of wolves at all angles. The first moon merely detached and appraising the arrival, the Third posed and ready threatened at the new arrival while the second merely delighted at his unease. Satisfied as the clank of the koma-geta intentionally drummed to the slants of the wood. Each step deliberately falling in line with music unheard by the remainder of the Moons.
“Oh, don’t mind me,” warm and harmonious as the steps that echoed upon the wood flooring. Rouged lips as vibrant as blood matched only by the hue lingered upon your gaze. The compelling marking of your ranking etched into your eyes, drawn to predatory slants. Movements fluid and as the sway of your hips, unbothered by the delicate embellishments, gifts of slayed lovers catching in the lantern glows. Luminescent as the fires within your eyes, the pout of a smile forming, at the reveal of your upper thigh, the fold of your kimono exposing skin to the night air. Shoulders born, the draw of your hair long and luxurious. Intricately weave and revealing the lavish nature of odango, curled upon impossible lengths, questionable so, and hinting upon the figments of magic as the press of the fan, a false pretense of a docile woman. Conveying only one that cultivated your pray, drew attention to the depths of your clavical and the heave of your breast, as well as the canine that revealed in your smile more than enough to elicit the wrinkle of the Third’s nose, and the further grit of his teeth. Demure and coy as the roll of your shoulder in a mock bow, the bend of your knees in greeting to the Upper Tier moons. The curl of tails falling at your back, toyed upon the steps you drew forward in greeting, poised in charm. The plush of your tails, traced upon by Kokushibo counting as they swayed, unable to conceal the nature of your being. The dangle upon the hair pins, harmonious, and musical each pitch falling upon the screams of torn lovers devoured in the dead of night on a rendezvous turned blood bath. The draw of their appeal tempting Doma to curl his fingers from one specific one. A delicate one, intentionally placed, as fragile as blown glass. Aged and polished, bearing an unspoken significance standing apart from the others as revealing as the smile Doma bore the callous of his finger drawing to allow its jingle.
The snap of your fan swift, a clatter that drew Lord Kokushibo’s many eyes, observation and traced upon movements nearly missed upon Akaza’s. The threat poised in your stature, revealing the concealed lethality as your fan cupped under the Second’s chin forcing his jaw and his attention to your own. “Careful, I’m not certain you can afford my services.” Delicate and struck upon the biwa cord intended to maintain the façade of seduction slipped between venom.
“Oh my,” Doma purred despite the obvious tension of disarray upon the Infinity Castle, predators poised, and mistrustful. None among you willing to entrust yourselves with one another, and such clear disrespect while portrayed as playfulness etched into unspoken territories. “They say, little foxes never reveal their true selves.” Delighted and warmed, allowing his chin to press into the fan at the quip of his grin growing dark and sinister as they traced the guarded the embellishment, “but there is always something that gives them away.”
Beneath the Veil Headcanons | Kokushibo, Doma, and Akaza
Initially, your presence has agitated Akaza. He places a significant importance upon his battle prowess, and any new addition to the Upper Moon draws his focus. Most commonly, it’s because he desires a challenge.
Adores the opportunity to combat a new opponent, especially one who is immortal, and able to rise night after night, and free him from his boredom.
However, in your case, the flow of your pride, and the confidence in each of your steps elicits his ire. The draw of your rouged lips, touched upon intentionally placed laughter, callous and artificial as the Second Moon’s, and at first, your resemblance to the upper rank is more than enough grounds for Lord Akaza to hold you in contempt.
The ranking just below his, he thinks, no is confident that he could eliminate you from the rankings if not for his Achilles heel. A woman amongst the Upper Ranks, while not impossible, or something he has not happened upon before, yet the dire situation that the Demon forces have found themselves against the Slayers, the opportunity to evade your existence as he had Nakime, and Daki is unlikely.
Close quarters, and frequent meetings he is stuck with the eyesore (you), and he is bitter. Aware that finding another replacement for the Upper tier will only elicit Muzan’s ire, and so he is left with little choice but to accept the stain of your smile upon his night.
Endure the taunting and teasing, regardless how much his skin recoils at the linger of your touch. Internal war, if only you were a male his stance would be far simpler.
Though of course, as a newly inducted Moon, you are unlikely aware of his aversion to women, and it’s easy to take such slights personally. Just as the way you conduct yourself leaves the impression that it is fully your intention to toy with him, only furthering his contempt.
Yet, as time goes on, and small details of each of your pasts, or positions are revealed whether in little slips of having to frequent each other’s territories, or one slipped from Doma, who just delights stirring the pot, you’ll discover that there is more to your compatibility than initially believed.
The reality is that you are both by nature in desperate need of trust to cement your bond whether romantically, friendship, or just work peers. But it will take so much time, or mere forced together orders from the Master for him to accept your partnership on various missions.
No matter how I look at it, tact-wise, Muzan is likely to keep you within Akaza’s vicinity. Ironically, Akaza believes he is safeguarding you when in reality, you’re his caretaker.
Intended to shield him from the depths of reality, and sweep away any potential female opponents that may stray into his range. It’s going to be difficult, and one full of back and forth cutting remarks. Both of you are prone to being fairly forthcoming with your communication and ires, and as such, communication is likely to flow quite a bit better than it would with the other moons.
Both of you are fairly adaptable, and makes the work relationship easier to navigate in the flow of battle.
As one who utilizes a fan, the only difficulty is that your fighting stances are a little more difficult to navigate, and will take trial and error. Especially as Akaza does not desire your assistance—nor accepts you as a warrior.
You are not prone to being on the wavelength, and butting heads will come rather routinely for the both of you, but I imagine that Akaza will falter in most disputes.
Not because you haven’t entirely pissed him off, but as he remains traditional at his core, and values the more historical entanglement men and women have had for centuries.
Although, admittedly, your inability to shy away from conflict may actually delight him.
I mean, he’ll never admit it, but you discover that he is far more willing to seek out your company, allowing more time to actually remain around you.
Seeks to protect you, though there are little threats aside from the remainder of the UpperMoons tha could pose a threat to your existence, and because of this, it won’t be difficult to catch on to the fact that Akaza actually just enjoys your company.
though he cannot articulate why that may be.
Oh the dynamic duo that draws exhaustion from all parties in your vicinity. He delights in your pluck, and is instantly smitten with you.
Oh, he delights in the banter, in the opportunity to go blow for blow. Unlike Lord Akaza, your gender means very little to him aside from the fact that if the Second were to perhaps take a small nibble… the thought has crossed his mind you will be delectable.
Far more delicious than those of his worshipers, or any courtesan.
Craves the moment in which he may finally infringe upon your bites. Though it will not be any time soon—you are in no rush to challenge him for his placement, and thus taking a nibble out of you will result in Lord First’s clear disapproval, Lord Akaza has more than expressed his disgust at his tastes, and he is certain that the Master would not accept searching for a replacement.
Which may secure his existence, but he’s not confident enough to make that bet, and so for now, Doma will just delight in peeking beneath the veil.
He has a natural talent for sniffing out the details you do not wish to dispose, such as the aged embellishment you safeguarded upon your meeting. It’s so pretty.
What if he were to break it?
Oh the thought gives him amusement, and because of this, he will push and play. Press nerves, but beneath it, the cold and guarded exterior you often display, is not fooling him.
Just as his false pretenses are not luring you to any deceptions any time soon, you are well aware that Lord Second is not as dimwitted as he pretends to be.
No, rather, you are so faithfully aware that the smallest part of you cannot understand how Lord Third does not see the way the cult leader lures him time, and time again.
You are both adapt at processing, and because of this, there leaves little missed opportunities for the both of you. An opening, and similar fighting styles will make for a lethal combination.
While you have the ability to seize tactical movements, Doma has the ability to prey upon emotional weaknesses, only furthering your opportunities.
Sadly, it’s the consistent skipping over small details that could lead to the downfall of the both of you. While Doma is more than willing to get to know you.
Oh he adores the challenge, and welcomes it as it comes, or he forces it. He so desperately seeks out company, perhaps due to his own upbringing and staleness of life, you offer a rare treat amongst the mundane, but if you are wishing for something more there will be a complication of how forthcoming Doma himself avers to be.
The real question is if either of you are willing to reveal your hands, but the teasing is more than delectable.
The oldest of the Upper Moons will show very little interest upon your arrival at first. The reality is that for the swordsman, many such as you have come, and gone just as swiftly as they have arrived.
He is aware you are a mere last minute addition composed of pressure from the Demon Slayer Corps, and as such, he has a tendency to meet your inclusion as little more than formality.
Keeping to the hierarchy, and unspoken protocol of the kizuki. Yet as you continue to linger, and force yourself into his company, little things such as expressing that you will be seeing him soon, and falling through with such sentiments is likely to gain his interest.
Especially if you follow more formal, traditional methods that are reminiscent of the Edo era. Intuitive by nature, the both of you have the ability to make decisions regardless of how complex the situation may be.
Such formalities, and flow of your time together, the way he finds himself allowing to come undone, and touch upon past selves, he’s curious. So to the point he would not admit to such, and yet, you have caught his attention.
For you, it is the fact that Lord Kokushibo, renowned for his reclusive nature has taken up an interest in you. While it’s true that he will not be changing his nature, nor can you expect him to grow more extroverted.
It is not who he is, and never will be, you will delight in the way he entertains your company. Quietly awaiting your arrival to his accommodations, the sudden appearance of a second tea cup upon your arrival, and engaged conversation.
You know you are warming up to him. The blunt approach to the both of your natures is a contribution to the flow of discussions, and as such there’s a warmth that comes naturally between the two of you should you only give it time.
However, that’s the catch. It will require a depth of time but you’re both immortal so… you are not one to dispose of your hand, cloaking yourself rather than readily reveal vulnerabilities, and the same can be expressed by the Upper Moon.
Your bond is one that is unspoken, and is as natural as the flow of the winds and breath within your lungs. A natural understood, able to see each other for who you truly are, and as long as you allow yourself the ability to accept the time it will take—you will find that your connection is one of sparks.
If it is a romantic connection you are seeking, you may find yourself savoring his touch, and the callousness of his hands. The quiet purse of his lips as he listens to your recent encounters, and the small smile that forms at his lips.
If it is not a romantic connection you desire, then you will find friendship will come just as easily, but ultimately, a work relationship will be one in passing.
Not a partnership in which you routinely work together, but rather a co-worker that you have a great repertoire with.
#demon slayer x reader#kimetsu no yaiba x reader#upper moons x reader#doma x reader#akaza x reader#kokushibo x reader#🍡tsuyospeaks
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Hai! Is it possible to get another kny series? Perhaps 'hashiras with a family?' Thank you so much!
Anon. I love you.
What's to Come: The Hashiras with a Family
[Image is not mine, all credit goes to koyoharu Gotouge].
While I adore my current Hashira series, I also understand that not all of my readers are interested in NSFW material (and it's completely valid if you are, or are not), but because of this, after much consideration, I have decided to release The Hashiras with a Family alongside the series for my readers who are only here for SFW content to enjoy in leu of the The Hashiras in Bed.
The content of this series will be primarily fluff, and sfw. There may be suggestive content in which I may stray a little (please forgive me). Rest assure, it will only be suggestive, as it was in The Hashiras in a Relationship series.
Please note that I will be including Muichiro Tokito in this series. HOWEVER, understand that his section will be similar to that of a teenager daydreaming of the future. If you have an questions as to why, please feel free to reference my rules.
Without further ado, please allow me to release my line up:
Shinobu Kocho- The Insect Hashira
Gyomei Himejima- the Stone Hashira
Obanai Iguro- the Snake Hashira
Mitsuri Kanroji- the Love Hashira
Sanemi Shinazugawa- the Wind Hashira
Kyojuro Rengoku- the Flame Hashira
Muichiro Tokito- the Mist Hashira
Tengen Uzui- the Sound Hashira
Giyuu Tomioka- the Water Hashira
Forgive me my NSFW readers, I will have to catch this series up to the other, and we'll be back at it. <3 I'll also look into completing my Living Together Headcanons.
See you soon!
#demon slayer x reader#kimetsu no yaiba x reader#kny x reader#🍡tsuyospeaks#thehashirasinarelationship#shinobu kocho x reader#gyomei himejima x reader#obanai iguro x reader#mitsuri kanroji x reader#sanemi x reader#kyojuro rengoku x reader#muichiro tokito x reader#tengen uzui x reader#tomioka giyu x reader#i will never write tengen without his wives#thehashiraswithafamily
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Hi hi hi, anon who asked if the request are open or not, thank you so much for your answer.
Can I please ask you for some headcanons of NSFW for Shinobu ? I feel like it would be something very important to her in a sense that she rarely let her true emotions slip but in some occasion like that she's completely herself because she share a special moment with her s/o. Excited to see your hcs about that. ❤️
hello, hello!
You know, I think a lot of ways you're right. For Shinobu, I believe that trusting a partner requires a high level of intimacy from her, and that she would allow her mask to slip--- That being said, I think you could see two different sides of Kocho depending on the moment. You may witness her sweet and affectionate side, or you may be met with her wrath (Never forget her battle tactics!). Which ever she entrusts to you, is a big indicator of her unwavering faith in you.
This is also my first NSFW Headcannon, so I'm sorry if it doesn't meet expectations!
The Hashiras in Bed | Shinobu Kocho
Word Count: 2766?
Setting: Shinobu Kocho x gn!reader, casual and commitment mentioned
Content Warning(s): MDNI, NSFW, light bdsm/rough, mentions of masturbation, positions, biting
Summary: NSFW headcannons, what sex and intimacy means to the Insect Pillar.
[Art work is not mine, all credit goes to the original artist]
Engaging in a physical relationship with Shinobu Kocho may sound exciting at first, and well, it is. However, it certainly comes with its own risks. The piercing gaze of her amethyst eyes concealing the depths of her passion. The roll of her hips well experienced in the rock of her pelvis as she torments your own. Ensuring the space between the two of you is just enough to allow for teasing, faintly peppered sensation against her. The quip of her smile, taunting at the growing excitement that flusters your reactions. The small tug of your needy fingers against the flesh of her thighs, eyes averted as you beg for her touch.
On one hand, Shinobu can be a giving lover that is ready and eager to meet your needs, but on the other, she can be quite sadistic in her endeavors. Which version you receive can depend on a few things, such as your personal sexual preferences, but also the status of your relationship balanced by the duration together.
For Shinobu, sex is two sides of the same coin, and truthfully, I wouldn’t be surprised if she has visited a brothel or two. For one thing, she’s rather open to a variety of experiences, and an encounter with no strings emotions attached means that she has the opportunity to slip the façade from her smile.
If it is a partner who she has no intentions of seeing ever again, well, why should she should she hold back? There will be no hesitation from the Insect Hashira to place you in any position she pleases.
Taunt you, tease you, or simply straight to having her needs satisfied. She really lacks decorum, and bedside manners. Her temper offered the rare opportunity to breath, the poison wielder’s tongue can be quite sharp in a casual bed, but to the same affect, you could easily win her over in this state.
It’s rare that she relents her inner most thoughts and desires like this, and if you started out as a one-time fling in a brothel by coin, willing to accept her upon her next visit. Well, you’ll find yourself with a loyal customer.
In this dynamic, you will find more often than not that Shinobu is the dom of the relationship regardless of the sexual equipment you possess. The rare opportunity to bite, to hiss to flare her fangs as she did in her youth.
It would be little surprise that she will not hesitate to inflict verbal assault on a willing partner.
“Look how excited you are, after so little? You pathetic little whore.”
Prepare to be mistreated, and degraded. Really, she could care less about the place, or position. You will do as you are told, but to the same extent, I can’t imagine that she would be a high risk taker in most regards.
She prides herself on placating a smile in the work place, and keeping her inner sadist under wraps is a priority. this is strictly business, no need for the niceties, or song-and dance routine. Strip.
This version of Shinobu would not know hesitation in treating her perspective partner roughly either. You can expect to be tied up, lightly slapped, on the receiving end of rough sex, even down forcing you to your knees to service her.
You’re welcome to try and play switch. , she’ll think it’s adorable. She’ll allow you the opportunity, but only for amusement. When she has determined she’s had enough, you will know your place. in a casual fling, you’re the sub.
Though, truth be told, she’s really not as fond of casual sex, and places a high importance on a true connection. You already know Shinobu hates to waste time, and more often than not, a temporary agreement really isn’t up to her standards. ugh training someone to let them go.
On top of that, she spends all of her time at the Butterfly Estate and treating patients, I can see sexual health being on her mind at all times.
That being said, the Insect Hashira will be the exact opposite with her perspective partner. In a committed relationship, in fact, her over consideration of her lover’s pace may leave you with the impression that your relationship is stagnant, or perhaps that she’s not interested in physical intimacy. you would be wrong.
Truthfully, Kocho is actually a respectful partner, and as such, she really does allow you to set the pace. If you’re slow to approach sex, don’t worry about it. she can take care of herself as the need arises.
However, if you place a high importance on compatibility, and sex is an early expectation, she’s willing to perform.
But you’ll find that she will not regard you in the same manner as her more casual flings. Even if you started out as a purely physical relationship, upon having decided that she desires an emotional bond as well, you’ll notice a switch has gone off in her.
Her mask secured and tethered, and her treatment rather gentle. Shinobu will regard her lover with the utmost care. Delicate kisses, small nips. Nothing that would dare mar your complexion.
While she’s proud of you, in this state, she’s not likely to leave a mark. TO do so would mean hurting you, and as the person she cherishes, Kocho is not inclined to inflict pain. Just as she does in a relationship, you will find that the Insect Pillar place a high importance on satisfying her lover’s needs.
Willing to spend hours dedicated to proclaiming her devotion across your flesh. Your pleasure is in some ways, her own.
Cry for her, moan, meet those cute little purrs that assure her she has found your core properly. she thinks your adorable when you cry.
As the lover of the Insect Pillar, you’ll find that Shinobu is rather playful in the bedroom. She enjoys experimenting, just as she does with her blade. Rather than being on the receiving end of poisons, you will find yourself subject to a variety of scents and aphrodisiacs.
Like a test subject, always being studied. Appraising every reaction. As she tinkers with the recipes, growing more and more bold over time. Using your very own biology against you, Shinobu will procure a concoction that will have you on your knees begging for her touch.
she will tease not giving it to you, but of course she will.
Just as she can be coy with her creations, you shouldn’t be too surprised to have a toy invited into the bedroom. The medic is a scientist after all, and very… thorough with anatomy.
The perfect placement of a vibrator caught at the tip of your dick/ nestled at the bud of your clit, go on cry. she’s grinning. or if you find yourself desiring penetration, she has the perfect strap on in mind. Give her a moment to prep. all while maintaining eye contact you.
Her brain is always ticking, always thinking of what positions to lure you into. Ways to stroke upon you, where to rub, where to nibble. she’s ready to explore.
Bratty in the way she regards your responses. Playful, and purring her adoration for how cute you are beneath her. She really gets off on your blush, and shock.
Shinobu will seize every opportunity to play with positions. 69 is a regular candidate. Her sex pressed against your face, rubbing roughly against your tongue as she delves her mouth around your core.
Position herself in front of you, spreading your legs as well as her own, lavishing in mutual masturbation. Really, Kocho favors any position that has you spread before her. Laid out, unable to avoid her piercing gaze, forced to lock eyes admist your desperate moans.
She adores getting to your preferences, so the more forthcoming you are, the happy you both are. She may even approach these topics shamelessly in the light of day.
Foreplay with Shinobu, is a difficult road. She’s not always on top of social cues, or expectations, and even the routine can be a bit mundane or bizarre for her.
sex is a logical need, the emotions in it… less so
She can be a little selfish. You may find yourself disappointed if you expect her to just *know* foreplay is desired. However, as long as you communicate that you’ve a high importance on it, she is more than willing to learn. she loves the examples you provide.
She’s quite the hands-on learner, and will be more than forthcoming. She’s taking notes for every little moan you make, the way you peek to her touch. Oh, she’ll remember that for next time. The rub across your collar bone, her breath warm against your neck and the desperate attempt of your hips twitching, resisting the urge to buck. noted.
Really, she may forget about the niceties of sex all together if you don’t bring it up, or if say, Tengen has noticed you’re irritable, he may impart some advice upon her. While the intrusion annoys her and pops that little vein in her forehead, shit, he’s right you will find her dedicating more time to foreplay.
Just like with foreplay, you may worry about the intimacy level of your sex life. Again, Shinobu at times can be to the point, and as long as you indicate what you want in your encounters, you won’t be disappointed. Just be sure to communicate with her.
She’s more than willing to be intimate and snuggly with you as long as she knows it’s what you desire. Shinobu will tease you for being needy.
At this stage of your relationship, you will have to openly push for your needs if you desire rougher activities. Don’t get me wrong, she will very much oblige, but she’ll require some coaxing.
To slip her mask to her lover is a deeper form of intimacy, as though exposing herself to the outside world. With a secure bond and a trustable partner, she’ll be able to slowly sink back into old patterns if you’re a fling it.
In which case, the return of dom Shinobu is upon you. you asked for this. Please be careful.
Truthfully, if you were to approach your lover, she’s fairly open to a variety of experiences, is fairly receptive to your requests. There won’t be much need to plead your case, but understand that if after your experiment is concluded, she may express it was not something she will repeat.
She’s not disappointed in you, or angry, it just isn’t her cup of tea. Don’t try to pressure her, just as she would never pressure you.
So if you’ve decided you want to be the sub, and allow her to release her inner demons upon your flesh, well she can be prompted to do so, but only she’s sure that your relationship can with stand her tongue.
the things her tongue can do when it’s kind though
Understand that while she is more than willing to be harsh on you, Shinobu would not tolerate being smacked back. In fact, I believe it would result in a very bad time for the both of you.
Either her irritation drawing her wrath, and pinning you to the bed, or quite the bridge in your relationship all together. tread lightly
You shouldn’t expect Shinobu to be up for a breeding kink either. While she’s understanding that sex procures offspring, and that at the core of the action, reproduction is the goal… it’s not for her. To her, sex is enjoyment. The rush of hormones, the ache of muscles, and nerves. kids, no thanks.
The Insect Pillar’s sense of humor has always been hit or miss, but you may find that it randomly reveals itself during sex.
It could be something small, such as the way your cheeks stuffed with the toy reminds her of a squirrel preparing for winter, or it could be the way she has intentionally set you up for a cheeky moment, there’s really no telling. It’s also okay if you really… don’t get it. it’s Shinobu.
As long as you allow yourself to laugh, or just understand that she would never laugh at you, then all is well. Her goofiness during sex will catch you off guard, but in those moments, it’s actually rather sweet and tender.
Giving way to softer kisses, and lingering touches.
I love you can occasionally be slipped in during foreplay, and during sex. Just powdered across wherever her heart compels her to do so. It may be her fingers caught between your legs, the roll of your head as you cry for the stars, it could be when she’s rubbed against your thighs, or the roll of her breast against your hand, or even as the euphoria of climax slips from your tongue.
If it’s crossed her mind, she’s already saying it. it’s the truth after all.
Really, mental stimulation is a strong need for Shinobu. Boredom is not an option, and to touch upon her sense, to captivate her mind, can lead to an intense session.
That being said, I believe that a partner Shinobu really trusts, and is willing to give of themselves will be surprised at how she can allocate the control over. You’ll discover a hidden category of Shinobu’s sex life.
A dirty secret she has concealed from the world. Kocho. Is. A. Sub. But only for you. Only for you will she rear her ass the night air, face slammed down into a pillow.
Desperately crying, the cutest little pillow princess beneath your grasp. Her small bratty comments quick to be corrected. Adorable as the shy touch of your hand against her breast, and shyly averting her eyes.
Struggling with whether she should admit that she adores your boldness, and be rewarded by her compliance, or if she should dare temp your temper, to see how far she can push your resolve. punish her.
No, I believe it would be a rather special, and long commitment that would give the Insect Pillar the strength to let go. To allow her innermost desires loosened and frayed, to allow herself a moment of weakness. OF tender touches, and soft cries into the night. Resolve her control, to be cared for, and tended to. To allow someone to take the reins and guide her. blindfold play.
Slip the mask she bares as the Insect Pillar from her façade. To discard her duties, and her title, to just simply be your lover, delicate between your fingers her hands finger through your hair as she desperately pleads your name.
the level of trust she’d put in you to have reached this point alone is so, so much
Really, to Shinobu sex is the solidification of the bond, and to allow you to see the true her.
If she has the thought and you haven’t completely destroyed her, Shinobu would need no guidance in aftercare.
If you were rough on her, she’ll be sensitive as you gently coddle her. The small hitches of her breath revealing her state of stimulation. round two?
But if in the event, she was forthcoming with you, she’ll delight in playing with your legs. A warm towel, gentle as she thoroughly scrubs the soft pink of your flesh. Joyfully giggling at how sensitive you are, welcoming the opportunity to tease you. Over stimulate you. ah but she means for it to be aftercare… she’ll make it up to you.
Her medical training will place hero on autopilot at times. “I did go rather deep, here, allow me,” as she assist your walk of shame to the bathroom. Draws a bath, and soothes your hair.
She may be rough, but she can be just as sweet, understanding the physical strain she placed upon your body. Nurse play can be expected in the aftercare.
Praise during the act will likely, not happen.
Words are not a strong suit for her, and while she adores the roll of your hips, and the captivating way you have captured her hands above her head, she’s more inclined to make sassy, disobedient remarks than anything else.
Although I believe the compliments, she would pay you in the aftermath would be sweeter than honey. Intoxicating as the pillow breath has robbed your lungs of oxygen, and your brain of thought process. Just barely able to process that she has paid you sweet appraisal.
Patting your head after you’ve lapped your tongue against her clit and thrown her to climax, assuring you that you have done a very good job.
Other times, she may be tossed to the bedding, the roll of her chest meeting the puff of breath alongside sweat, blushing wildly and eyes languid as she utters her devotion breathless to your actions. well done.
To relenquish your body and soul to Shinobu is to understand that she too, will give you all of her.
It’s trust.
It’s intimacy.
It’s her.
#demon slayer x reader#kimetsu no yaiba x reader#kny x reader#shinobu kocho x reader#shinobu kocho#🍡tsuyospeaks#TheHashirasinBed
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hi there
girl how are u doing? i'm missing your writings 😭😭 however, i hope u are doing great and not overworking yourself during this time off
anyway, i have a request and i hope u can make time to do some hc about the hashiras and how they deal with gossip. i mean, if they do like spreading them or just hear and add some more information or like start to spread misinformation without the intent. i just think it would be really funny and interesting to hear your thoughs about this topic
that's all xoxo
Hello anon!
I have greatly missed being here, and interacting with everyone. I am happy to say that I am back! I hope you are doing well, and I have to say that I am especially grateful for this ask. Leaving my classroom at the end of my course was heavy, and I really miss those kiddos, but this was such a fun ask! It was a wonderful distraction <3 Thank you!
The Hashiras Workplace Gossip
Word Count: 6700
Setting: hashiras x gn!reader [platonic, but could be romantic if you squint.]
Content Warning(s): mentions of gossip, suggestive tones, calls of chastity, rumors, he said she said, topics may be triggering for some readers. please read with caution.
Summary: just a few headcanons about how each of the Hashiras approach work place gossip, and rumors.
The Water Hashira
Gossip is not something that Tomioka is particularly fond of.
The swordsman views such idle chatter as a waste of time that serves no real purpose. It is a mere distraction from work tasks, drawing mizunoto astray with its every posed word, distracting kakushi’s duties, and results in oversight.
There has been a time or two in which he pretended to remain unresponsive and even more in which the cackling hens did not realize he had risen when retrieved from the battlefield, battered and bloodied, the drawing of his consciousness and the slips of whispered words in hushed giggles. Kakushis that spoke brazenly of relationship statuses, of advancing ranks by tasteless tactics, undermining abilities in favor of some grandiose promiscuous gestures that signified short skirts and revealing uniforms. Shameful accusations of limitless wealth for higher ranks squandered from the lower tiers, doubts of capabilities drawn due to age and flighty tendencies, and depictions of monsters born from scars.
No, he has lost count at the amount of times the rumors passed between kakushi despite his obvious state of awareness. Last known recorded number was 31.
This is not to say that Giyu has not attempted to lay such banters to rest. Many times he has tried, and rather than success of imparting enlightenment to the naysayers, it would appear that he merely added rapeseed oil to the fire.
Tomioka’s reassurance that Shinazugawa’s scars were merits of his bravery became morbid despite the self-assurance of his stride away, convinced his righteous lecture had landed.
It had not.
Passed from mizunoto to kakushi, and back again, it was only a matter of time before the night sky of his eyes met that lavender bathed in rage. The writhe of his scar wrinkled and furrowed as his brow, wreathed venom, and poised lethality at the claims that had met his ears.
The Water Hashira had misread the dip of the mizunotos’ chin that met their color bones, the crease between their eyebrows, and the exchange of glances. Oblivious that the state of his “scolded” subordinates had only reached the natural conclusion… the Water Hashira lived in fear of the Wind Scourge.
Kocho expressed that Tomioka deserved it—his face has such an effect on people. Pity.
Tomioka has high standards, and he holds himself in high regards. He is not the type to seek out gossip, and to an extent places himself above such drivel.
He’s lying.
Let’s be clear, Tomioka does not actively seek out gossip, and he certainly isn’t the sort to take part willy nilly. He does not crave the drama and meets a majority of the social aspects of drama with severe tension. I swear he has digestion issues. Yet, despite his unwillingness to participate, there are moments in which he is just as a likely victim as others.
I mean, he’s always a victim of topic, but anyways…
Small tidbits here and there are likely to pique his interest, and he truthfully may not even be aware that such secondhand information is gossip. The small mention that Tanjiro has become smitten with the Butterfly Estate tsuguko will have him pondering how he may be of assistance to his subordinate. He can’t, but such endeavors come naturally to him. He is loyal, and despite his inability to properly socialize, he really does want to help.
And so,
Tomioka has entered the world of gossiping.
He is wandering amongst the mizunoto, inquiring of interests. Pocking around amongst the kakushi who often frequent the Butterfly Estate, picking up details of interest, favored snacks, and preferences. All for the sake of providing assistance to Tanjiro in a letter, he would never say this to his face.
Blissfully unaware of the inner turmoil his curiosities have elicited amongst the Demon Slayer Corps. The majority of members horrified that a superior officer has taken an interest in his clear protégé’s lover, the even fewer pleased to see a bit of warmth crack his icy surface—not realizing this is not the look of a man in love, but rather a proud older brother.
Sir is genuinely confused as to why the young trio of butterfly estate attendants are in tears upon the sight of him, urgently waving him away, or the horror that afflicts Aoi’s features as she demands to know if he is in fact, stupid. The rampage of flipped sterilized medical supplies, and the casualties of kakushi who found themselves in the way, as the small woman pillages all in her path.
Only Aoi can save him from being strung up by his toes and left to freeze beneath the winter moon.
Truthfully, the Water Hashira’s ability to either elicit rage amongst his peers, or go unnoticed is an ability to be reckoned with, and yet, he very rarely utilizes such underhanded tactics to his advantage. Like distracting from the allowance of a new member of the corps to keep a pet demon sister. Though if your name has been gathered into the gossip seis pool, Tomioka will do his best to clear his name. Completely unaware that he is about to make matters worse.
His stickler tendencies can often be suffocating, and when he does utilize common workplace gossip to distract from something major, the target is more than often easily distracted. For all of his open disdain for gossip, he has a fairly soft spot for his partner, and can turn a blind eye for a bit of venting.
Let me be clear, VENTING.
Bits of frustration slipped through your teeth as you racked your fingertips through your nails, determined to find a solution, but first to sponge the memory from your thoughts. For the most part, venting leaves him… a little displaced. Does he help, or would intruding with suggestions just… make things worse? Do you wish for him to only listen, or even tune you out so that you can take a deep breath of air, and rejuvenate from the occurrence. Everything in him wants to help, but in most cases, venting is… really intended to clear the slate so that you can start a fresh. And so, he’ll bite the inside of his cheek, allow his brow to meet as the worried pause steals his breath away; the cup warm against his fingers as he prepares your own.
Just, don’t stay in this place.
Or cute, joyful gossip. Such as the gleeful way you squeal, your cup of tea warmed to your fingertips as you share soft details of him, having just returned from a mission in which you aided the Love Hashira and the Snake Hashira. Unable to contain the kick of your feet as you recant the tender scene in which Obanai offers his hand to Kanroji beneath the moonlight, holding only the softest gaze. He had absolutely no clue that the two were intertwined, or even interested in one another, but hearing your delight at their progress. the small melancholy that fits at his chest as he listens.
The Insect Hashira
The dribble of fools.
Kocho isn’t dimwitted. She understands that the idle banter is a mere means of escape from the day-to-day horrors experienced by the Slayer Corps. It’s a means of normalcy passed from grocer to mother, spread throughout villages. She can remember briefly how her mother giggled at small snippets of daily life in her childhood. At the time, it was a slight annoyance. An obstacle at best, designated to bring her mother entertainment, and derive the young Kocho of running amuck. Far too much time spent at the grocer.
From her mother’s hem to the clutch of the tweezers between her fingers, the white of her knuckles revealing her impending rage. Her vein throbbed against her forehead as the pinches of her lips elicited pain at the clutch of her jaw. Kocho’s smile is deceptive to the untrained eye, a false sense of amusement at the celebratory of a mythical relationship coined by mizunotos desperately clutching at invisible fine lines.
Only Aoi can detect the flicker of her bottom eye lid in time to remove sharp objects from the medic’s reach.
Shinobu has been more than forth coming of her opinion of Tomioka in what world would she ever---- Gossip is nothing more than idle idiocy that blossoms from a lack of intellectual pursuits.
Truthfull, the Insect Hashira is far more than aware of the significant emotional impact that gossiping can project on the wellbeing of others, and is begrudgingly accepting of its existence as a means to ensure the continued care of the Demon Slayer Corps.
But she’s still bitter that anyone would dare into the relationship status between the Water Hashira and herself. The even rarer accusation that her affections has begun to cultivate fondness for Shinazugawa. The accusation alone to bare enough dishonor against her sister. Her blood boils to know these dimrods would dare to drag her family name through the mill for entertainment.
It would be more accurate to say that it is not so much that Kocho condones the utilization of rumors for socialization, but rather, she refuses to acknowledge the passage of whispers in the Butterfly Estate. Only turning her sharp gaze at those who utter her, or her sister’s name. For the most part, she allows it to pass. Refuses to muck herself with hearsay when there are far more productive duties to attend to. Those that would bear far more merit than determining Kanroji’s breast measurements. Clearly 32D.
Yet, there are rare… opportunities that present themselves from time to time.
Small little pieces of information gathered amongst the medical ward that align with observations she has accounted for in the past few weeks. Details that cannot help but become interlocked with little intentions on her part. Shinobu’s brain works fairly quickly, and she cannot help but notice the links between certain Kamado and the way his eyes float to her little sister.
Then, there are far more delicious attributes she picks up from time to time, and Twhile Shinobu is by no means once to actually share what information she has picked up along the way, that does not mean that the less intelligent specimens *cough Inosuke cough* are aware. As sharp as the grin that drips with her lethality, and knowing gaze. Heightened senses of pray all too aware that they have been caught in a predator’s clutch.
She has been known from time to time threaten to allow her tongue to slip details to Aoi that has Inosuke running for the mountains like a truffle pig after rare medicinal herbs.
Kocho is especially delighted by the state of duress upon his return. His boar mask shaking from side to side, unaware of the state of him as grass catches from cloth and fur, to the ends of his luscious hair. Clueless at the scratches that mare his flesh, or the likeliness he has obtained internal bleeding from plummeting from cliffs to return, frightened at the sight of her whispered against Aoi’s ear. The indignified squeal that erupts as steam furrows from his nostrils.
Oblivious that she had merely asked Aoi to clean the herbs he had retrieved.
His adverted eyes, and veins at his cheek as he dodges the trainee for the remainder of his stay in the medic ward as satisfying as any ginger sukodani.
The Flame Hashira
His gaze was as steadfast as the blade at his hip, a symbol of duty and honor. Loyal to his master, and the calling of the code, dedication etched in blood, sweat, and sacrifice. Solemn, composed and practiced at the bend of his back, the willingness to press his forehead to the ground beneath the master’s feet. Determination to duty, called upon by the flame, and etched in smoldering temperatures the epiphany of a Pillar.
A samurai’s honor.
One would never suspect Kyojuro of passing fancies of the flesh, of the tongue, or even the ones of entertainment.
But they would all be so, so wrong.
Let’s be clear, Rengoku is after all, a man of dedication. Of devout faith to his cause, to the slaying of demons, and stoic to his own nature. This is the same man who hindered his own auditory capabilities to ensure the completion of his liege’s command--- but this is the same man who cannot help but greet everyone that he meets.
The Flame Pillar’s generosity knows no bounds, and his smile is far more forthcoming. He is not the type to shy away from casual conversation, often delights in sharing little tidbits with grocers, and is even more pleased to savor what advice they may pass on.
Because of this, Rengoku is far more in the know than the majority of the Hashira. Unlike a few of them Tomioka and Obanaij, the kakushi who tend to his needs are far more willing to engage in conversations. All too eager to bask in the warmth of the sun, and in reality, speaking with Rengoku is akin to releaxing beneath the rays on a bed of spring grass.
Thus, when the Flame breather happens upon two kakushis busied with chores, whispering amongst themselves, the small snippet of a sorted love affair amongst Hashiras spoken far louder than intended how else would he have ever heard them. Rengoku cannot help but drop to his knees, wedged between the two of them. An eager puppy to join in the kinship of work place discussion, even doing his best to fold the laundry as he makes his inquiry. The muddled state of folded linens pressed between his calloused battle fingers, and the warm smile as he regards them.
Who can blame them for sputtering it out.
Both of which are left with a searing, overwhelming pit of regret as his fingers meet the cloth at their heads. Reassuring as his warm voice echoes across the gardens, expressing with his fullest intentions, that he will see this matter properly attended to, and thanks them for sharing with him. Both far too guilty, knowing that the Flame Hashira has absolutely no concept of differentiating hearsay from facts.
Only furthered as they hear his external monolgued, expressed he had no clue that the little Kocho sister had an affection for the Water Hashira, he must assist him immediately. No, wait, he knows nothing of women. He must consult Uzui, and then speak with Tomioka.
They will soon learn from the head of the Rengoku caretakers that such gossip must not reach the Flame Hashira’s ears, their little flame must be protected at all cost. Though, they had suspected upon his departure they had made a very, very poor decision.
To be clear, it’s not so much that I doubt Rengoku’s intelligence and his ability to eventually determine rumors from evidence. In time like a dog with a bone, Kyojuro will have realized that he has been duped. More often than not, the hard way Kocho’s grin seems to press him in a haunting fashion.
Rather, it’s that I feel like the Flame Pillar was brought up in a fairly traditional family dynamic, and gossip is not something that would have been common place amongst his parents. More so, both of his parents appear to have rather stern dispositions when it comes to their moral compases, and I just cannot imagine them being the sort to discuss the latest topics passed along the Ubuyashiki Main House.
Because of this, I imagine that this is a fairly new skill set that he is working on.
Know that Tengen has not provided as much assistance as he should in such matter. Partner in crime, I know it.
As a man on a mission, the Flame Pillar has unintentionally allowed rumors to start as mere sparks, small kindles that would be abandoned in time, and lost to the night air, a new life. Kindled, and spread across ashes, and nurtured as the woodchips that feed the tale. Rengoku is the sort, to spread gossip in all of the best intentions.
Such as his willingness to provide assistance to the Water Hashira in his blossoming youth, to the abundance of pride he expresses in his tsuguko only providing circumstantial evidence to the manner in which Kanroji has climbed the Slayer hierarchy. Never once intending to insinuate deeper meaning than the words uttered between his grin, and the beam of his praise.
He is truly, by nature, a social firefly.
When the news of an elicit rumor passes his ears, threaded together from details from one kakushi to another, or admittedly, the shamed loyal ones within his service aware that their master is the source… there is no more a devout remorse than Kyojuro.
The heavens will know of his tarnished honors, of his remorse, and self inflicted servitude to those he has unintentionally wronged.
The Sound Hashira
There are few things that entertain the former shinobi. He has lived many lives, and shed far more skins than a single man has ought to, and as such, run of the mill workplace gossip is not at the top of his concerns.
Information elicited in scandalous ways, extracted, and exploited whether the rumor bares merits, or not.
It reeks of shinobi business.
A life he has long since shed, and abandoned with little remorse to leave in his wake.
There are far more entertaining activities Uzui can pass his time with, maneuvering through the redlight district, dancing across waterfalls, encompassed in the throws of passion with his wives—there is very little that the dull conversation passed between mizunoto and kakushi can do to garnish his attention.
As such, he is very rarely entertained, let alone an active participant in gossip for the most part. It’s something he just finds bland, and boring. NOW, to be the center of the gossip shines and peaks beneath the sun. to leave a trail of rumors in your wake, and to be the topic passed amongst the subordinates.
That’s the sort of flashy business, the Sound Pillar can get into.
These little glimpse of a third person point of view are what provides him with delight. A moment beneath the sun, and small amusements. Regardless of how drastic they may be, or down right shameless, Uzui will do little more than to laugh at the concept of bloodied battles left in his wake, or to hear that he has apparently seduced a princess from her jewels. Although, the idea sounds tempting, Hina would never forgive him.
However, do not be fooled. His lack of involvement is not born of moral merit, nor is it pressed by duties or other attributes. We have seen first hand that Uzui is quite the connoisseur and far more than capable of retrieving what information suits his needs. Rather, it’s more the incentive. Other people’s lives are far more boring than his own. They are dull and lack any sort of luster, unlike the brilliance of his own existence, and as such, he is more than not—bored to tears by the concept of what is scandalous in the lives of subordinates.
A scantily clothed woman as a means to climb a hierarchy later is nothing to snub your nose at. Rather, it’s to be commended if such approaches were in Kanroji’s arsenal.
In part, it is likely his own existence that has made such rumors lack luster. His former life has given him more than enough insight into how such things can take on a life, but even more so, his intellect, it takes very little time to pick fact from fiction. Truthfully, he almost pities those who would fall for such little tidbits.
Almost.
Uzui cannot help himself when the Flame Hashira visits him in these times, engrossed in the duty to assist star crossed lovers. The sincerity, sparkliy and delighted to assist those nearest and dearest to him. Tengen cannot resist himself regardless of Mako’s warning. It is the similar delight Suma approaches him after a trip to the grocer, brimming with joy to share that the grocer has landed himself a lover. He is committed.
A willing victim of circumstance and delighted to greet an old companion. It is far too easy for the Sound God to be spirited away in such conversations. He delights in fun, and discussions over drinks, and dinner are likely to allow his tongue to slip far more than they should.
It is only when he is face to face with Kocho’s wrath, and Rnegoku’s self-castration, that Uzui is aware--- it was entirely within his capabilities to stop this.
But, that would not have been as much fun.
The Love Hashira
Like her master before her, there are small tidbits that the Love Hashira cannot help become intrigued with. For one thing, little small things such as the rumors of a little boar in love with a medic is certain to send her reeling to Obanai’s side. Kicking and squealing as she does.
Her heart is a flutter, and her hopes are high, if there is anything she can do to support Inosuke, she will find a way!
These small little snippets of love in the air, and passion a foot is sure to draw her interest, and she cannot help but watch spring fever hit the mizunotos. At times, her own intentions can get the best of her, and she allows herself to read a little more into rumors than she should permit.
It’s nothing that is malicious—the Love Hashir has simply lived up to her title and seizes every opportunity she can to assist the seeds of connection amongst the intrigued.
However, she is far more emotionally aware than her teacher. Where Rengoku has the tendencies to miss over social cues, Kanroji is far more in tuned with those around her and is quick on the uptake. While her heart pounds at the opportunity to assist in love affairs—she is also aware that not everyone is ready for that step and will never push where it is not desired.
Rather, she will simply offer her love and support on the sidelines and pray to all the gods that the relationship will work out. She is rooting for them. And keeping tabs.
Aside from will they, won’t they relationships that are running amongst the Slayer Corps, Mitsuri meets the majority of rumors with ill ease.
There is obvious discomfort that spread across her face as her knuckle meets her rouge lips. Delicate eyes that are reminiscent of the first bud of spring fall to their eyelashes as she ponders the gossips amongst the halls of her estate.
Conflicted at the matter at hand. As the Hashira of the estate, she cannot simply condone the ill placement of idle chatter.
While the Insect Pillar may be able to identify the social connectivity that workplace gossip may bring, Kanroji can only see the wounds that can be afflicted on the unwilling spoken participants. Details of private’s life spread over dinner topics, passed between the rustle of sheets, or the lining of linens upon drying racks.
Delicate threads, pulled at one by one as they gently unravel. Stranded from one another, until a single thread remains untouched. Unbound.
Alone.
The Love Hashira is no stranger to the under belly of gossip. The small chatter spoken amongst housewife to mother, to housemaids, and shared with gardeners, and is painfully aware of what repercussions such implications may cause. Such as the loss of a proposal.
No, she cannot turn a blind eye to such words whispered in her presence, and Mitsuri is not the sort to join in especially if there is harm that can come of such thoughtless words.
No, she will banter back and forth with her internal monologue. Do her best to sort out emotions, from tact. Mitsuri will commit herself to the concept of strategy, depict herself with the clearest of intent, and as soon as she is confronted with the idle chatter once more.
It’s out the window.
The Love Hashira is somewhere between embarrassment, upset, and tears that follow her outburst as she begins to scold, and reprimand. All at the expense of a wounded party.
The outburst was one for the books, and Kanroji is hiding her head in shame.
She meant what she said, she does, but oh… what she had practiced versus what came out… is the difference between grace and word vomit.
She will hide for weeks to come.
The closest that the Love Pillar will ever orbit gossip, is likely to be in the form of tears as she expunges the day’s events, the horrors in which she burst out in a fur of vomit without being able to cap the explosion. Her sobs will fall between the shed of tears as she clutches your kimono. Horrified to allow you to see this part of her, but left with little choice but to pour her heart out to you.
Kanroji is likely to be a victim of a venting session from time to time, but this is as far as she will dip her toes into the rumor mill.
The Stone Hashira
Gossip is not a common place amongst Himejima’s childhood. The torn of incense, the sanction of rites, candles, and the gentle guidance of man’s will. Brought up in a monastery, the Stone Pillar is without attachment to such concepts. Drawn from the necessities, and Buddha’s guidance, such behaviors are not befitting of his upbringing.
Though truthfully, such concepts had never truly drawn his attention. Even when he was a boy amongst the visitors of the temple, wishing to better themselves in their lives, and light. He had recognized the early whispers. Small slips of the wandering eyes of mothers that held their children close, pressed one side by side. Intent upon requesting talismans for their young, interest caught at his presence a ward of the temple.
A source of curiosity, rumors pressed between fingertips, and hummed at the taste of tender gossip.
Age has worn him, drawn his concepts of such social topics, and idle chatter. Strained his relationships, the soft giggles of kakushis tender and soft. A mundane life, and delicate. There are parts of him, that hears small slips of a forgotten life.
Scorn pressed at the twists of the passage between mizunoto and kakushi.
The Stone Pillar can only force a smile to his wide lips, allow the sorrow to settle to the pit of his stomach, dredge in the depths of his soul. Tug at mirrors of forgotten sentences, and hummed to his being. Inescapable, and unavoidable.
Only touched upon in moments such as these, with only the rueful smile Gyomei can press to his features as he swallows the knot that forms in his throat. There is no ill will in the hearts of those that surround him. No intentions lurking beneath the surface, and yet, there is a knowing to his being.
A deeper understanding of the threads that his environment desperately clutches. Connection to the earth, and to those around him. Desperate to sink roots into their circumstance. Warned by the concept of ties to this earthly realm. A concept often robbed amongst their average day to day, buried beneath the depths of the façade of peace.
It’s desperation to feel normal, to feel a part of the world. Touched to those around them, clutched to shreds of normalcy that is greatly underappreciated by the citizens in their care.
Himejima is wise, far more Intune with those around him, and the pull of the wind, the song of birds, and the hum of the soil beneath his zori. It is because of this, he is self-aware. Conscious that the distinct pulls of the whispers of a past best left forgotten is not what is intended to be called back. Rather, it is his own ability to self-reflect, that makes him aware that this is none other than his old wounds bearing their fangs, not the reflection of those around him.
It is with this, Himejima can only smile.
Listen to the soft voices around him. To the lives that try to I’ve amongst the peak of clouds, to dare to reach for normalcy.
But, they are never conversations that the Stone Pillar will take place in. There has been one or two old members of the corps who have pressed such conversations, dared to engage the Hashira in conversation. Though, they never made traction.
Though there is merits for others in the social banters, to Himejima, such conversations are superficial at best, and for the axe wielder, he desires more. Soil beneath his nails, warm by sunlight, and to touch the soul of another. To hear their laughter, to know their dreams.
Just because he does not speak, does not mean that he cannot hear things.
The Mist Hashira
One would think that as the youngest member of the coprs, Muichiro would be the most likely to succumb to the lure of the rumor mill. His lack of social interactions outside of his familial bonds, and emergence into the world, makes him a likely candidate, but not as likely as Rengoku.
Though his interactions are as unintentional of that of the Flame Hashira.
As a wanderer, Muichiro is flighty. Curious, and easily distracted by the winds of change. He is a drift amongst the Corp members, and often guided by his wanderlust. His presence is spotty more often than not, and while he is bound by his sense of duty, the swordsman is not prone to remaining in a conversation long enough to truly absorb the discussion.
For the most part, he doesn’t care to.
There are rare discussions that will warrant his attention, and for the most part, they are centered around those closest to him, such as Tanjiro.
The iridescent of blues that flutter and saturate into the black of night, touched upon the flutter of a butterfly’s wings that catches amongst the sunlight. Dreamy, and curious as he wanders after it. Only pulled from its lull at the mention of his comrade.
Similar to a moth to flame, the peak of his ear caught upon the familiar name, Muichiro’s attention has been pulled and tugged, snug as he draws to the end of the side. As though a siren has whispered its sweet tune, he is unable to deny its call.
He is a wrecking ball.
Forcibly interceptive between the conversation, blatant and abrasive as he announces his interception. Unpacified by the kakushi’s clear reeling. Horrified to have drawn his attention. Terrified they have been cursed by a spirit. As he roars his obscenities, called to the honor of his commrades.
Muichiro has little remorse, and gossip often brings up the worst in him.
While he often struggles with remembering certain subordinates most of them, gossipers and chatters have landed a special place on his list alongside a round of snide remarks that accompany their appearance within his sights.
The smallest slip of rumors amongst pressed lips caught by the Mist Hashira, is met with a bitter response, and has likely landed you on his bad side for years to come. Little will right this wrong.
Young, and brand new to the world, Muichiro is not the type to fold to those around him, and clings to his idealisms. Gossips are not welcome in his company, and in truth, he finds the majority of it to be a huge waste of time. He desires to connect with those around him on a deeper route, much like the Stone Hashira. Perhaps to sooth the wounds of his heart, but…. Not all gossip is bad gossip..
The open praise of growth amongst the subordinates, the pride in which some declare their pride in their comrades is likely to elicit the opposite response… Muichiro loves the opportunity to sing praises of those who have earned it. Rare, far and few between, he glows at the opportunity to glisten. He practically comes giddy and offers one of the sweetest smiles as his words flow with affection. Happy to share cute little fun facts, down to the snot bubble that the older Kamado develops when he is especially exhausted.
Growing with each word.
Tanjiro. You know I’m talking about Tanjiro.
Ironically, it is in these moments of unelicited boasting that draws the touch of placed rumors. His glowing affections, unabashedly provided to the one recruit, and Kamado alone. Muichiro has single handedly fueled the fires.
Not that he cares.
I promise Ginko has written more rumors than the entirety of the main household kakushi alone. Little prim feathers has an agenda, and it’s putting her boy at the number one. At. All. Costs.
Obanai Iguro
Gossip has little concept to Iguro.
It is so low on his radar, that he cannot even constitute it as a waste of time. Truthfully, I think only small parts of it even catch his attention from time to time.
Equipped with luminescent star-crossed eyes, mixed matched eyes that contain galaxes, and depths unexplored. The cut of his eyes is sharp, and threatening, and it is without surprise that… Kaburamaru has more of an understanding of what’s going on.
I cannot make this up.
I can imagine the little moonlight touching serpent enjoying teatime with Kanroji and Rengoku, delighting in a treat or two as they catch up over their absence. The occasional mizunoto greeting Kaburamaru, often venting completely unaware of the depths of his comprehension. Or understanding why he flares when they complain about Obanai.
That being said, the Snake Pillar is not particularly interested in the social ongoings in the Demon Slayer Corps. The congregations of bodies pressed amoangst one another, desperate to depart useless information, he can understand why it is Kaburamaru may seek out the chatter amongst the winter, but for himself, it reeks of… contact.
The close courters, the touch of elbows against one another. The eagerness of maids to press into him, to touch his hair. Whispered appreciation of it’s luster, the wander of his eyes. Shamelessly seizing the opportunity to snuggle up to him.
No, absolutely nothing they are discussing is worth that.
For the Serpent Hashira, the only time he will meet gossip is when he slips between the corridors. Praying to remain undetected across the lavish décor, pressed against furniture. Doing the best to navigate narrow spaces, as the words of slander slip from pressed lips, a mock show of dusting a vase that only further elicits the swordsman’s rage. Master Ubuyashiki deserves respect, and… did they mention Kanroji?
Let’s be clear, Iguro has protective tendencies, as any snake with a possession worth safeguarding. Only those who have earned his recognition, his attention will warrant his protection. Regardless of where they may be, and what way the threat has been imposed. Physical, or otherwise.
Obanai has been known to snicker at the rumors that flow over Tomioka.
However, insults warded against Shinazugawa’s scars, or the question of Kanroji’s chastity are sure to illicit wrath, and none have been able to escape his punishments without scars.
I promise he has strung up a mizunoto or two for daring to insinuate that Mitsuri would dare entertain the idea of a relationship with the Kamado boy.
Obanai is intelligent, and in some aspects, he is likely to be able to seize the utilization of weaponizing information from time to time, but truthfully, he does not have the patience for such sorted behaviors.
Or rather, it’s that such topics that bristle him, such as the hinting that Kanroji has begun a relationship, or that the new recruits have witnessed Kanroji in the baths during their stay at the Swordsmith Village has him seething.
Quick tempered, and vengeful, he has not the time, nor the means to reel his emotions back long enough for a well thought out plan of revenge. His only objective is to devour everyone hole. Whether the rumors have merits, or if the target of such gossip is even aware.
The Snake Pillar has no forgiveness to offer.
Truly, the least likely to engage in gossip in my opinion. He’d really only listen to Kanroji’s vents/word vomits, or perhaps Shinazugawa imparting information from time to time.
The Wind Hashira
The Wind Pillar holds himself to his duties, has subjectifies himself to the life that he lives, and relents his wellbeing for the sake of others. The moment that he realized his marechi blood spelt death for those around him, Shinazugawa released what little hold he had on a normal life.
Like threads slipped through his fingers, Sanemi did not refute their loss, and refused to morn his place amongst the common folk. Rather, he accepted his duties without complaint, assured himself that to live this life in service was to ensure that his little brother would never know the pains of the night.
With such dedication, the Wind Pillar has quickly become a pillar amongst the Slayer Corps, and though often the topic of rumors that press amongst new recruits, his scars have stories that have taken lives of their own.
Yet, rare is the time in which he will intercept such conversations. Rather, he has submitted to such claims. Allowed gossip to run amuck, dedicated himself to his training, to securing lives. What he has will be proved in battle, in servitude, and protecting those around him.
What offers them, even the briefest release from their realities, Sanemi is willing to turn a blind eye to what he may say.
Perhaps because he too, misses normalcy amongst the sun.
Yet, there are rare slips in which the rumors can guide his temper. Flare his wrath, and break his façade of silence. Such as the times in which the mizunotos whispers sympathies for that Water Hashira bastard. Warmed, honey words bewitched by his pathetic sniveling, and convinced that it was none other than the Wind Pillar who bullied sympathies from the little shit’s mouth.
The mere notion that Shinazugawa had gone out of his way to threatened, not to even see the Water Pillar was enough to elicit his rage, and often times, sent him reeling. Storming through estate after estate until he had found the swordsman. Allowing his rage to guide the interaction with little remorse or thought.
For all his moral compass, like Rengoku, there is a crack in direction.
A small swivel of the compass, distracted by an attractive magnet. A small sip of conversation, the sweet whisper of curiosities, and hummed warmth. Such as the shy mumblings of a maid amongst the Main Household.
Pressed her fingers to her cheeks as an older retainer probs for details. Shamelessly engaging the conversion in the light of day, an inquiry of attraction for a particular gun wielder amongst the units.
Oh yes, small tidbits of loved ones is sure to peek the Wind Pillar’s interest. Though negative slips will react in elicited rage, Shinazugawa is fiercely protective of those who he deems worthy, and even so of those he is less than concerned for. Unwilling to allow those in his estate to act as perpetrators of others happiness.
Sweet little slips such as these, are impossible for him to ignore.
I mean, he’ll try. He will convince himself he is above such matters, scoff openly at the shameless topic in the daylight. Despite finding the way his ears naturally turn to hear more, chastise himself once more, before uttering bitter curses as he resigns himself to the task at hand. Information gathering.
The wind breather needs details. Needs to know more about this maid, about her inquiries, about how it is she has come to know his little brother, and what it is that has drawn her interest. Metts when she shares that it was that he helped her with her fallen zori. Someone in love with his little brother can’t be all bad right.
While I cannot say Shinazugawa will intentionally take an active place in gossiping, I can see himself involving himself more than he should. Such as in the case of his little brother’s love life.
especially when the life that he dreamed of for Genya is just within reach.
#demon slayer x reader#kimetsu no yaiba x reader#kny x reader#shinobu kocho x reader#kyojuro rengoku x reader#gyomei himejima x reader#tomioka giyu x reader#🍡tsuyospeaks
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Wisteria Bound Promises | Shinobu Kocho
Word Count: 5682
Setting: Shinobu Kocho x fem!reader (memory loss)
Content Warning(s): suggestive themes, mention of gore, angst
Summary: a mission leaves the couple at a bridge of their relationship; stripped of all memories of demons, of slayers, of... her, Shinobu must face a decision she was never prepared for. To know whether her love is strong enough to let you go.
Anon, I hope you see this, and I was able to fulfill your request. I gave it my all, and I hope it makes your day <3
[image is not mine]
Shards of glass decorated the forest ground, littered throughout the duff. The distant memory, her words playful at the time echoing in her ears. A time when she had praised the beauty and practicality of your unique breathing style.
Glass Breathing, but now the sight of fallen stars shattered amongst rocks, fragmented against bark, and splintered amongst the grass devastated her. The Insect Pillar’s footsteps could not carry her fast enough, her caution lost amongst the carnage. Neither worried of the cuts that marred her uniform, or concerned at the digs of shards against the pads of her sandals. The desperate squawks of your crow guiding her forward, his consistent divots as he ushered her along as ever loyal as his partner. Her partner. The distinct scent of metallic seared her nose, tints of ferric that claimed her senses. The shiver of the hair at her backs, and the lump that gathered at her throat. Familiar. Far too familiar, reminiscent of her medical instruments. The sickening fragrance that had begun to mix with the flesh, the coiling of hairs, and cauterized skin, flayed, and open to the night air. Wounds exposed, caked with traces of pebbles, and dirt. Debris from the scuffle painted across your flesh. Rubble that gathered in clumps adhered by gore. The dim sunlight that trickled through the trees revealing the feebleness of your skin, bare in the light. Displayed by the shredded fabric gatherings of your uniform, the under cloth once white stained. Thick patches remaining vibrant, and red, while other areas had begun to darken. Brown. Black. The chemical process, Shinobu knew all too well how long such exposure required. Her adrenaline causing her body to tremble, swayed under the thoughts that ran rampant. She needed to act. No. She needed to remain calm. she should hold you. No, it’s dangerous to move your body without knowing the depth of your wounds. Her insides screamed, her eyes falling to the slump of your back. Curved unnaturally against a bolder, as though you were nothing more than a doll tossed to the side. Your blade at your side, the touch of your fingers still in grasped. Dropped it. You had released it from your hold after you had vanquished your opponent. Good, good girl, you had prioritized conserving your strength. The tremble of her body, willed herself to remain in control despite the tears that quivered. The twitch of her eyes as she begged them not to fall, a struggle she could not win. The weight of her cries far too heavy for her eyelashes to contain. The shake of her hand as her fingers found your pulse. The quiver of her back and how Shinobu’s sob had caught the nearby kakushi off guard; betrayed by her movements. Barely allowing herself to absorb the information. Head. Blood. So much blood. Clot. Clotting? Pulse. Alive. Alive. Breathing. Slow. So slow. Move. Move. Eyelashes closed. Open. Open. OPEN.
Kocho’s fingers gathered at her eyes. The touch of calloused hands, the faint aroma of wisteria mixed with poisonous ingredients met the cleanliness of clothes and linen. Every time she closed her eyes, she was caught there. A shadow amongst the tress, lifeless and hollow, daring not to breath. The sight of your body, the plague of a battle—she should have been there. You needed her. Awash by her duties, diluted into prioritizing the care of mizunoto that had come in the night before, she should have assessed the situation better. Inquired more details from your crow Yugure before you had departed. You had assured her that you would be fine. You promised. You lied. She would always protect you. Shinobu lied. The ache of her stomach, and the gnawing whispers that tore at her soul as she leaned against your bedding. The way her heart had plummeted when Yugure had returned without you; the ruffle of the fowl’s feathers. The anguished cries, and tremble of his caterpillar charm you had crafted for him, she had deserted her task. If Aoi had not stepped in without hesitation, her patient very likely would have bled out, but she hadn’t even considered the repercussions. Shinobu had only had one thing in mind.
[YN].
Her fingers traced amongst the bandages of your cheek. The roll of your bangs that mostly hid the dressings, swaddled amongst blankets, you had rested. Long eyelashes that dusted over your cheeks, the faint of twitch of your eyes at her touch. The girls had worked overtime to ensure all of your wounds had been properly tended for; Shinobu herself had remained steadfast at your bedside as you slept. A duty she had assigned herself not only as the proprietor of the Butterfly Estate, but as your lover. Not that she felt as though she deserved such a title. I let this happen to you. The Insect Hashira’s heart heavy, reprimanded herself for fidgeting with a sleeping patient regardless of the intimate nature of your relationship. She knew better. You were stable, she understood that. Kocho was well versed in the nature of your wounds, comprehended that you were well on the mend even if you had not awakened to her yet. Rest was necessary, but still, she could not prevent the way her hand failed her. Performed an obvious coup as it caressed the soft structure of your cheek. Danced across your features, tucked the strand of hair behind your ear. Rejoiced in the flutter of your eyelashes. Slow, steady. Listless at first, and how it proved singing from her core. The smile drawn to her face, leaned to your side. Pressed her forehead against your own. To fill the life that had returned to your body, to savor the soft way you would whisper her name. The way you would reassure her you were okay. Greet her with your usual giggle, and tease of how she had once again fretted over your care. Yes, yes, the giggle she yearned for—had emerged a warped scream.
And Shinobu’s world had once again, been torn asunder.
Y-You hadn’t meant to scream. Truly you didn’t, or at least, you think you didn’t. Your eyes followed the room in a daze. The small wrinkle of your brow that grew. As you attempted to absorb your surroundings. The walls were mute in hues, lacquered wood trims and floors that met in noticeable care, a flower vase that had been well tended to. Small decorations that had been meticulously placed. Their placement well considered and practical in usage. Some items appeared to be newer. Recent additions that had been implemented, or at least you had considered them to be. The paint fresher, or more modern than that of the furniture of the room. A dresser filled with trinkets, and fresh clothing set to one side, and an end table on the other. Another floral arrangement awaited viewing, alongside an--- the woman with purple hair had explained it was an IV. Tubes that connected to your arm through small needles. Your eyes tracing the lines, curious. The small part of you wishing to yank on it, having never interacted with such medical devices before, but the petite woman who had adjusted it strongly discouraged it. Her touch significantly less delicate than the woman who you had awoken to, tugging over cloth. Her pigtails swaying as she did so. The cutesy butterfly embellishments catching your attention, the blue of her eyes averted. Unwilling to meet your gaze. A common occurrence from the staff you had concluded.
White bedding, stark and ready for cleaning at a moment’s notice had bundled you tight, pinioning you to the bed. An onslaught of pillows, and metal framing, far more modern than the humble abound you were accustomed to, or at least, you felt as though everything had felt unfamiliar. The unease in your stomach, and small prick of Suni’s care--- ah no wait, Aoi. Her name is Aoi.
The purple woman—Kanao. No, wait, that wasn’t her name. You could feel the frustration begin to bubble in your head. The small pulse of a headache that had threatened to blossom. Your eyebrows drawn forward wrinkling your brow. “You were clearly told not to force memories,” the haughty young lady instructed. Her hands falling to her hips as she attempted to stare you down. Yet, when you attempted to meet her gaze, her eyes once again drifted your own. Once again evading contact, successfully dodging you in a way that made you uncomfortable, “Lady Kocho’s orders for your treatment are on the end table, be careful getting up. Your balance is still a bit off after your fall,” she sighed. Discomfort. Did you perhaps, make Suni--- no Aoi uncomfortable? “I-I’ll be back in a bit with dinner, we’re having your favorite yakitor—I’ll bring dinner back later,” she fumbled. The anxious of her voice quick as she gathered her supplies and dispersed from the room before affording you the opportunity to inquire... How does she know I like yakitori? It had been like this since you woke up. A series of oddities, over familiarity that you could not explain, and for those who were more trained in their conduct, it felt as though there was a bridge between you and your care providers.
The Lady Kocho had explained upon waking up that she had been attempting to check your fever. Although your environment certainly seemed similar to a medical ward, something… didn’t feel right in the distance she had put between the two of you, following your startled response. You had felt certain, she had said something to you when you were waking up, a small feminine voice that you had heard in your slumber, but no matter how hard you had tried to recall, the small numb of a headache—ah that’s right, the female physician had expressed that concentrating would only spur a migraine. What else had she said?
Before you had screamed, flustered her distance, her forehead had been pressed against your own, tender and gentle. She had expressed, it had been intended to ensure you hadn’t contacted a fever in your slumber. Though, the methods had seemed a little unusual, everything about the interaction had felt off kilter. Your name, she had called you by your name with such heavy affection that it had startled you. The level of fondness had hinted at a deep level of intimacy—but that couldn’t be right, you had never met the woman before, and upon inquiring how she had known you, a smile had tugged her face. As though it had been meticulously forced upon her features, pinned to place with sewing needles, and the way she creased her eyes in the smile. It felt off, ah but to be fair, perhaps you would feel insulted if your patient did not remember you after so much effort. Either way, the evidence of a tremble of her lip had been erased, replaced with a well-practiced smile. Forced. Poised. Distant. Distant? Any evidence of sentiment had been absorbed by the mask she bore as the Lady Kana—no no, Kocho had begun to inquire a series of medical response. Inquiries of your name, of your age, the region you had been born and raised in. All, fairly odd questions, as though some part of her expected you to slip up in your response. No, prayed you would not know the answers, but that’s ridiculous. For all the care she had put into your recovery, what sort of doctor would hope their patient has no memories at all? It was somewhere between your responses, correct for what it was worth, recounting simple childhood recollections, and beginning to inquiry where you were that the young nurse, Kiyo had entered the room. Ah no, wait, Aoi. Her name is Aoi. She hadn’t uttered a word upon entering the room. Rather her yes fell to the physician, and then back to you. Absorbing the same information as you had, and upon your inquiry as to where exactly you were, the Lady Kocho had not flinched. Her smile rather, seemed more strained. Tugged tighter, nearly as tight as a shamisen string that threatened to snap under the weight of its instrument, and yet regardless of how gentle her voice remained. How steadily she explained that you were at a local hospital, the nurse behind her—her eyebrows had trembled. Her eyes flashed to her superior, her eyebrow noticeably furrowed. Lips pursed, as though she had bit into a sour pear not quite in season. The purse of her lips, overlooked by the Lady Naho, Kocho, who approached your next question. “How did I get here?”
Aoi’s fingers grasped her tray as the Lady Kocho explained that you had taken quite the tumble on your journey. Sent on an errand from your family that had led you to the region, you had stopped by prior to your fall and requested assistance with your directions, thus why the residents of the hospital seemed familiar with your name. Aoi’s blue eyes falling to the Lady’s back, as though she could see something you could not, your attention pulled to the jumble of writings your care provider offered you. Instructions, scribbled in her hand writing the small floral scent that touched your nose from the parchment; small notes of residents you would find upon your recovery. Verbal cues, and with that, she had departed. Separated from herself, only stopping for a moment to lean into the nurse Aoi before bidding you farewell. The very paper you now held pressed between unsure fingers, your only thoughts wondering why it was the scent had felt so comforting.
Hours turned into days, and days faded to weeks, and in little time, two months had passed since your accident, and despite all the small hints that Shinobu had left around the estate, your memory had yet to return. Her attempts ranged from the typical touch of your favorite meals continually made by Aoi to beloved kimonos custom crafted for your figure alone. Each endeavor growing a little more and more less restrained. Ridiculous, she understood that. Kocho was more than aware that to force memories on a recuperating amnesia patient was—not advised. Yet, she had gone so far as even encouraging the small trio of medical students to guide you through walks in the Butterfly Mansion’s garden. To her credit, the fresh air would beneficial. When Shinobu had concluded that your condition was just limited to your memories, she had implemented routine as she would for any patient--- no really, she was sticking to her duty… sort of. During meals with the residents of the medical facility, she would often make small talk, drop small fragments praying that something may trigger your memories. Allowed herself to be lulled by false hope that something had ticked when you had requested to work in her office, filing paperwork at the minimum. It was after all, how your relationship had found its footing. The close proximities, long hours, yes, she had thought perhaps there was something there, and yet as the weeks languidly passed little progress had been made. The time between excruciating for her heart. Her empty bed as vacant as her core. Aimless. Meaningless. While she struggled to maintain her composure, told herself that in time, your memory would return, and this would all be a bad dream. The passage of time was beginning to wear on her, and she had begun to wonder if perhaps, you may never retrieve your memories. No part of you had a recollection of the Demon Slayer Corps, nor the selection process, let alone the monsters that wandered in the dark, or of her.
Hues of purple glanced over ponds, the garden a light in the faint of the morning. The wisteria hanging in bunches, gently swayed by the gentle breeze that met the day. Fragrant, and warm. Safe guarded from the world, enchanting as the moonlight, and all of the stars. As though a piece of the heavens had fallen to the earth, tucked away in a remote location upon the grounds of the Butterfly Estate. Well-practiced, callous hands that worked deftly to extract wisteria essence. The beauty of the blossoms as lethal as the wielder. Amethyst eyes that captivated the petals, the absence of the smile she had forced as a façade. Lost amongst a grove of wisteria, Shinobu had never felt inclined to reveal the depth of her rage. Nor the spite in which she withdrew lethal dose after potent toxin. Administered in batches, collected into test tubes secured at her hip. Focused, and lost amongst the isolated blooms, it offered the rare opportunity for Kocho to breathe. To slip the smile from her lips, to allow the scowl that etched into her heart the day her sister had passed. The early hours only securing her privacy, the snap of branch that drew her attention as quick as her blade.
Your cheeks burned under her gaze. The faintest shade of a blush that threatened its way down your neck, across your cheeks. A delicate hue of red that would shame any rouge that a merchant would dare to vend, and the delicate tremble as your eyes averted from her own. Shy, as the bite of your lip. One hair securing wisteria blooms that cascaded from the trees, kissed your hair in ways she had longed to, the other hand grasped at your chest. Clutched, trembled, before eyes that lit with the morning sun. Determination seizing your confidence, urging you towards her side.
The memory of your confession shattered the glass between her hands. Revealed scrapes over faded nail marks that had been embedded in the palm of her hand. The result of her own self infliction—every time she had become aware that she had been erased from your memories, she had found herself clinching her fist since that first day. Wounds that had been reopened multiple times, the restraint of her growing frustration. When you had been woken from a nap, and she had to withdraw the hand that thoughtlessly reached for stroke your head. Over meals in which Shinobu had considered offering an extra serving from her own plate, when you had correctly called Aoi by the correct name. When you had called her Kanao. Nails that had torn into her flesh, and the forced smile that disguised her growing rage. Demons. Demons had done this to you. The small glitter of glass that flickered in the light, The quiver of her lip, the shiver that traveled down her spine. Blood that escaped the newly emerged wound, all hushed whispers of the night a monster had stolen her place within your heart. Drawing only the clench of her teeth, scrapped against each other as she quivered.
The startle gasp that drifted through your lips, dropping your task at hand, and rushing dutifully to her side. The light touch she had known in so many other ways that dusted across her wound. The soft voice that had reassured her dead of night, eased her from nightmares, and embraced her in love now offered soft reassurance as you delicately cleaned her wound. The worry of drawn eyebrows, a face you would often pull when work had kept her in the long hours of the night, often from the corner of her desk where you would set yourself up with a book. The occasional glance over the pages, that small wrinkle of your brow. Now peeking up at her once again, the tremble of her heart. To thread her fingers through your hair. To whisper assurance back, to kiss the scars that had formed at your cheek after your assault, the wound never likely to heal. The only physical evidence of your encounter that had remained. The press of your breast against her desk, eliciting distant memories of pinned encounters against the lacquered wood. To hear your desperate cry, to witness the tremble of your breast, to elicit the moans only she had known—the naïve way you regarded her as you wound fabric over her palm. Completely unaware of how desperately the Insect Pillar longed to embrace you. To hear you call her name—to declare her love for you in body, heart, and soul. To back you to the bookshelf. To encase your wrist with in her small hands, to pin you to the book bindings. To reach on her tippy toes, and claim your lips as her own. To have your body respond to her as it had so many times before—no, no the clueless gaze in which you regarded her was not one that she was familiar with. Innocent of the thoughts that lurked beneath her mind, you were an angel still, but one that knew only of the light of day, and nothing of the horrors of the night.
Her eyes catching at the tender flick of your wrist before drifting to the parchment that had gathered on her desk. Bitterness ebbing her stomach. Swallowed in her throat, and betrayed her voice. “[YN], are you perhaps—ready to return to your family?”
Your eyes fell to the packages that had been carefully wrapped. The Lady Kocho had taken great care to ensure that you would have everything you would need for your voyage home. A variety of colors, clothes more expensive than you could comprehend. A lavish gift that felt.. out of place. The depths of your heart uneasy at the journey to come. Whispered uncertainties that you could not quite grasp onto, urged you to remain under the care of the medical ward. You had wondered if it was that you were anxious to leave their care after such an unexpected trauma. Perhaps you were filled with a fear that such things would happen again, with no assistance. Reprimanded your heart for how it begged to remain under their company, to sleep just one more night—they had more than sacrificed for your sake. Welcomed you into their home, and allowed you to parade as though you were one of them. Patiently accepted your blunders, and mistaken identities. Embraced your uncertainty, and nurtured you to health. Only one scar remained from the incident, you had guessed that it had been some sort of rock that had caught you in your descent down the mountain.
Your eyes wandering across the room, uncertain and anxious as you did so. For all the short time you had spent there, it had captivated a place in your heart. To witness workers cloaked in black, Aoi had explained they were… movers. Their outfits a unique uniform by their employer, to bare witness to them one by one heave box out of the room you had called your own for a short period left an unnamed ache within your heart.
“{LN], the horse is ready,” Aoi’s voice whispered. Her blue eyes trained to the ground. Only briefly peeking at you through her parted bangs. A hefty burden laid upon her shoulders, invisible to your sight despite the obvious weight. I did this to her. To all of them, your stay had impeded on their lives. Despite the way your heart ached for her, to know your presence had burdened them so. Heavy feet that echoed down the wooden hallway, reluctant with each step. Willed yourself to press forward. Reluctance at the sight of the gate that drifted into view. All too aware of the tears that fell between the young trio’s eyelashes. The sobs audible, and near controllable despite Aoi’s reprimand. Strained words that insisted that your departure was hard on all of them, unaware of the weight her words carried. Or the way they had carved into your core. The tremble of your brows, unwilling to glance back at the little girls, knowing all to well that your reluctance would only manifest their unease. Mournful of your departure. The mover willing to assist you in heaving you upon the carriage with the horses. The ease that your body adjusted to the beast a surprise, tucked the neglected letter into your breast pocket, and swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat. “P-please tell the Lady Kocho, thank you for her care.”
Aoi’s eyes fell. An obvious wrinkle of her nose manifesting—you had come to recognize her annoyance. Understood that the young lady was by all rights, rather well-mannered in her behaviors. She was likely frustrated that Sh—Lady Kocho had been unable to send you off properly. The small part of you worried of the lecture she would push on her master, as a bitter smile found your features. You would miss this. But what was there to miss? This was only a moment together. you had no right to claim such for yourself. “Here.” A bundle of fabric, weaved of purple hues and the softest tint of floral fragrance before she turned her back on you. Quick on her feet, ushering the young girls away. Insisting that work was to be done, chores to tend to as you departed. A forced smile that found your face. The warm scent of floral notes, and antiseptic poised against the fabric. The tears that threatened to roll. It smells like her. The press of silk against your nostrils as you breathed in the familiar scent. Long hours assisting her in the past weeks had offered you a lot of opportunities to engage with it, and regardless of how hard you tried to resist it. You could not help but admit, that the smell in all of its unusualness was comforting. Longed to savor the scent for as long as you could, in a way that you could not place. The yearning of your heart to see the medic just one more time.
The shrill had drawn you from your thoughts, well, obsession? The Lady Kocho had warned you that your thoughts may be askew for some time to come, you hadn’t considered it would wander to something so… Deviant. Obsidian feathers well maintained and manicured. The delicate click of a charm against a claws; fluffed and demanding. A crow hovered close to you. Its insistence to be heard drawing your eyes to the small charm at its neck. A small note clutched against its talons. Gestures that did not feel as though were your own, yet came naturally to you as you reached out for the little bird. The comfort its weight against your arm provided, the toss of its beak as though it were appraising your reaction. Why? The carefully folded parchment, and ribbon secured at its ankle drawing your eyes, met once again as he fluttered his wings. Puckered his chest out in assistance. The unintentional way your hand drew against the gathering over feathers at his shoulder blades. The way he leaned into your touch as though you had done this countless times before. His ankle stretched out with one more craw demanding your attention. “A-ah, Mr. Bird, is this for me?” His feathers wrinkled; the hint of agitation evident on the bird’s features as his insistence squalled. As though you had in some way offended his honor. “I, uh, thank you?”
The handwriting familiar. One you had known since childhood. Your mother, sweet and affectionate in her praise. You needed this, you told yourself, for what heartbreak you could not understand, but it was not the words you had expected to read across the page. You heart yearned for reassurance that nothing had changed in your absence, that your family awaited your return in good health.
Instead, she wrote of a bond. One made of promises, and sweet nothings. Of flustered confessions of her daughter—you hade made. The countless letters recounting her stay at the Butterfly Estate leaving her at a loss as to why it was you wished to return after all this time. Reassurance that if you had had a spat with S-Shinobu that running away was not the answer. Love was so rare these days, and should not be abandoned so easily.
Love? Love. You could feel the click of your thoughts. The unease that skated over the page, over and over again. You had not written letters, none that you could recall during your admittance. No, no of course you hadn’t. You had not a—crow? Mail carrier. Peeking at the bird that was shamelessly studying you, the small peek of purple bug of a charm. Blown glass. Glass. You found yourself fumbling against the note, careless in your regards to it as you scuffled to unravel the lavish silk cloth that you had been gifted as a parting token from your physician. The pounding of your heart, guided in a way that you could not explain. The tremble of your fingers. The quiver of your soul—Desperately snagged at the harness of your mount. Stumbled across as the words fell from your lips, “I-I’m sorry Yugure. I- I promise I’ll make this up to you.” Negligent of the fluster of kakushi that carried your luggage. Flung yourself from the mount, allowed the wind to catch on the folds of your kimono revealing your legs to the day light in a rather inappropriate way. Your sudden departure erupting into chaos amongst the kakushi, dazed, and confused, and arguing as your feet carried you forward. Tumbled over rocks, your weeks passed as a book keeper leaving you a little out of breath and sore. Struggling to breathe as you pressed forward, guided by your heart, and the clutch of a wisteria hairpin clutched against your breast.
Her fingers busied themselves with the blooms. Trembled as they appraised each petal. Shinobu had diluted herself. Convinced herself that she should busy herself with work. While you had been effectively retired from your position, erased from the books, and thankfully unaware of the darkness of the world, she would punish every creature in the night. Her rage had reached new heights. Tumbled as the veins that threatened to burst upon her forehead. Quivered beneath her fingers. Focus, she told herself time and time again. Kocho had made the right call—she knew that she had. To, to be able to gift her lover with a life free of burden. Of responsibilities. Of happiness, and one that would never know the horrors of humanity, yes she had made the right call. She knew she had. Logically, the Insect Hashira was confident she had made the right call. Regardless of the way her heart screamed at her, or the distance that the other residents of the mansion had expressed towards her. Hurt. Lonely. Mourning the loss of the household. Your spot—your spot would be empty at dinner. Gritted her teeth once more--- demons had taken you from her. Snapped off yet another bloom, determined to concoct a far more potent elixer. One that would damn any bastard creature within distance upon her setting it off. She would go for carnage. To eradicate any demon that dared to breath within her reach. To at least ensure that the world you would know moving forward was safe.
The snapping of branches, toyed with her mind. Shinobu relentlessly attempting to draw her attention to the branches beneath her fingers. A trick of the mind, one that had caused her more self-harm. Gritted her teeth, trembled her shoulders. Snap of a branch, if only, she swallowed the vile that seared her throat. Willed herself to breathe, the hot tears that kissed the corners of her lips, betrayed her rage. Revealed her shattered heart to the morning air. The wisteria that dangled, little reminescent of scars that painted across her soul, the sob that escaped her lips, and the nails that dug into her palm. The steady fall to her decent. Her fall from grace, from self restraint. No longer capable of living the life her sister had prayed for her, Shinobu’s only chance at content to follow her hatred into the dark. Turning her back from the light. From you.
“Y-You.” Broke the silence of her thoughts. Shattered her breathing. Trembled her soul. A trick? No, no. The fingers that met her own, encouraged them to uncurl. Wary of the mar of flesh between them. The press of a nose against her back, leaned over her petite figure. The familiar embrace of arms that captivated her, and drew her back against your breast. Tucked into your hold, the warmth of wisteria that greeted your nose, and the telling quiver against her form. Her mind drowning in confusion, of self-doubt, and hopeless prayer. Grasping for gods that had ignored her pleas, now daring to answer a lost worshiper. “You promised me,” murmured over broken sobs. Promise? Promise. A vow amongst wisterias that fateful day when you had relinquished your heart, divulged your loyalty to her. Pledged devotion, whispered affections, with no anticipation of returned sentiments. Rather, you had come to her that day, broken and shattered. Her mask had slipped from her face, revealed the depths of her self-loathing, her drive, her hatred. Betrayed herself to you, revealed parts that she wished never to be viewed in the light of day, nor expected to be accepted by another. Only admitted by the break of your heart, the fear that one day Shinobu would succumb to her hatred. Promise. She- she had promised to remain. To persevere. To return home. At all costs. To live. “D-Don’t break your promise.” The small crack of your voice, threatening to shatter her heart all over again.
Her body relaxed, allowing you to weave yourself into her pores. To clutch her in the way that she adored. To embrace her. To accept her. To love her. Snuggled into your embraced. The tears that fell from her cheeks as authentic as the smile that had formed across her small lips. Delicate and encompassed in all of the words she could not adequately express, nor the sentiments she could appropriately articulate. The buckle of her knees beneath her weight, supported only by your hold. The tears she had contained all this time, the love that she had feared that escaped her grasp returned to her, and to her alone. The gentle way you held her fast against you, whispered the words she desperately missed. Prayed to hear once more. The ache of her heart, wishes granted by mercy. Craved against her skin, the delicate touch that belonged to her lover returned once more. To press against you. To be held by you. You.
I am yours. And yours alone
A love that promises to return to the light of day beneath wisteria.
Original Request: here
#demon slayer x reader#kimetsu no yaiba x reader#kny x reader#shinobu kocho x reader#shinobu kocho#🍡tsuyospeaks
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Hello. I read your Shinobu in a relationship post and honestly I'm speechless at how in depth it is. Wow! Can I ask for more? I need more. Like perhaps more info about them quarreling? The gifts. Or or they are newlyweds and reader got badly hurt and forgets about her. Will her live be stronger and how will she deal with it? Thank you so much!
SO, because of how much I love the “reader got badly hurt and forgets her”. It just pierces me through the heart, and it, it just deserves its own individual attention. I love it. I really do. So, this will be a two-part answer. With the second part to follow later (I'll come back and link it when it's up as well as put it on the masterlist as well!).
Quarrelling and Gifting Headcanons | Shinobu Kocho
Word Count: 2270
Setting: Shinobu Kocho x gn!reader
Content Warnings: SFW, we beat around the bush.
[image is not mine]
It’s so important to note that, Shinobu really will avoid unnecessary conflict in her relationships. It’s not that she’s afraid of a fight, or even the risk of “losing”. Because to be honest, she doesn’t think she will lose the argument. Rather, she really just feels that they can be completely avoided. Which is… ironic as conflict tends to find her.
Let’s be honest, as adorable and sassy as her remarks often are, they have the tendency to rub others the wrong way.
When it comes to disputes of any kind, Kocho has a strong preference for facts, rather than allow her emotions to run the discussion. She knows nothing good will come of doing that. In an attempt to keep the smile on her face, and further suppress her frustration (This woman has stomach ulcers I swear), she will focus her attention on the overall picture. How this argument will play into the enormity of your relationship. Is it something small such as mistakenly utilized a decorative towel?
The practically of her brain screams in agony. It. Is. A. Towel. Therefore, her usage is appropriate, but for all that her logic wails at her, you really do adore those cutesy towels. She’s sorry. She’ll take better care next time to leave your prized serviette be. A dispute over who’s turn it is to tend to the dishes? No, she distinctly remembers that she did in fact scrub them the night before, but, she’ll note the small bags under your eye. The languid movement, and stifled yawn. You had made her dinner despite your fatigue from work, and she knows you hate the task.
She’ll do it.
Now, let’s be clear. Shinobu is not a pushover, nor is she a placemat. You will not often find her compliant, but you will discover that she does try to understand your perspective. To notice when you’re sore from having carried too heavy of a burden, exhausted from running errands, or whether the heat has gotten to you. She will take this with a grain of salt, and accept that you are human.
However, she will go to great lengths to ensure that the same dispute, does not happen twice. You may see a chore chart in your near future, or she may simply request enacting a rule that states, whoever doesn’t cook will do the washing, and your decorative towels will be accompanied by more practical towels. She will keep implementing solution after solution until one is successful.
That being said, in every relationship. There comes a point when you will be tested. Blows will be traded, petty remarks, and snippy behavior, and a fight is just unavoidable. (Shinobu knows, as she tried her damnest to dodge it).
To be in a bond with the Insect Hashira is to know that these blows are not common place. They’re rare, and far and few between. In fact, your love has likely avoided such a dispute for a noteworthy passage of time. You had even begun to wonder if she was capable of expressing anger. When it happens, you were likely knocked entirely off kilter. D-Did Shinobu raise her voice?
Understand that it will never be anything small that has drawn the preserved woman’s ire. As I have mentioned, she is a woman of solution, and prefers to mull things with rationale. With great consideration. But just because she is not as trigger happy as other partners, does not mean her patient is limitless. There are a few things that could make your relationship tense.
You may find yourself humiliated by Kocho’s inability to keep her tongue and cheek in check. To an extent, she understands that you have to play into your boss’s ego. She will tell herself time and time again that it is all a part of the corporate ladder (both in the modern world and the taisho era), but there will come a point when an ignorant employer will push her too far.
It may be that they pushed off their duties on you for yet another time without the slightest clue as to how to perform the task, and yet to continue to berate you for the smallest of infringements. It may be that once again, they have pronounced your name wrong at a social gathering, or they have allocated the blame to you of an incorrect order even though it is clearly their own hand writing. Regardless as to how you arrived here, her tongue has betrayed her. It has written a carnet you cannot afford.
“[YN]. It’s pronounced, {YN},” while she glowers at the man. The cut of his eyes, shocked that she would dare to do correct a man of his station. A social gathering to promote a new item at your place of work, a tea shop having already driven you ragged for the month. The buffoon of a man so incompetent that he could not work off the necessary mathematical equations to determine the quantities to order, so he had pushed all of his duties on you. Late nights dragging you through the mud. Questioning your competence, degrading you so openly. Unashamed of his own ignorance, far too content to place the burdens on you. To play you the very fool he was, and while she had tried to convince herself that it was necessary, you loved your job. You were not in over your head; you understood the importance of boundaries in your work life. Oh, she had tried, she really had, but to have heard the botched symbols roll of his tongue, butchering your name to the owner of the tea shop.
"Excuse me," his voice appalled, a note of warning flicked across his tongue.
Completely ignored despite the obvious widening of your eyes, and the touch of your hand against her arm. Lightly tugging. Far too late for that, the rage immolating from every pore of her being. Her teeth gritted, her pragmatic existence whispering for her to cool her temper. To remember her place, to remember your job, and the attention from others she has garnished. Alas, it’s too late. Amongst tea shop attendants, business owners, and members of the community, she had drawn the line in the sand. Stood her ground, as she hissed. “[YN]. You should be well aware of how to pronounce it. You have only had them working like a dog the past few days.” The insistent tugs and coos that you attempted to reassure her were wasted. She was too far gone. Somewhere between insisting he prove his competence, revealing his competence, and fallen curses that near shattered her teeth in her attempt to restrain, Shinobu had realized.
She had gone too far.
Shinobu will recognize that her temper had gotten the better of her. That she not only (successfully) told off your boss, but in a public setting amongst your peers, community members, and even strangers. She’s (sort of) embarrassed. While the Insect Hashira still feels that she was correct—the man obviously deserved a tongue lashing, she can acknowledge that it was neither the time, nor the place.
She won’t apologize for how she felt, but she will apologize for how she had conducted herself.
Another situation that you may find yourself in a dispute will come of Shinobu’s own social battery. Bare in mind that while she is willing to engage in the occasional social event, especially if you are a social butterfly, she is still an introvert by nature. She needs time between each outing to recharge her own social batter, and if it’s not given, you will find Kocho snippy. Even a little petty.
When the poison wielder is up for the social interaction, she works over time to ensure she sticks to social expectations. They don’t come naturally to her, and if you recall, she often spills her own thoughts without even realizing that she had insulted someone. This will only be amplified if her social batter is overtly drained.
Except, she’s no longer trying to behave.
She will look your friend dead in the eye and ask why they insist on clinging to you. Do they not realize that as lovers, you would like time alone together from time to time. Third wheel.
Yet again, she needs a moment to realize why you’re upset—she’s dating you not your friend. Ugh, but your friends matter to you. [insert the annoyed groan]. Okay, she was wrong. She handled this poorly. She’s sorry, Shinobu will try another approach next time.
She’s aware that her turn of phrase is not always… the nicest.
And lastly, Kocho is not attached to drama. Overtly emotional situations, and individuals can often times be draining for her. It requires a bit more of herself to follow your train of thought in these situations. She’s tired, but for the most part, she will accept your emotional needs—that’s what a partner does.
However, intentionally setting herself into drama induced scenarios such as power struggles, fighting for your attention, attempts to elicit jealousy as her lover, etc. These will never end well. You will find her tongue sharp, poised, lethal, and ready. Emotional Manipulation of even the smallest level is difficult for her to sort through, but to discover you had outright forced the situation on her will have her seething.
Such situations such as intentionally allowing her to believe that you have slept with another person, will elicit unburden rage. She will rely on the facts, you. Manipulated. Her. She will withdraw, cold calculated. Lethal. You’re sorry? Yes, yes you will be. Atonement is the only solution.
It’s war.
She is emotional, irate, and irrational.
Even if it means taking herself out, she will drag you with her.
In a fight or flight response, she loses all sense of herself. Backed into a corner, Shinobu’s insticts to survive is what captivates her. Drags her to make impulsive moves, to decimate all in her path to safety. She… hates this about herself. Her carelessness for self-preservation.
In more explosive situations (like genuine abusive, yandere behavior), the Insect Hashira runs the risk of simply cutting bonds. Severing ties, burning bridges in her rage. Pack her things in the middle of the night, disappear into the moonlight.
You will never see her again.
She saw the problem and provided a solution.
Ultimately, that’s Shinobu’s goal. A dispute is really just a problem masquerading in emotions. She feels that as your lover, it is her duty to help find solutions. To ensure the success of your relationship. Her affections will drive her to deeper lows and higher highs than she could have ever imagined, than her spirit will even confess.
That being said, even in times of heated disputes, if you are able to maintain your wits. TO remain logical and reliant, calm despite her storm, you will find that Shinobu is almost always, willing to compromise.
Gifts from Shinobu I believe would very. They may feel extremely diverse, and often times, completely unrelated. H-How could the same person who had affectionately gifted you a small stuffy of a Japanese macaque monkey also gift you… a fish head? Or perhaps the better question is, why did she give you a fish head?
You will find that no matter how far apart you are from one another, Shinobu’s thoughts are always with you. You are always on her mind, the small ways you fiddle with your hair. The touch of light across your cheeks, the small way you bite your thumb when you’re thinking--- you are always present in her thoughts regardless of her task. Because of this, she will bring you some of the most… obscure tokens of affections from her travels.
She had gifted you a delicately weaved snow monkey stuff because while she had been passing through, she happened to come face to face with one in the bath. The relaxed way the little one’s features grazed in the onsen. It’s small puff of hair, and the way the anima’s eyes closed in deep satisfaction to meet the warm water---- ah how cute, you often made such a face in the bath. When she would wash your back.
When Shinobu passed by a food stall in a port region on her way home, she could not help but notice the lavish cloth. The blonde who’s speech was unfamiliar, and overtly friendly seller at that, drew her attention. You had recently taken an intrust in foreign books. Spoke of how lovely the details had appeared. She brought one of his confections, a cake? He had delicately wrapped the sparkling treat in cloth, a translator ensuring that the symbol a roze—no, rose had significant meaning in his culture of romance.
Picked up a new pair of sandals for you, delicate little weaves of flowers carefully placed into the making. You express that it really wasn’t necessary, a simple replacement shoe would have been more than enough, but she’ll disagree. The color is the exact shade of pink that blossoms on your cheeks when she praises you.
The Lavender hair pin that she has placed into the intricate wave of strands of hair. The embellishment admittedly flashy enough to draw Tengen’s attention, blow glass and meticulously crafted. A special order that she had placed upon your anniversary, the small touch of her smile as she places it into your hair. “Do you know what lavender symbolizes?”
The Fish head in all of its peculiarities. While it’s true that that it’s usage avoids unnecessary waste, her medical book had expressed that it would increase your serotonin levels, and assist in sleep. She had noticed the way you tossed and turn at night, drifted from bed to warm your self water in the hopes that sleep would follow. Shinobu will prepare a fish head for you, and wish you sweet dreams.
Her gifts while… unique all serves a purpose. Her devotion to you.
Secured in every package.
Part two of Request: Wisteria Bound Promises
#demon slayer x reader#kimetsu no yaiba x reader#kny x reader#shinobu kocho x reader#shinobu kocho#thehashirasinarelationship#🍡tsuyospeaks
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Hello, is it possible to get headcanons of Hashira!gyutaro with a tsuguko? It's OK if not
Thank you in advance
It's kind of fun to think about an alternate world in which the uppermoons are hashiras, and the hashiras are uppermoons. It's a really fun concept to explore, and I enjoyed it! I imagine that having Gyutaro as a Hashira can go one of two ways at the beginning. He can either be uneasy with the concept, due to his upbringing and his personality, Gyutaro would likely recoil from such interactions, or duties, or depending on a tsuguko who has been blessed in life, he very well would initially be bitter, and aggressive. Since there was no defining characteristic of the tsuguko, I chose to focus more on what Gyutaro would be like. I hope you enjoy!
Hashira!Gyutaro with a Tsuguko
Word Count: 3317
Setting: Hashira!Gyutaro x tsuguko!gn!reader [platonic, but could be romantic if you squint.]
Content Warning(s): blood, gore, red light district, Opposite AU, alternative universe in which Gyutaro and Daki are not members of the UpperMoons, but of the Demon Slayer Corps.
Summary: headcanons for an alternate universe where Gyutaro is a Hashira (essentially, if we were to disrupt the canon time line, and have a demon slayer corps member opt to save, or buy out the siblings’ ownership following the death of their mother, and place them in service of the Slayer Corps.)
This place is warm, the Ubuyashiki clan is kind. He has known the sympathies of strangers, has met the warmth of blankets, the soothing ointments that help to ease the discomfort from his joints. The welcome of comrades, and for once in his life, to know the security of a full belly at night when he tucks Ume into her bedding. He has known the safety of the area, and the guidance of a caretaker, one who greets his arrival home, and scolds him when his temper flares.
He is grateful, he is.
This life is more than he had ever hoped for, ever considered possible for one of his nature, unfamiliar and foreign as the kindness that meets pressed lips, but he is not naïve.
He can still hear the scathing remarks of his appearance that he carries with him from his childhood home. The kind pressed lips, as gentle as they try to be, still bear the same discomfort.
Gyutaro is painfully aware of the stutter amongst the staff. The clench of their jaws when he greets them. The distance they provide between bows. The clatter of glass, swift hand movements placed between dinner wary of potential contact.
Unease that dips into forced smiles, first introductions amongst newly recruited members are painful, unbearable. Appraising eyes, withdrawn hands that dare not meet his touch. Whispers amongst mizunoto.
Quiet rememberances, those that dare not scoff him in person, the days of dodged glances, and recoiled grasps of his training days left in the past.
Scrapped clean with his promotion to Hashira, the open commentary of his skin condition, the outright disgust, and horrified urgency in which peers rushed to scrap their hands of implied hazards passed on by his touch had been left in the past, but like ghosts, they clung to his senses. Dwelled in the back of his mind at the unnatural dip of smiles plastered upon faces.
Echoed in the back of his mind, overheard whispers hushed and trembled amongst startled new maids. No shushing able to sooth the inflicted burdens of his mind, nor the way his fingernails threatened to gnaw at his flesh, peppering scars amongst the markings littered across his body.
For the sake of his diminishing pride, and the comfort of the other Demon Slayer Corps members, Gyutaro keeps his presence to a minimum. He will dodge casual visits amongst the other Hashiras, as well as the main house. This is in no ways a reflection of cold behavior, rather, it really is well intended. For those who are considerate of him, he will maintain in regular contact through his Kasugai crow, sending gifts for significant moments (promotions, birth of a child, retirement, etc).
Because of this, he likely only has a few staff members amongst his mansion, truly for Ume’s benefit. Gyutaro is content to hole up in his means, tend to his own meals, patch his own haori.
Due to his reclusive nature, I imagine that there is a specific kakushi assigned to retrieving the Hashira. The lengths he reaches to avoid unfamiliar attendants until begrudgingly, this specific individual retrieves him. Scolding him.
Gyutaro’s summoning had not been what he had expected. Drawn from the depths of the Tottori prefecture, robbed of his seclusion, and forced to travel from the security of the mountain sides. The discomfort scratched across his rashes, averted eyes as he wandered throughout the estate before collapsing to his knees before the master. Forehead bend to the mats below him, his greeting met with the most peculiar of circumstances.
A recruit that sat at the side of the wall.
Confusion that captivated his senses, and the quiver of his gaze. Bitten back frustration, and internal conflict upon receiving instruction. Orders not to be refuted, or denied. Dutifully attended to.
The gnaw of his lip beneath his sharp teeth, he was not unfamiliar with the term tsuguko. Gyutaro had been under the direction of the Water Hashira years ago, and there were certainly a few tsuguko under the current Hashira tier. However, all of these occurrences were, well hand selected. Proteges selected by superior officers, all too aware of the close proximity of apprenticeship.
He’s reluctant, downright uneasy, and shifting his heels. The blank stare he offers, caught at the appearance of your smile gauging him, the bend of your head lower to him. Respectful in a manner that is foreign to him, eliciting a gnawing bitter discomfort that concaves his chest.
Yet, Gyutaro cannot out right deny the commands of the Master,
This does not mean he will make it easy on you.
Gyutaro will not be out right wrathful, at first. The trek to his abode a near gravesite visit. Silent, bitterly gnawing at his bottom lip, scratching at the litter of markings across his cheeks.
Averted eyes, and small mumbled curses across from a campsite. The small glower you receive when you suggest paying for a inn amongst the journey.
Completely unaware that the villagers would view him as a yokai, an infestation upon their home.
When the trip was not marred by near unbearable silence that shattered under your desperate grasp to make any sort of conversation amongst the voyage. Why do you insist upon learning from him? Why are you speaking to him? Gyutaro really and truly does not understand why it is you SHARED a meal with him.
In truth, he’s not intentionally ignoring you, he is just down right befuddled, and confused as hell as why it is you are teetering after him. If there was ever an opportunity to flee this command, it is this one.
Yet, you follow dutifully so.
The draw of his brow, the gentle confusion that bubbles at each campsite. How unbothered your hand meets his as you share provisions.
When the altitude of the mountains meets the winter season, the snow fall that greets your climb into prefecture, how you do not hesitate to burrow yourself just a little closer to seek out warmth. Batted away from the chill of winter winds.
Gyutaro cannot comprehend your dedication to the Slayer Corps. What has possessed you so to remain pungently faithful? Regardless of being left in the care of a curse?
He’ll resort to placing you in visually horrifying encounters. He assumes that your steadfast loyalty to orders is the result of having yet to wet your blade in slaying.
The Hashira is mournful—the thought has crossed his mind that he would be unforgiving if anyone had ever treated his little sister in such regards, yet he whispers to himself that it is the only way to free you of your apprenticeship.
The swift of your blade, not so much a flinch upon your brow as he utilizes his technique to splatter the battle field in a stomach churning display of blood and gore, the way his very blood has caught at the edge of your cheek. Your only concern to evaluate the depths of his inflictions---
Shit. He’s stuck with you.
Resigned, and bitter. Small bouts of muttering and furrow. Like a wet cat who does not quite make eye contact, yet the moment you dare to sooth its fur, lashes out in a sudden rush before turning from your gaze…
Gyutaro is left to only pray that perhaps, training will be ample enough justification for you to seek out another master. Sure, you’ve been… briefly introduced to the grotesque nature of his breathing style, but to regularly interact with the training.
To endure the nature of blood breathing, is another matter entirely.
Gyutaro will sort of welcome you to his home—he does not place blame on your presence so much on yourself, but has accepted that you were likely coerced into this arrangement just as much as he was.
Orders are orders after all, however I can’t imagine that Gyutaro is fond of the lavish décor Ume has elicited amongst the mansion.
Likely, he has gifted the main house to his little sister, given her full reign of staff bear in mind that the hashira who raised them would have educated Daki properly on etiquette and manners befitting of a woman of the golden era. As such, I imagine that the main house is in all rightful words, Daki’s to decorate, to run, and arrange as she deems necessary, and it is in her care he will happily hand you off.
Seeking sanctuary in an annex building unoccupied by any others, and without visits amongst the staff of the main house.
Unlike that of her brother, who reassures you that Gyutaro means no harm, but rather finds the company of others stuffy, and leaves him on edge as he worries that he is intruding, Ume is pleased to welcome you into her home.
Delighted to make your acquantince, and foster a relationship the maids have tired of the Lady of the manner’s unladylike antics.
In many ways, Ume is bright, and playful.
A young woman who has had little opportunity to explore the world, and interactions of others, and upon having a new arrival brought into her home, regardless of how willing it may have been of her brother, she is excited at the prospect.
She’s likely to linger, courageous in the way she bridges conversation.
Shameless and perhaps more naïve than she would admit in gauging difficult topics. Her direct nature having forced out a demand to know why it is you have selected her brother as your master when there are others available. The warmth, charming nature of her smile mixed with the sweet joyful scent of peaches upon her skin, you likely overlooked, or missed the lethality laced within her question. Poised as a cobra, beautiful and enchanting in a dance, only calmed by the soothing response you provide.
The genuine desire to learn.
In this, you will have a loyal and mischievous ally in the young woman.
Ume will not hesitate to place you in compromising positions, one that run the potential of eliciting a fierce reaction from her older brother. Oh, she cannot help but notice how beautiful the moonlight is, coincidentally, the maids were unable to bring in the laundry, would you mind?
Shamelessly sending you out in the middle of the night, knowing full well that as others are deep in the throws of slumber, Gyutaro tackles the opportunity for training without prying eyes.
You completely unaware of the trap she has set for you, left only torn asunder under a barrage of verbal assaults that could mar your own flesh.
Horrified to be caught training freely amongst the night air, to have your eyes wander across his form with only his hakama at his hips. The chill upon his bare skin, the marks of his condition soothed beneath the snow. Ribs that jutted beneath his weight, a sickening sheer of flesh that fought to bind his bones. Blood that dripped from his finger tips—your snooping having eliciting the worst of him.
Convinced that this was what you had accompanied him for—to witness a monster in the flesh beneath the moonlight.
Whether it was the shudder of your eyes, all too aware of the fury you had elicited in him, or perhaps the shock of his violent outburst, the turn of your back as you fled into the main house and left him empty. Weary. Heavier than expected. Alone.
For the best, he told himself. Convinced that in the morning, your sword amongst your personal belongings would have fled from the mountains.
Instead, it was a rightful slap by his little sister that had greeted him in the morning hours rather than your absence.
The bond will take some time to form; Gyutaro is far more accustomed to the dodged glances of strangers, and shunned touches of acquaintances that your bold welcome to share close quarters leaves him drawn, and shaken.
The concept of friends, of a protégé is so foreign to the Kama wielder that he is naturally mistrustful of your intentions.
Yet, he is observant, he will notice the way you smile as you speak to his sister. The care you take in assisting her with the household duties, or the kind regards you have to even the lowest of the staff members.
A kindness to the lowest amongst the hierarchy despite the lack of benefits it offered you. Such consideration that does not miss his gaze, and slowly over time, he will begin to question if perhaps, you have no alternative intentions as his sister has claimed.
Her acceptance far easier to earn than that of his own.
It will be small approaches. One that are easy to miss, or mistake as kindnesses of his little sister. A fresh cloth accompanied by a water bucket that greets you when you have taken a break from unguided training, submitting yourself to familiar swings in the hope it will offer growth.
Until slowly but surely, Ume’s insistence that you escort his meals to his annex building have landed merit.
The shy way in which he dodges your glances before grumbling a small inquiry. If you would like to share a meal with him, like you had upon your journey to the mansion.
Training with Gyutaro will not be easy, and the small part of him wishes that he could protect you from the inevitable, but to have undertaken the art of blood breathing means that you will have to face grueling conditions, self inflicted wounds, and gore that you would not encounter with other alternative breathing styles.
He will ask if you are sure before he begins your training.
The movements will be the first things that Gyutaro guides you in. You will be surprised out patient he can be have as he guides your forms. Bold in the way that his hand meets the bend of your elbows, adjusts the positions of your footing.
In many ways, he’s tender as a master. As gentle in his instruction as he is in his speech with you, a trait he has carried from his relationship with his little sister into this one.
Though there are moments in which he is rough, the shred of gravel, warned moments inherited from his own master. The reality is when you have hit a mental block, he will resort to these tactics. In the same way that his master before him had done so, utilized the moment to break you down.
To build you up, to drag you from the mud, and usher in pain that feels near unbearable.
The kindness that meets his features as he presses a compass to your cheek. One hit having landed especially hard, bruised and lacerated the flesh. Tempted to cease training for the day, only pushed to continue beneath your insistence.
Ume will slap him later.
Balancing his natural caretaker tendencies, and the ferocity of his battle prowess. It’s a balancing act that he had never considered—one on one hand to hand combat with someone that was not a demon is an uncommon occurrence for him, and so just as this is for you, it will be quite the learning curb.
One that will be quite the experience for the both of you.
Some punches will knock you into the ground, fracture your jaw, and others will be little more than a kitten’s swipe. He’ll get there, he will, but it’s going to be a potentially painful experience for the both of you.
Because he feels like shit for accidentally laying you out flat. Worried this is the moment you give your resignation. Praise will be a struggle as well. His first attempts will be mangled, and incoherent.
Dare to ask him to repeat himself for comprehension will result in the most scalding, bitter praise before he strides down the hall way out of sight.
You’re both confused.
Ume is the only one laughing.
Outside of battle, Gyutaro has slower mannerisms. In part this is due to his nature, but also due to the accommodations that he has to carry himself in order to navigate his world.
Not that he’ll ever admit any of this to you. In many ways, Gyutaro is forthcoming about his upbringing—but only to a certain extent. He will never divulge the especially dark aspects of his upbringing. He doesn’t need any further pity from his tsuguko.
The dynamic you’ve built—he wants to keep that.
Friendly, and warm. One in which he feels… well, he assumes this is what normal people feel like? Able to bear that of your wondering eyes as you catch the little details of how he holds his kama, the turn of his hips during his breathing technique.
Your voice curiously sharing whatever comes to mind, and how his fingers do not nab at the scared flesh of his cheeks, nor at his sides.
He has heard himself laugh—it’s been many years since he’s done that. The last time Gyutaro can remember was when Ume was a toddler, meowing at a stray cat, proud of herself for identifying the right animal.
Conversation with your Hashria superior is gentle. Casual as it develops. Many would be surprised how considerate Gyutaro can be in conversations, or the way his jagged teeth meet the high of his lips, the apple of his cheeks brightened when you have wandered onto a memory of Ume’s childhood.
How blissfully he shares antics of her upbringing. Heedlessly proud, and all too aware that when this circles around back to his little sister by prying maids—he will receive a verbal lashing.
As your mentor, Gyutaro is proud. Shamelessly so, he will proudly express praise for you at the Hashira gatherings.
Suddenly vocal after years of silence, brought on by the inquiry of your progress. The way he boasts of your accomplishments, emerging abilities.
Teased at how quickly you’ve risen in his company—implications if Ume should be worried about competition. The bitter scoff of his lips, red at his cheeks.
Unaware how off track he had gotten in his open praise.
He’s protective of you, akin to that of his little sister. Gyutaro will not hesitate to restate that he cares about your progress, but will not take slights from the Hashiras at your abilities. You are his tsuguko, and under his care.
To be so, means to endure a brother’s protection.
BONUS: Blood Breathing
First Form: Decapitation Kama, an immediate defense technique in which Gyutaro flows with his breathing, utilizing the bend of a sword user, or hand-to-hand combatant, caught at the bend of the opponent’s elbow. Following through, catches with the alternative kama to go straight for the throat.
Second Form: Ketsueki-gata, due to Gyutaro’s routine exposure to poisons amongst his childhood in the Red Light District, he has a natural resilience to a wide variety of poisons. Utilizing this, he eats small doses of wisteria seeds, during battle, Gyutaro will use Ketsueki-gata, a slashed dipped in that of his blood.
Third Form: Jubokko, Gyutaro utilizes his blood that has been shed to create a dome in which he can enhance his fury blades.
Fourth Form: Uji Vermillion Flow: Gyutaro capsizes on his blood loss, utilizing its location throughout the battle field to flow from blood spot to blood shed, slashing as he goes.
Fifth Form: Kuraokami, in a final desperate move, Gyutaro has suffered blood substantial blood loss. By loosing a grip on earth bound ties, he utilizes the remainder of his blood to rain down upon the area, its wisteria acidic corrosion eating through the flesh of opponents, as he makes one last desperate barrage of attacks to take his opponent to the afterlife at his side.
#demon slayer x reader#kimetsu no yaiba x reader#kny x reader#gyutaro x reader#gyutaro#kny gyutaro#🍡tsuyospeaks
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Prompt/suggestion you can run with (SFW): Gyutaro x Reader (platonic)
Imagine the reader (GN) as a 15-18 year old demon slayer from the Edo period who, like Gyutaro, suffers from congenital syphilis and has been tormented for it.
Reader is sent on a mission to Yoshiwara, and manages to find and cut off Daki's head, leading to her calling for her brother (She's a lot weaker in the Edo period since she and Gyu recently became demons, which is why she's so easily beat by a non-Hashira).
Gyu emerges and is about to off on his usual jealousy rant when he notices the similarities between himself and Reader. Regardless, he tries to kill them since they hurt Daki, but as Gyu gains the upper hand he feels a sort of kinship with the Reader and offers them to become a demon, like he did with Tanjiro.
Reader declines, since they have completely different values of life despite having similarities, and is killed as a result.
Fast forward 100 years to Gyu and Daki's eventual defeat; as he lays dying, Gyu thinks about the demon slayer (Reader) he killed a long time ago, and wonders if he could've made a better life for himself and Daki if he'd gone down a better path and been more like them.
Turns out, although Reader lost the battle, their worldview was the right one in the end.
I'm incredibly sorry this was so long. I'm excited to see what you'll write for this! If you do write it. Apologies if I broke any of the rules, too
hello, hello!
I'm sorry it's been so long. I truly loved this ask, and wanted to give it all of the love and attention, and research it deserved. I wanted to depict the slayer's memories in a way that was similar to that of how we see glimpses of the demons. Admittedly, my computer is on the fritz (forgive it, the old broad is 12 years old)., and jumping everywhere, so i'm not entirely sure if this piece is what I want it to be or need updating when my new computer is in.
Parallel Paths | Gyutaro
Setting: Gyutaro x gn!reader [platonic/two sides of the same coin fic]
Content Warning(s): spoilers, angst, reflective, depictions of gore/blood, red light district, and STI/STD (reader has congenital syphilis).
A/N: reader is born of a courtesan. As such any child of a courtesan is essentially born into service, regardless of gender.
Summary: It has been so many years since Gyutaro thought of the slayer with the same condition as himself, and in his final moments, he understands the beauty of their smile.
Slate grays dove into waves of charcoal, clouds that dipped across the surface of the moon. Shushing the faint glow of the celestial body. Marred the shadows of the night, and masked the night. The once vibrant night life dedicated to music, and pleasure was now robbed of gratification. Rouge smeared across screams, tears that shattered painted faces. Luxurious fabrics shredded in desperation; extravagant scents spilt into the streets. Marred by the scent of metallic and iron. Hemoglobin that threatened to stain silk. Threads and hemmed littered across the ground, bodies that had been caught in the turmoil. Carnage that littered the walkways, burned flesh caught by the scatter of candles in the attempt to flee. The faint glow of the moon illuminating the horrors of battle spread across the red-light district. Perfumes and incense that threatened your nose, churned your stomach, and caught the nausea at the base of your throat. Muscles that flexed at the overwhelming scent of the lavish Hinoki, delicate noes of jasmine, and rare touch of foreign florals. Hair adornments abandoned in the chaos, gold that glittered against the raging flames. Smoke that seared your eyes, brought tears to your lashes as you forced the tainted air through your lungs. The press of your hand against your abdomen. The chill ebbed across your shoulders, flickered at the touch of your skin as the blood met your fingers. Struggle to whisper relief to your senses, survived. You were alive. Fought the caught of your breath, shook your shoulders as you heaved. Questioned who it was you should pray to, to thank your existence upon this world. Tremble of a smile, no s-so many had been lost. Alive. The ache of your bones, of your senses against her screams.
The curl of long locks of hair rolled across the muck. Screamed insanities, wailed in rage. Strands of a mane that echoed the tricks of her trade, a banshee painted in the finest of oshiroi. Humiliation that masqueraded as fury, spawned the roll of tears. Sobs that caught at the base of her severed throat. Hair embellishments, gifts from suitors you could only assumed had been fractured in the skirmish. The pull of your wounds, each step revealing a new affliction. Broken ribs. Eight of them on your right side, easily having been obtained when her pkkuri-geta had caught the side of your torso in your fight. The power of her kick unexpected. Strength, despite the delicate frame she bore, the demon had proven to be as powerful as the rumors had depicted her. Her movements swift, far faster than those of her peers. How she had ever maneuvered the tarnished district in such elaborate foot wear was beyond your comprehension. Daki had been an emerging threat quite capable of climbing the hierarchy. The shift of your heel, drawing the agony across your ankle crawled up the height of your leg. Shattered, your left leg had been shattered when she had flung you through the chashitsu. Scalded flesh beneath the black hakama of your uniform soaked, rattled shards of tea wear embedded into your flesh. Littered your uniform, torn the delicate cloth from a variety of angles. Exposed far more of your complexion that you would prefer, fought back the anxiety of whispers should wandering eyes of victims that had remained caught in the chaos would bear. Childhood wounds that had never properly healed, and yet, for all the capability your opponent had shown in battle, the loss of sensation in your left arm revealing the failing of your own movements, the sorrow of realization had washed away her sins. The whelp of her tears, round and fitful. Her wail little more than that of a child’s, the youthful round of her cheeks, untouched by time, and cared for by lavish goods—when she had revealed herself to you, you had prayed that her appearance had been maintained by victims. Her demonic state maintained by the blood of her art, or perhaps her meals, but the babble of her bawling revealed a temper tantrum fitting of small children. The lacquer of binding of your gunbai felt heavier than normal. Although how your heart tried to convince yourself that it was the burden of your battered body, the ache of your chest could not be soothed. Throbbed as you willed your knees to bend fought back the scream of agony as your tarnished zorii sandals struggled to bear your weight. The excess of ribbons strained at the flex of your wrist as you drew your hand forward. Gathered the excess of your kimono sleeves, bound to your flesh. Concealing secrets that painted your skin, the wiggle of your brow. Heavy and mournful as you delicately lifted her skull between broken fingers. Blood that trickled between the callous of your fingers as you carefully regarded her. The salt of her tears marred across her meticulously painted face, her glare as fierce as the blade of your staff. The fierce glower of chartreuse behind long eyelashes, touched the mourning of her rage, of her loss. Round, doll like eyes that scowled at you, hissed obscenities. The quiver of her pout, swore that you had cheated. “It’s not fair,” her voice shook, trembled at the knot that caught in her throat.
The dawning of all your fears evident in her protests. Unable to fight the pity that captivated your features, the way your voice met her wails. She’s a child. Hummed a distant lullaby, one that echoed your upbringing, faint memories of your mother’s perfume littered across features. Cradled her severed head despite the way she protested, tucked the mangled of hair that had caught against her snot. Soothed the fragments of her hair embellishments from her hair, attempted to hush her wails. Ghost of a childhood, clung to the many linings of your mother’s kimonos dazzled by her hair ornaments that caught the light as she danced under the lanterns. Swept the sweat slicked strands of hair that had unraveled in her state of duress from her brow, murmured reassurance that all would be well. Rocked the shrieking head as memories of hours dedicated to tayu training hummed recollections of a childhood you had abandoned. The faint echo of your mother’s lower rouged lip that trembled, how her touch had recoiled from the pat of your head. The tears she had shed at your parting, far too young to understand the mercy she had expressed to her only child. Oblivious to the great risk she had put herself at the hands of the master, shooed you from her sight, whisked away by a patron that had frequented her brothel. A hashira she had bartered with for your well fare, spirited away in the middle of the day, utilizing the daylight hours to disappear without a trace. Far too young to understand how the scars that blemished your skin had threatened your existence, nor old enough to understand that it had been the sacrifice of a mother’s love that had uprooted you. A child entangled in the horrors of the night, a tangle of sex, and violence, the tarnish of your complexion impacting your profit. Far too young to understand, just as the young girl you now cradled in your arms. Whispered reassurance of the afterlife, of forgiveness, and rebirth.
“I-It’s not f-fair,” she hick-uped between snarls. Thrashed her eyelashes as the depths of her jade-colored eyes caught against your own. Whelps of tears, large and unrelenting as her rage. Humiliation that had nicked at the tip of her nose, fallen to the fullness of her cheeks. A victim of the times, of profit, and of the night, the fury of her tears , and a razor sharp tongue that elicited insult after abuse. The tremble of your brow, how this little demon reminded you of the tayus who had fought for your mother’s attention and affections. Slighted by the warmth she had often provided—they had probably taken your place if she had fallen from grace in your departure. “Y-You cheated. H-How dare you t-touch me. Di-DISGUSTING! L-Look at you! Look at you! H-How d-dare you!!!!!” the snap of her jaw, the sharps of her teeth snatched at the curl of her lips. Wrinkled her nose as the tears down poured. “O-ONIIIIIIIIIIIIIICH-HHAN!”
Rolling, the revolting slump of her beheaded torso slumped before crackling in a stomach-churning rattle of bone and marred flesh. The bite of chill that threatened to swallow you whole. Senses snubbed, and delayed. The tilt of your vision, blood loss—no. No. The impact met your form eight ten broken ribs shattered by the blunt force. Crunched under the pressure, sending your form clattering through a series of buildings. Wood splintered against your weight, the impact of pure blunt force trauma inflicted from a mangle of bones. A foot that had landed with precision. Fractured any chance of breathing, claimed a lung in the tumble of your limp stature. Devastated the remainder of strength, and robbed you of the ability to grasp your blade. The clutch of your knuckles, your left arm struggled to grasp the naginata between fragmented finger bones; held together by the mere flesh that bound them. Blood that poured from gashes, threatened exposes your rashes to the night air. The drowning terror that caught in your throat, and intimidated your resolve. The flutter of your eyelashes, bruised and lacerated across your left eye. No longer able to catch the vision of shapes from your left optic. Blood that dipped to the lining of your lower lashes as you struggle to your feet. The length of your blade balancing your weight, bearing far more than the naginata was intended. The tremble of your jaw as the faint glimpses of a huddled form flickered in the flames of the night. Rattled words that could only be described as jagged rocks scratched against one another, formed soothing praises. The touch of a tender words, a figment of nightmares. Crouched delicately over the form of Daki’s head. Long, spindly fingers that used their nails to graze across her childlike features, sweet in their regard. Affectionate, and soothing. Tangled, and knotted putrid green hair bound into a neglected node at the top of its skull. Bones that rutted from beneath paper thin flesh, stretched over the skeletal form of famine that rocked in its soothing movements. The touch of blood that bound the two together, the blossom of cellular growth that kissed at the base of her neck, silk that recoiled Daki’s once severed head back to her limp form. Tearfully joined despite the weight of the hand upon the top of her haid. “Oniichan,” she yowled in her snivels, “G-Gyutaro.”
“There, there,” the gravel tone as though his neck bones had caught against one another, “it will be okay. Big brother will take care of it, sssssh. It’s okay.”
Big brother.
Yellow eyes the combined hue of mucus and jaundice, encased in citric orange flickered your direction. Fear caught in the base of your throat, the blink of your eyelashes drawing the monster to your sights. The graze of his fingers threaded through your hair, pruce flesh slashed across his face. The sight of his jagged teeth revealed ins his snarl, reaction time given no opportunity to allow the gravity to hit your senses before he slammed your face into the ground. The clutch of his knuckles weaved into the tangles of your ponytail, a berating laughter that slammed into the ground repeatedly. Delighted in the crunch of your nose. The cartlidge smashed and deformed beneath the brunt of the ground. Cackles that berated, and rejoiced in your shame. “Such a pretty-pretty faceeeeeeeee."
Daki’s tears caught at the corner of her long eyelashes. The beauty of her jade eyes trembled in her wails. Touched at the depths of her despair, shamed at her short comings. Blindsided by you, the bastard who had dared to touch her. Threatened her peace, assaulted her in the comforts of her own home. Revealed her to the masses, exposed her being, and left her muddled in her own blood. Disgraceful, shitful little worm. Good for nothing who dared to exist in the same space as his little sister. The curl of your hair caught between his blades of his nails, his snarl of jealousy in the lush care of your mane. Silken, like Daki’s kimono. Disgusting. Wretched little bastard. The furrow of his envy drawing his knee to the side of your cheek, the impact smashing the side of your cheek bone, tossing your form once more. The flutter of bones, and the wounds of your prior battle. The skid of your zori beneath your weight. Gritted your teeth as your left eye cinched. Your vision jumped, and rattled and trembled. The rattle of your knees—scared. Oh you were scared, he could practically smell the piss in your pants. The spread of cracked flesh, the neglect of his lips sprawled into a smile. Shrew and misshapen over his deformed jawline the dip of his chin tucked to his chest. Predatory in his regard, catching at the tremble of your breath. Shattered like a broken, little doll. Beautiful, little doll. Far too weak to do anything to escape your fate, trembled, and delayed. Far too slow to stop the way that his fingers knotted in the bangs of your hair, ripping your gaze to match his own. The tremble of your eyes—oh to break the pretty little—ugly bastard.
“Y-you,” the growl unavoidable. Flinched across the touch of your lips. Anxious, and exposed. I-It had been so many years since someone’s gaze had flicked across the abrasions of your skin. Appraised as livestock, little more than profit that recoiled in disgust. The clench of his fist, revolted at your appearance. The vile of a past you had prayed to forget, one of lavish kimono and exquisite tea. Paraded women, little more than entertainment amongst war. Casualties of famine, and of poverty, sold to the highest bidder. Lessons dedicated to poetry, to singing. One in which your beauty had once been praised, a mirror image of your mother, a jewel amongst the brothel you had been born into. Cultivated in sweat, tears, and the musk of strangers. A fatherless bastard gifted the beauties of the world, the madam charmed at the prospect of owning a rare beauty, and how quickly all of it had been ripped from your fingertips. The blossom of the rashes that had claimed the high of your cheek, danced across your nose. Blossomed down your left shoulder, and claimed your arms. Tarnished your once cherished face, revolted all those that had looked upon you. The color of puce deformed the otherwise perfection of your complexion, and the jewel of the brothel you had once been. Treasures taken from you, punishment, the mere sight of you an insult to the brothel. Nights locked in a store house, torn from your mother’s side, from the lavish clothing you had known, and the hair ornaments the tayus had coveted. Asunder, bare to the night air, as far removed from your mother’s sights as you had been the madams. The whispers of the courtesans lacking in decorum, pleasured in the fall of status, and delighted in your depths of sorrow. Peace only relieved in the depths of the morning, the shatter of your mother’s voice in the storehouse. Having found your malnourished form lingering to life. The tears that had gathered at her cheeks, and the weight of her throat as she had ushered your frail weight to the back of a man. Whispered her goodbyes, unable to do little more than reach for her as the man tore you from her side. The faint touch of her fingers as she traced your features into her memories. {YN], please. Live, my beautiful little one.
The memory caught in your throat. You were far to young the fate that awaited those who actively defined the madam or the consequences of the disease that had deformed you.. A sin of your birth caught in the bruised colored rash that had scared your flesh. Plagued your existence. Shuttered touches from strangers, and avoided those of peers in the Demon Corps. Now exposed from your bound wrists, under the gaze of a demon who bore similar blemishes. Laughter that threatened to spill from his lips as his hand met the back of your head. Demanding the diversion of your gaze. “You ugly little bastard,” he cheered, “dare to look down on me, you pathetic little worm. Look at you! Look at how ugly you are! Oh my, the world must hate to have you, disgusting. Disgusting little rat.” The patting of his hand smacked against the base of your skull, over and over before you found the strength to grasp your naginata. Desperate in the strain of muscles, torn and ripped in the abuse. Twirled the hilt across yoru shoulders, kept to the hit of your wrist in an attempt to heave him off of you.
Futile as the laughter that emerged from his lips. Playful, as a child who had found a new toy. “Ah, I like you,” whiny, and amused, “You know, all filthy things belong to me. What do you say?” Jagged teeth that snickered as they clenched together. Predatory eyes that circled your form, loomed over you and exerting pressure that dared to snub out the breath of your lungs.
[YN] Please, live.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered to the night air. Far too aware of the agony that wretched across your bones. The weariness that had long since set in, and the exhaustion that had begun to seep into your pores. Suffering that longed for suffrage, lamented in torment, and prayed for release. To smell her perfume here of all places. A rarity even amongst the red light district. Distinct in her scent, and warm as her silken robes. The bittersweet memory of her soft fingers wiping the tears from your eyes. The small stirring that smiled upon your lips as you gazed up at the creature before you. Scared and broken. The rash that littered across his form, blossomed across his face, a mirror of your own. Painted in depravity, and desperation to survive. A casualty of the pleasure trades, discarded to fate, and neglected of love. “I’m sorry, I-I’m.” my beautiful little one. The ache of your breast as your eyes found Gyutaro’s. “beautiful.”
"I'm beautiful," you whispered to the night air, severed to the after life.
Beautiful, it had been a hundred years since had thought of that particular fight. In all of the years spent in depravity, partnered with his little sister, it had not been an impressive brawl. It left a lot to be inspired, but despite the passage of time, Gyutaro had always felt frustrated at the way you had smiled at him in your final moments. Beautiful. Delicate in the way the rash dared to touch your delicate complexion. The time had not robbed him of the familiarity of your luscious hair. Long, and well cared for, stylish, and extravagant. The lovely shade of your eyes blissful in the way that they greeted death, oblivious to the disgusting crush of the rash that had spread across the majority of your skin. Scarred your complexion, and in the moment when his raged, to hear you dare speak of yourself as beautiful in your state, he was enraged to know that he was envious of your beauty. The delicate smile that you held as your gaze welcomed his bone scythes.
Far different than how he had greeted death. The chill of absence of the bridge of his existence numbs into his features. Hollowed the realities of his life into his chest, as his feet fell beneath his weight. Daki leaned into his touched, determined to remain at his side in an oath he had made so, so many years ago. In another life in which he had cherished her more than power, more than wealth, and more than beauty. The warmth of her touch, seeking his soothing. It had been, so many years since he had thought of that slayer, time had robbed him of his sense of self. Given way to pride, and contempt. Ensured him status, and survival, and yet, yet, in his final moments, it was the beautiful of the smile that had robbed him of his confidence. Whispered doubt of his choices, of his abilities—of what consequences would fall upon his sister at his side. Linked in death as they had been in life, a treasure he had neglected so long ago. Beautiful in its warmth, in its comfort. Precious as it was in life, a bond of siblings that survived the world. A beauty he had over looked, and was far too young to appreciate. Beautiful.
Just as that of the smile of the ghost that passed them by.
If you're curious about base notes: here you go!
#🍡tsuyospeaks#demon slayer x reader#kimetsu no yaiba x reader#kny x reader#gyutaro x reader#demon slayer oneshots
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Let's Go | Akaza + Headcanons
The Request: “I have a request, could u possibly do a Hashira Akaza x demon reader, like when he finds her scared, he takes her in? Plus reader has a bamboo muzzle like Nezuko”
I hope you see this, and it meets your expectations <3
Word Count: 3222
Setting: Akaza x fem!demon!reader
Content Warnings: mentions of gore/violence, horror, abuse, cult behaviors, rituals, bound reader, some themes may be triggering for some readers.
Summary: the lure of perfume, the temptations of a blood art that drew him to this damned place, and the circumstances behind the art had not been what he had expected, nor the responsibility that would follow.
A/N: It's giving-- the cat he didn't want, but cannot abandon either.
Aged stones crumbled beneath his feet, cracked with every step he took. The touch of wet stone beneath his callous feet, the indigo dipped toes that pressed against each step, wandered from soaked bolder to moss swept stones. Vines that had long since claimed the path and dug out the history of the mountain.
Moss, and the skitter of inferior lifeforms that danced across the ground to flee his steps. Puffs of clouds painted in hues of slate gray, and the shadows of the nights crept amongst the hills. Rolled over the edges and whispered the depths of unheard secrets. Faint figures evading his sight, drew from shapes unknown. Structures unfamiliar, faint as the ghost that wandered amongst abandoned buildings. Robbed of life and offering only glimpses of the life that had once been through the shambles of ruins. The stillness of the night lingered amongst his skin, the touch of mist that struggled amongst the loss, the empty void of purpose. Structures, abandoned baskets, and rice ponds overrun by evasive vines. Stagnant air that threatened to suffocate his lugs, crush the coos of his senses, the touch of gold kissed citrine eyes that scanned his surroundings all too aware of the distinct pull upon his senses. The nagging way he could not draw himself away, tugged closer and closer each attempt that he dared to deny its siren’s song. The warmed amber notes of vanilla that warmed his soulless body, whispered embraces despite the blood that puddled at his feet, soaked into the earth and drenched the crops around him. Devoid of the sharp metallic scent that often accompanied the evidence, replaced by something sweet, and tempting. With only the wanning moon to guide his path, the grit of his teeth drew Akaza’s fist closed and clamped over the skull of his opponent. Each step matching the growl that blossomed at the base of his throat, the snarl that greeted the night air as he advanced towards a trembling monk. Wretched in blood, soiled in his own vomit upon witnessing the decapitation of his own friend, unworthy of brandishing the title of Sohei. Rattled his teeth that met the chatter of his jaw, the widening of his pupils horrified and spewing verses that meant little to the Upper Moon. His cowardice muddled over the pad of bare feet against stone and pebbles, his footing guided by his own revolt. The beads at his ankle were a mere mirror of the prayer beads clasped between the fingers of the Third Moon’s next target. The fold of the man’s pitiful body, mulled over on bent knees uttering bullshit of mercy, the weapon at his side abandoned lacking the bravery required to yield it, let alone flee.
The etched emblem baring his ranking danced across his cornea, Akaza’s eyes caught on the damning markings of the would-be warrior smeared in horrendous vows. Blood draw from the outer corner of the pretend devotee cut across his cheeks, trailed down his jawline, marred by the tears of his sniveling whimpers that elicited no sense of empathy from the demon, rather the insisting bemoaning only excited his wrath. All too aware of the bubbling at the pit of his stomach, and the gnaw of his lower lip unamused of his would-be opponents. The path behind him littered with bodies of the lesser creature’s comrades that neither thrilled, nor animated his senses, each baring the telling depictions of gore upon their faces. Movements that fell into dances, prayers that felt incomprehensible to the Upper Moon despite his familiarity with Buddhism. A warped religion, strayed from its original purpose, sacrificed amongst the denied followers, and accumulated from the blood of unsuspecting travelers. The voyage had betrayed the foul practices of the temples, morbid displays of carcasses strung amongst the trees, dripping blood to the soil, and hummed of talismans that bore no translated significance. Each step led Akaza up the mountains, the gravitational pool leaving him heedless, and defiant. Unable to escape the invisible threads that guided him up the abandoned steps, coated amongst the mist. A macabre game of hide and seek born of an invisible scent that beckoned his attendance, and the pests that dared to stand in his way, unable to even offer him a bit of entertainment. An annoyance at best, he had met with little restraint, the scent warmed his senses, cooed sweet nothings that Akaza could not describe. The break of spring nights warmed against his skin with only the moonlight to immolate the markings depicted across his skin, the glint in which his eyes caught the fading moonlight, clung to the grotesque symbolism depicted in corroded rust at the flesh of his cheeks. “I will not repeat myself. Where. Is. It.”
The depths of his voice revealed the severity that lurked beneath his surface. The amusement devoid, robbed of all satisfaction. Lack luster scuffles that could not pacify him, and the distinct fragrance of vanilla and peaches that robbed him of the distinct metallic scent of iron, and the rush of blood upon his fingertips had muddled his satisfaction. Drew his ire, a blood art had drawn him to this damned land, forgotten by buddha, and abandoned by the kami, drenched in the blood of victims, and worships of a false god. Its blood painted across worshiper’s face, masks delineate of religion. A numerous pulls of deviants dressed in monk clothes that had captivated the mountains, infested the surrounding area as termites harvest upon a fallen tree, etching away at the core of its being until there is nothing left but a carcass. Their mere presence, painted figures that loomed amongst the foliage, dripping in the blood art’s scent drawing him up this forsaken path. Lulled, and whispered begging, the horrified mumble of trembling bottom lips as the man before him trembled and wreathed. As though his tongue had suddenly been cut from his mouth, the erratic shaking of his eyelashes clenched at the tears that began to form, the pop of knuckles, guided forward in a single gesture. A path carved from foliage, broken through weeds, and trembled branches, snapped at the weight, and drawn upon the depths of the inner sanctum of the shrines. “T-There.” Quivered beneath the Upper Moon’s etched eyes, death that followed the sound of dripping as blood puddled from his superior’s severed head puddled beneath the demon’s feet. Painfully aware of the agonizing leap of his heart as the creature loomed forward. Akaza’s somber expression traced amongst the symbolism, the left-over residue of fingerprints utilized to mark the man’s skin.
“Very well,” dry as the night air, crackled upon the silence of the man’s shivering. The tips of blueberry flesh, fingers that captivated the faithless monk’s scalp, gathered at the remainder of hairs that had begun to grow as he followed his deceitful path, te force of a thousand men bend in a moment’s notice. The sickening crack of bones, splintered fragments torn from flesh. Asunder, wrecked from the axis, just above the transverse process at the neckline. Snapped, child’s play between his fingers, the rattle of the mandible finally seizing its insufferable chattering of misplaced winter, fear forever captured upon the victim’s face, and the wrinkles that creased upon Akaza’s brow as he discarded both craniums with little remorse, nor a second thought. Useless, and lacking any fighting spirit, an unworthy snack for one of his standards. Tossed over his shoulders as his feet guided him to the inter sanctum. Each step drawn upon his own annoyance, the familiarity in which he had been toyed with, drawn to this location unsavory. Far too similar to the antics of the Second Moon, and as the revulsion began to seep into his stomach, the scent had begun to flourish into heavy notes. Suffocating tones of peach. Earthen leaves left to the wind, unwashed vanilla. Breath drawn into his lungs, seared upon his senses. Robbed him of thoughts, claimed his waking conscious. Drew out quiet memories, something sweet, and tender, yet dared to rob him of his senses. Threatened to consume him, to rob the oxygen from his longs, to clasp its nails into the taunt skin of his neck, digging into the flesh until there would be nothing more, not even a single breath, and the distinct cry of a woman.
Help me, please.
It had not been what he expected, the blood art had surpassed his expectations, but the details had been blurred. The enticing waves of ambered vanilla touched on the desires of comfort, and security. Tender notes of peaches, sweet and alluring. Temptations that could lure any man within the radius of its reach, tempt women to wander in the dead of night at the scent of spilt blood. Tossed caution to the wind and abandon sense with heedless doubts drawn to the sweet allure of cushioned promises wrapped in sweet sentiments. Such a deceptive blood art had led Akaza to believe that the source would be nothing more than a Cretan that roamed the depths of scum along side Doma. Delighted in folly that followed the devastation of others around them, danced to a tune unheard by others as victims threw themselves at their feet. Enamored with suffering, and savoring the flesh of innocent who were heedless to the dangers they had roamed in under the guise of religious calling—unsuspecting and little mor than sheep to the slaughter. The depiction of a throne built on the bodies of worshippers, snacking on the pearls of agony. A sloth of pleasures, and unbothered by the ways of the world, nor having any shred of dignity. No, this had not been what Akaza had expected in the slightest.
The would-be worshippers had taken a turn, embedded in chants and prayers that fell on the screams of the bound. Bowing repeatedly between fallen words, uttered in hums and the rubbing of palms. Heads bowed low to the ground with each dip of their spines. Desecrated holy robes, staunch with fresh blood, and the grotesque markings upon their cheeks. Stale eyes that neither followed the trace of the Upper Moon’s steps, unphased by his presence, sacrificed to the falling of words at the bow of their backs. Entranced with a ritual that churned his stomach and raised his eyebrow. A display worthy of the Second Moon was depicted before him, reeking of perfume and blood. Drawn out upon a fallen altar, chains coiled and wreathing in each movement. Blood staunched, spilt across aged stone. Cracks that had surmised into the boulders it had been built upon. Bodies littered to the side, varying in ages and sizes. Finest silks shredded and stripped of jewels, to the thin of bones of travelers robbed of their coin purses, left over straw hats and baskets of farmers and gathers among the mix evidence of their wares taken from corpses, the sacrificed of wanders lured by silken scents. The faint of painter, coated in blood and distinguished markings of some perverted holy talismans bound and coiled amongst the chains that withered and wreathed. Forced upon the strips of bamboo, the very altar of holy worship encased in a pit of sharpen black bamboo, with only one path to fall upon its worshipers. A monk at the center of the altar, his arms raised above his bald head, and the draping of the finest silk kimonos wrapped across his body revealing the depths of his deception. Prayer beads crafted of the precious stones caught amongst the lanterns, sparkled in each of his movements at the dagger glinted not the flame. The blade fell upon spilt blood, and the scream that followed the blooming scent of peaches and vanilla. Fresh as the blood that tarnished the ground beneath your knees. Cries of agony muffled by the bamboo forced between your lips, and the tears caught upon your hair. Lavish robes, hung upon your bones, an embellished deity, little more than a puppet of religious plight. The dip of his fingers drawing Akaza’s immediate ire, his body betraying his sense. His movements one of a possessed man, the callous of his hands the paint of indigo at his finger tips at the pull of hair in one fluid movement. Ripped the skull from the priest’s body, the tumble of its bones rolled from the altar. Popped upon the rocks with each fallen chant of worshipers, unresponsive to the gore before them. The quiver of your eyes captivating his senses, bathed in the scents of the night, faintly aware of the acts to follow.
Only brought back to the state of mind upon the bodies that had fallen to his feet, the quiver of your body, and the lavish scent that had been snubbed from the night, the cut upon your cheeks healed as such shallow wounds prevent little implication for any of your kind. The small jerk of your body, recoiled from his touch met at the unsure clench of his teeth. The depths of a conscious he could not connect with, reminding Akaza of his unfamiliarity and uncertainty of interacting with a woman. The clip of his brow revealing the small annoyance, small slips of a memory that he could not grasp, nor the melancholy it burrowed into his soul before crushing the chains that bound you between your feet. The fold of feline ears pinned to the base of your skull, tucked backwards and skittish with each of his movements. The tuck of a tail, no perhaps two burrowed into your kimono, as your eyes traced him warily, the small touch of a canine mirrored as you regarded him. The pulls of citrine gleamed, ambered honey shyer than he would ever admit meeting your own gaze. The shiver of your body and pull of your muscles. Frail and tender, far too much time spent as a false deity, tortured, and inappropriately cared for. The Upper Moon’s small quip of his brow, and tug of his lips. Eyes that fell upon the bodies of the slain, faintly aware of the blood bath he had elicited, nor the way it clung to his clothes. Pondered if feeding you such spoiled products would be enough to give you the energy to flee from his sights, fully aware of the wary state in which you regarded him. He didn’t blame you. Something small, something that touched upon his memories, shy eyes that looked away from him… Women were like this, were they not? His lamenting drawing him to the conclusion, that what little strength that remained in your bones would be enough to seize you from this place, if only given the time, or resources which he had… well provided unintentionally. The spoils of such disgusting creatures at his feet nothing to appease his appetite, nor tempt his own hunger. Perhaps, you only needed the time… to regain yourself.
Such horrors… Ah, I scared her.
The pad of his feet, drawn upon the steps, falling in line wordlessly. Not so much as a parting word, fearful of the fragile state of your body, pondered upon if such parting of his words would shatter you. You had already been through… Ah, no he didn’t wish to think of it, nor consider the implications his own actions had had upon you. The beads of his ankles trembled with each step, and the grit of his fingers as the folded into fist. Uneasy as the moonlight that caught upon his raspberry-kissed hair. Knotted his stomach and made his skin crawl…. It had been so many years since he had felt this way, the melancholy of a life he could not remember ebbing at his conscious and drawing one step after another, unable to find the will to run from this place. Morning would come soon, the touch of coils, the shuffle of fabric across the ground. Caught at stones, and trembled with unbalanced steps. Life devoid upon your bones, malnourished and struggling to bear the weight of the lavish kimono. Embellishments, and the peek of kitten ear posed forward, no longer bound to your locks as your eyes traced him curiously. The peek of you behind his shoulder quick to dismiss as the mere need of escaping this area before any utilized your blood art for personal wealth once more. Yet, as he descended the mountain shrine steps he became faintly aware of the phantom tracing his every movement. A delicate dance of small steps that mirrored his own, and the silhouette that ducked behind trees and boulders when he would dare to peek over his shoulder. Akaza’s own confusion, whispering reassurance that it was merely coincidence that you had opted to follow this very path. The occasional snap of a twig, and attempt to catch you peered over, still as the moonlight. Perhaps attempting to remain out of his sight with the stillness of your breath before slipping between the trees. Oblivious to the peek of your tails flickered amongst the branches. Akaza far too aware of the feline eyes that traced his movements, uncertain of what game you were playing, or if perhaps it was all circumstantial--- women were not prone to following him around after all, and he certainly did not invite such interactions.
The final steps before the stones washed away from the path, corroded into abandoned forests, and the village he had wandered amongst, the reclamation of foliage, and the forest captivated upon the frays of abandoned houses, the small rustle of leaves, and yowl in the base of your throat, remained muffled by the bamboo placed between your canines. Your clear agitation, and duress providing him with the ample courage to finally turn back to regard you. The slip of your kimono, entwined upon the branches and revealing the touch of thighs that ignited the highs of his cheeks. The annoyed huff of air as his eyebrows drew together, met under the curses of his breath and bitter confusion. Turned his back, and dared a step forward, before letting out his own growl before turning back to you. His steps thundered across the stone and drawing the blades of your shoulders up, and arched. More catlike than predator as his fingers drew the slip from the branches, untangled the furrowed cloth and met your eyes with frustration. “You can go,” he instructed, releasing you from the foliage. Content with this being the last of your interactions, except for the draw of your ears. Once again, pinned to your hair, the lavish state of your apparel ridiculous to the environment, and any hopes of voyage. The bend of his knees bearing his weight, and the intentional scowl of a display before relinquishing his back before your eyes. The usher of his fingers at his back, ushering your weight onto his back. Neither of you would make it very fair in such wear, and with daylight approaching, he did not have the time for this. The haughty huff of his breath that drew at the heat of his cheeks, and the small touch of a growl as he uttered, “Let’s go.”
Taking You In Headcanons | Akaza
He doesn't want to do this.
He REALLY doesn't want to do this.
Akaza has a natural aversion to women-- and if you do not know his background, there's a very valid reason as to why he's not one for harming, nor seeking out a woman's company.
However, for the very same reasons, I just can't see Akaza outright abandoning you either, but let's be clear, he really doesn't want to do this.
I really feel like you become that cat that he does not initially want, and does everything he can to send you away. He considered biwa woman to take you in.
Accepted that for whatever reason (his conscious) that he could not just leave you to her, and accepted that... it's only a matter of time before that bastard Second hears of this.
Caretaking, is not what he has spent his life focusing on, and in some ways, it could hinder his actions. He'll debate back and forth of leaving you to your own devices-- and as time goes on, and the Upper Moon Three is confident you can take care of yourself, he's going to.
I mean, he'll check in, but for the most part, he will take advantage of your new found independence to seek out scuffles.
Akaza cannot sit still, and he will NOT take you with him. If you choose to remain by his side, you will have to accept that there will be long periods in which he travels, and you will remain behind. What you do in the mean time is of little concern, as long as you remain faithful and honest. Any attempts of insincerity, or manipulation will sever all bonds.
Remember, clingy is by no means attractive to him.
Until that time comes, I think Akaza would begrudgingly under take the tasks of taking care of you, and nurturing you back to your full potential.
In fact, I think physical needs come fairly natural to him, and may even be a pain if you're seeking out a physical relationship because he will not be openly engaging in emotional wellbeing.
No really, such open vulnerability will take him quite some time to approach, and it will be done out of a bit of spite. He'll do it, but he's going to complain.
Taking care of you was not a decision, or a commitment he took likely, and Akaza does not make rash decisions. While he may be quick to seem engaged, and curious, he does not make a commitment without being sure of himself, and his capabilities. Whether it's a long term relationship, or temporarily caring for a wounded cat.
Because of this, you will have to understand he will not be quick to meeting any emotional damage you have sustained in the duration of your capture, nor will he grasp the depths of damage that PTSD can inflict on another person. He can't even face his own trauma
In fact, he can be down right insensitive.
First call to action will be that he will secure suitable clothes for you. One in part because you reek of that damned place, and he cannot cope with that. It's like being stuck with Doma, he's not doing it. There is also the realities that this outfit, is just not realistic. Let's be honest, he's not going to seek out outfits that are revealing, or offering a lot of exposure. In fact, I think he would stick with traditional, and modest clothing, but with the ability for you to work, and move across the terrain.
He doesn't like the idea of you fighting, and will do everything he can to avoid placing you in such circumstances, but he is well aware that, you need to be able to defend yourself. The world is cruel to women. He will keep this in mind in securing your clothes.
He'll seek out the opportunity to sponge out all of this perfume. yes, he understands that it is your blood art, but you reek, and because of this, I can expect he will drop you off at a waterfall/pond fairly routinely to keep the reminiscent of your blood art to more maintainable quantities.
Not to mention he's worried about you luring something big in while he's away.
in preparing you for your routine scrubbing, I imagine the moment will come that he will attempt to remove the bamboo muzzle. If you do want it to be removed, he will happily do so. Likely uttering a number of curses to the perverts who have done this to you.
But if like Nezuko, you have opted to remain this way, he will say nothing other than inquire about how you intend to eat. It's just not practical. This however, will be the end of this discussion. He has no desires to force you into anything, nor will he even attempt to dispute your choices.
No really, think about it. He asked Rengoku for CONSENT to become a demon. I just cannot imagine Akaza forcing anything on anyone.
Rather, I imagine that every little thing will need consent.
Consent to touch you.
Consent to help brush out your hair.
Consent to enter the room when you've finished changing.
Everything.
Realistically, his next step will be to feed you, and it's one that he takes high importance on. if you have selected a proper diet for a demon, he will be particularly choosy about what he feeds you. He's not feeding you women or children, don't get your hopes up, but I can imagine him selecting worthy food. A nice husband, perhaps a kabuki artist that has just began to take the stage. Nothing dirty, or tainted.
However, in the event that you have opted for a demon-vegan life style, I can foresee him struggling. Nothing crude or agitated, but genuinely concern that is appearing as anger. He's not going to press the issue-- but are you getting enough sleep to meet your needs?
Akaza is by nature not the sort to have plush bedding, nor anything really fussy. He's always on the go, that I imagine that more often than not he opts to rough it, but if you have selected your substance to remain from dozing, I imagine that he would go to great lengths to figure out what you would need to receive optimum beauty sleep.
If you get past his prickly ill-ease with women, you'll find that he's actually a snuggler and not one to argue with you crawling into bed with him. I dare say, he secretly enjoys it.
Akaza is upfront, and honest with all of his intentions, and because of this, he told you upon taking you in what his expectations were. for you to one day, care for yourself.
He is natural at reading people, and because of this all of your physical needs will be met with little hesitation. In fact, more often than not you will find yourself wowed by some of his gestures. such as the way he brought a hair tie charm in your favorite color despite never being told it was so.
As I've said, he's not one for emotional conversation, and things that dip far too deep into his surface will likely leave him bruised and prickly. In part because, he doesn't want to recall his life as a human, and even more so, Akaza is aware that he is one of the few unable to recall.
Is it a sore topic for him?
Yes.
But he doesn't know why, and that is enough to ensure he doesn't want to dig deeper into it, and he doesn't want you to either. To the same extent, he will assume you have no desire to dig deeper into your own needs. Akaza is also not certain he can meet them. Nightmares in the middle of the night of your captivity.
Will not be met with talks and comfort. Rather, they'll be met with uncertainty before he just folds his arms over you, and beckons you to bed. Hoping that the press of his body is more than enough to reassure you that those days are long gone.
Really, these slips of insecurity, of raw emotion leaves him anxious and uneasy. It's out of his element, and nothing that he feels secure in exploring. In fact, he's probably a terrible listener because he is imagining any scenario that will get him. out. of. here.
More so, Akaza will naturally be more protective of you than he will ever admit, or hint to. Really, aside from the Upper Moons and the Master, none will be aware of the depths of his safeguarding he has over you.
So much so that you will delight in how attentive he can truly be.
#demon slayer x reader#kimetsu no yaiba x reader#kny x reader#🍡tsuyospeaks#akaza x reader#upper moons x reader
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Yushiro.......yushiroyushiroyushirooooo 🤧😚🥺😩 so real of you, tbh. I'd love to hear your take on Yushiro and Reader being tasked with babysitting?? I feel like he'd be the kind of guy to only like his own kids, if at all 💀 but idk, I can only imagine him either being liked against his will or having the pettiest beef with a seven year old 😭😂
*fan girl screaming*
Oh you. Yushiro, a cactus by any other name would be just as barbed. I adore this prickly pear. But the more and more I think about and fawn over this idea…. I feel like I need an entire soapbox (and separate post) for Yushiro as a dad. He would one hundred percent be the dad that snuggles an unwanted family pet. The Kamado child is NOT as cute as his. Godzilla scream. But for now, I give you this.
Babysitting Headcanons | Yushiro
Word Count: 2523
Setting: Yushiro x gn!reader
Content Warnings: SFW, babysitting, domestic fluff, spoilers for post war [canon pairings]
Summary: headcanons on what Yushiro would be like as a babysitter.
A/N: you cannot convince me Yushiro would NOT look at Nezuko's little one, and think sure-- they're alright. but [YN] and his kid would be precious.
Taking care of a child, even if only for a small period is not a decision Yushiro takes lightly. It is one that is approached with sincere consideration. The spell weaver is more than aware of the implications taking care of a weaker creature entails as well as his own short comings.
Because of this, in most cases, he will adamantly refuse. Often without even providing his own reasoning. The demon is the sort to utter a sharp, “No” before slamming the door in the requestor’s face at full force.
If it hits them, they should have been more considerate of their manners. Serves them right.
However, I can imagine that are some existential circumstances in which he will allow himself to be dragged into the duties of a caretaker. But he’s going to complain.
There is of course if you should make the request of him. Yushiro will muddle through every practical excuse he can outsource for not choosing to take care of the Hashibara brat. Such as the fact he is not confident it is housebroken. The occasional one that he deems substantial, he’ll spill from his lips as quickly as he has conjured it. Surely the Kamados are available.
However, the moment he sees the smile that has graced your features. The way your finger coos and beckons play, delighted by the little oinker’s cherub features. It’s going to be a long night. He’s a sucker, a simple. He knows it, and it will take little convincing once he sees the yearning touch up on your features.
Yushiro is threatening Inosuke to remain mindful of the time.
However, I think there are special circumstances in which he would be the one to offer childcare. Such as when Tanjiro inquires if the two of you would be up for taking care of the little ones for a bit.
Initially, Yushiro has rejected his request. Insisted that you’ve far too much to do for the time being, and Tanjiro being Tanjiro accepted he bold faced lie with a smile. The tilt of his head, the jingle of his hanafuda earing as he reassures Yushiro that he understands, he will just ask the Haribaras to take care of his little ones while he runs errands.
The gentle natured man waving his hand, the similar gestured copied by that of the child at his side, and one secured to his back as he sets off for Inosuke and Aoi’s residence.
Yushiro will accept it; try to convince himself that the Haribaras are more than capable of caring for a child.
Right? No, no of course they are. Their own children are doing well enough.
Somehow.
It’s only when he sets to work to procure groceries for the night’s dinner, passing Aoi upon his route that the realization sinks in. Inosuke. Has. The. Child.
Discarding all of his items in a single hall, the mad dash to the Haribara residence. Every fear evident on the sweat of his brow, the boar’s childcare a resemblance of torture. He will give Tanjiro a lecture for ever being stupid enough to leave the little ones in ITS care.
One way or another, whether brought on by your insistence to spend time with the little piglet’s façade of adorableness as if for one moment it will not mark the furniture as it snuggles into your arms, or of the obvious stress and rage, fretting over the stupidity the younger brat had inquired.
The Kamado children slung under his arms, leaving him only too kick down the door if you had somehow not heard his approach. A rage fueled scolding threatening to boil over.
Either way, the children are now in your care for the night.
To his dismay, smaller children insist on clinging to his sleeves. Beckoning him to play, daring to challenge him. Similar to the way an older cat is pestered by smaller children.
He doesn’t understand why the child insists on interacting with him. He has met its based needs; you’re more than available.
Does it really not understand that he has expressed he does not wish to be touched? Why is it doing that? Not the books. Not the books! He has told them time and time again! The bookshelf is unleveled, they’ll hurt themselves. Why doesn’t it listen? What is this sticky texture? Dogs have better manners.
WHY IS IT STICKY?
It will be a lot of back and forth banter, ones that edge upon the fray of his insanity. Some part of his questions how any demon in their right mind would make a meal of such small annoying creatures.
The Kamados willing opted to further their bloodline.
Before, the fatigue has met his age. The ends of his hair curled and jutted at odd ends, submitting himself to whatever sticky torture the little credent’s have in store for him. Yushiro is just too worn out to fend himself off any further.
Where as the smaller child’s mere close proximities, its insistence to remain at his side, to lay upon his laps, and listen to the textbooks he has at his disposal are of high demands, it is the older child that has truly sparked his ire.
The slit of his cat like, lavender eyes tracing the silhouette of your form, and the little trespasser who dares to insist entangling his arms around your waste. That of a little duckling that insists upon toddling after you despite the fact you are attempting to prepare its dinner. It’s honeyed false words, sweet and well-practiced.
Far too smooth for its age, lulling you into its hold with its large eyes. How it convinces you to dismiss the way he dares to quip a knowing smile Yushiro’s way from time to time. Such as the way you pet its head.
The little bastard knowing all too well the angle its working, drawing his ire more and more. The little one has made a dangerous enemy. The way the Kamado child nuzzles into your chest, claiming the majority of your attention under the false pretenses it misses its mother. Not once has Yushiro ever seen that little narcist snuggle its mother so possessively.
The war of words, the little human’s tongue as sharp as his own leaving only the older demon in a poor lighting. As though Yushiro had gone out of his way to initiate a war with the brat, the only one to receive your scolding for such immature behavior. It started it. He’ll pout from his seat, as the younger children cling to his features.
He’s not taking his eyes off of it.
Would be quick to seize the opportunity to instigate turmoil for the older child, such as allowing the younger children to launch an attack on their sibling. He didn’t see a thing.
Just gave them the blueprints.
Or the teasing pout of his tongue when he reminds you if the human’s impending bedtime. Still a brat. How agitated he openly expresses himself, the grit of his teeth when the little boy dares to point out that his mother tucks him in before bed and waits at his side until he drifts to sleep.
A worthy opponent.
Yet, as the later hours captures their small features. Innocence, and peaceful snores that meet the dead of night. Serene in the heaves of their chests beneath the heavy blanketing. Unaffected by their surroundings, succumbed to full bellies and the gentle lull of your lullaby. Drifted to sleep where they dropped.
The tender way he tucks them to bed, a secret he ushers you to keep from the others. The small smile that finds his lips, quick to tuck in the child that has strayed from its futon, and sooth the ends of the older child his enemy.
Hush the occasional distress that falls between the roll of their bodies, eager to scoot just a little closer to his side. At first, he is refusing their approach. All too well of the importance of bedtime routine and trying to instill it on the small human despite its efforts.
The blissful late hours giving way to the fall of your eyelashes, in which the child launches one last chance to curl into Yushiro’s lap. He’ll tell himself, that it’s the fatigue, or perhaps trauma bonding, but he does not fight the curl of the child’s chubby hands as it tucks to his side.
The delicate way he finds himself cupping the child to his chest and rocking it into the depths of the night. A lullaby that he had carried from his humanity, near erased amongst the passage of time.
If you should stir to the high of his voice, he will deny your inquiry in the morning. Swear that your dreams have robbed you of your senses. Denied at every turn.
Would be the type to wake up early in the morning if your babysitting duties have resulted in an impromptu sleepover. Inosuke would be the type to lose track of time and leave his kid far longer than promised. An early riser, quick to set to making breakfast.
Rice that has been given an added touch of umami as well as sweetener to appeal to the little ones, fried eggs, and octopus sausages, procured from his funds the means of adding extra apple rabbits to the plates.
Don’t you dare draw attention to it.
Yushiro is still going to give the Kamdos an earful for daring to leave their child in Inosuke’s care, incase you had forgotten, or to flip the bill to Aoi if any of the furniture should require laundering after a few “accidents”.
After you’ve waved the families away, he’ll insist he’s relieved to see the little trespasser have left, but you will not miss the gentle tone in which he utters each little one’s name. Nor the way he safeguards the drawings they little ones have left in the garden sands.
Swears the little ones would cry if their artwork were disposed of---- not that he’s welcoming it back any time soon!
Truthfully, I don’t think it’s so much that Yushiro hates children by default. Rather, I believe he’s well aware of his own emotional short coming.
Children, especially toddlers have high emotional needs, and require a well-developed caretaker to address each one as they come. That of which, Yushiro knows he lacks the emotional aptitude.
Because of this, I can see babysitting suddenly being sprung on him coming at a cost of his emotional well being. He’s stressed. Holding the child away from his body as he walks. All while pondering, what is he supposed to do with this?
No, without an fully drafted plan of care, or routines unique to the expected child, Yushiro is panicked and uneasy. You may smile and reassure him that it will come to him—it’s merely nature. But what if such instincts were absolved in his demonic state?
Speaking of care of routine, I can imagine Yushiro being the type that when he has agreed to take a burden in even for a small time, he’s the sort to take meticulous notes on its care.
How often should he feed it, does it know how to use the facilities on its own? The look on his face when the parents insist that he addresses their bundle of joy as such, rather than a dog. He’s reminding them a dog has better manners.
As a care taker, Yushiro is the type to instill strict regimen—to be fair all of his rules are all well thought out with the intentions of protecting the child.
However, he is rigid, and when the child does not abide by instruction, he’s likely to be far more temperamental than he should. Especially for smaller children. Oh god it’s crying.
Realistically, he’s kind of an ideal babysitter by the parent’s standards, especially when he has reviewed the day’s agenda, and emergency contacts, but for the child, he’s a near nightmare. You want a treat? Here’s an extra serving of peppers.
Though, he is rather combative and competitive by nature, and I suspect that you may enjoy walking upon the smallest, pettiest of competitions that ignite play in the old soul, such as sniffing out a hidden child in a game of hide and seek, or parrying wooden sword after practice weapon with ease.
Secretly delights in the awestruck eyes as the children gaze up at him. Offers a knowing laugh, and offers to teach them—when they’re older.
He will not instruct milk drinkers.
That being said, I can see him having warmer bedside manners for children, such as the Kamados that he is more familiar, or exposed to regularly. Perhaps because it gives him a small obtainable interaction, he has see the way Kanao soothes her children, or the firm approach Aoi regards her little piglet with; he’ll do his best to apply what he has observed to practice.
In fact, because of how routine infants often are, I suspect that Yushiro would not only enjoy taking care of a baby, but would find it a comfort in comparison to the sticky terrors that toddlers provide.
Babies are simplistic, in a way that provides him wit the confidence to meet their needs with little hesitation. He has studied the child’s cries and cooes, and responds accordingly.
The little “eh”, as it struggles to arch its back, Yushiro will be proactive, quick to usher the child in the righted position, and offer gentle pats across its back. Praying for the burp to release the infant from its discomfort.
The little creature is so small and frail between his fingers, he would likely not be up to applying the proper force into his pats only frustrating it and him.
Always worried that he may break it, and yet, they are simple creatures. Able to address their needs in the smallest of coos, delighting in the snuggles that are offered.
But, the cries will send him to his knees.
Just as it would with the toddlers, because at the end of the day, Yushiro struggles processing his own emotional needs, so much so that he simply cannot handle the tears. He feels guilty that he is unable to address their needs. Or have a clue what the need is.
It is essentially his own hinderance in the emotional caretaking category that has him shudder away from emotional interactions. Frustrates and guilts him that he has not the means to soothe their tears, nor meet their cries as he should.
Aware that he may become frustrated.
But this experience has left him to run analysis of your relationship, of your hopes, and perhaps... having a little one of your own.
#🍡tsuyospeaks#demon slayer x reader#kimetsu no yaiba x reader#kny x reader#yushiro x reader#kny yushiro
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yo wsg
Been checkin your account for a while now and your stuff is real damn cool. I was wondering if youd be willing to take an ask abt shinobu and a gn reader who was previously the sisters younger (biological) sibling . Like 2 years younger than shinobu that, when their parents were killed ofc like in canon they got injured and passed out , but inthe shock and shit when himejima came they all thought they were dead (i know himejimas heightened senses so id think their heart was barely beating and it could be confused w another sound? To try and justify) and left . Ibthink what im yk is that when shinobu becomes a hashira she accidentally founds her sibling . Who thought was dead is actually thebsound hashiras tsugoku . I feel like the fact they thought they werent alive and how close in reach they were and didnt notice would be very conflicting .
If you dony wanna tis okay
Hello, hello!
Thank you so much anon! It means to so much to me to have you wandering my page. I’m not entirely sure how I ended up with so many Shinobu requests, but I’m so grateful for each and every ask. I hope as the series is animated, there will be more attention to all of the Hashira. Thank you for entrusting me with this ask—I hope I did it justice.
Within Reach | Shinobu Kocho
Word Count: 2517
Setting: Shinobu Kocho x gn!reader (sibling fic!/reader is a lost Kocho sibling/Sound Hashira’s tsuguko)
Content Warning(s): minor spoilers (training arc + Kocho background), mentions of blood/gore, loss, death
Summary: following the defeat of two upper moons, all available Demon Slayers have been beckoned to training under the care of the Hashiras. The rare opportunity to train the medics of the Butterfly Estate, leads Kocho to memories, and a sibling that she had believed death had claimed.
A/N: I felt that the wielder being a tsuguko of Uzui would indicate a smaller hand to hand knife, and rely upon speed. I also felt that a breath that utilizes music would be a great branch off from Sound Breathing, and I was really, really tempted to do a Breath of Jikata. However, as the reader is gender neutral, I worried that it would lean too far towards a feminine, or fem!reader. Because of this, I have chosen Breath of Hogaku (folksong)—expect to see Breath of Jikata at a later date.
[image is not mine! all credit goes to the artist]
Bandages weaved over fingers, and forearms. Touched upon foreheads, and danced across thighs, Shinobu’s own stamina was growing weary from the lack of break. The training bound across the Slayer Corps had waged far and wide, and the retired Sound Hashira had been anything but forgiving. Shinobu had suspected as much, for what little of his background he boasted of, she had been able to deduct that the training inflicted upon the ranks would be brutal, but necessary. Though she lacked the proper strength to engage in the hand-to-hand combat, the Insect Hashira understood that in regards to heightening the battle prowess for the war to come, she was not a likely candidate. The unique aspect to her breathing technique had more than disqualified her as an instructor. The best the needle wielder could hope to do was wage emotional warfare in the hopes to reinforce emotional and mental states, but the reality remained that her tongue could inflict more harm than good. So rather than verbally assault anyone, well at least openly, she had seized the opportunity to reinforce a training of her own sorts amongst the physical strain. The wide variety of abrasions ranging from light scathing to deep wounds, risks of infection, shattered bones, concussions and the likes, ensured an opportunity to increase the capabilities of the young members of the Butterfly Estate; though she would never openly confess to Kanao, Shinobu wanted to ensure her protégés wound remain a pillar after her passing. An inevitable fate that awaited her as the last of her biological line, her parents and youngest sibling having passed in her formative years, followed her older sister in death. Yes, the Insect Pillar had adapted the training to ensure that those she left behind would have the tools to survive. To remain. To live.
Aoi Kanzaki had more than proven herself capable, the blanched cloth snagged over her adjusted uniform. The sweat of her brow drawn and the height of her blue eyes focused. Her quick response and steadfast nature had only stumbled a few times upon this training endeavor; fair enough, some of the wounds inflicted by Uzui were… creative. His laughter regenerating Aoi in moments of exhaustion, the distant memory of his near abduction of her eliciting her stubborn response. If left to her own devices, she may even be tempted to strangle him should he need medical care. Such moments of befuddled were quickly remedied. She had always been a fast learner, as well as a reliable caretaker. The three youngest members of the estate had noticeably fatigued. Half of Sumi’s hair had been unbound from her ponytails, the blue butterfly clip barely clinging to the frays of her hair. While the green motif of Naho’s hair had remained untouched, the smear of dirt and sweat, muddled against her cheek and the white of her dress from her fumble down the mountain side was in great company with the strain of Kiyo’s pink sash that had been tied to her waste half torn and ragged. The collar had fallen open upon her neck as though she had been shaken. Not that any such subordinates would dare with Shinobu overseeing their efforts. Her hand guiding the practice wrappings of the formative members. Their progress evident, and gaining traction despite their noticeable exhaustion. Uzui had kept them busy, and with the Hashira matches having taken place, they had been more than set up for a variety of inflictions.
The draw of your blade, noticeably smaller than your opponents drew Kocho’s attention from the wrappings between her fingers. Metal released from its sheath, harmonious as a melody. A distant song from a forgotten memory she could not place. Your voice, loud and bold had drawn her gaze. Muichiro only slightly taller than you, but equally as frail in stature. His long hair flushed in the wind carried the poise of your blade, a match not to be missed from what she could gather from the onlookers humming. Their excitement and eagerness to witness to the scuffle radiating, drawing quite the crowd and spectacle. To be expected, her information of the ranks had long since indicated your capabilities. Few could draw the attention of the former Sound Hashira, let alone receive the honor of tsuguku. Though this was the first time she had the opportunity to appraise you for herself—long missions had kept introductions from her for quite some time, and admittedly, she had dodged introductions as well. Anyone who could garnish Uzui’s instruction was likely cut from similar material, and in this moment, she could see small resemblances that trembled her resolve.
Raven hued strains of hair that ruffled in the wind. As though the feathers of a bird, crpped near the ears, and meticulously maintained. Luscious and well cared for in appearance, thick enough to draw the envy of any woman. Piercing lilac eyes that met over long eye lashes crafted from the gods, telling traces of a kokeshi doll. The saturation giving way to peculiar shades of purple. No, not quite violet, nor were they pink in tone. A hushed shade of fuchsia the ends of your bangs, to the traces of your locks that met at your neck reminiscent the petals of tree fuchsia. The draw of your lilac eyes excited and bold as you declared your intentions to meet the Mist Hashira in combat. The offset of age almost humorous in the way you composed yourself, eager as the grin that met your lips. Noticeably older than your opponent, and quickly dismissed by the younger swordsman. “Uzui’s nincompoop,” Muichiro had sighed before the callous of his hand met the ito of his handle. Still against the jostle of the crowd, both of you matched eye to eye. The first to draw none other than the Mist Hashira, quick to dispose of you and move onto the next challenger. The draw of your footing quick in the evade, unable to draw upon an opening as Muichiro’s blade met your own. Footing crossed, delicate as you weaved through the well trained swordman’s precise grades. Mixed match speed, as the retiree Hashira’s tsuguko drawing the praise of the boisterous man. Shinobu could only fathom the training the man had etched into your bones. Nor did she really wish to inquire. The trio of girls voices gasped and shrilled in the way they leaned forward. The rare slip of their own age drawing a warm smile from the Insect Hashira as she allowed the medic camp to enjoy their time as spectators. More than content to observe her self.
“Your footing has improved, but your grasp is loose,” Muichiro observed. “You’re predictable, too.”
Blade against dagger. Seized opportunities to attempt to slide as close to the swordsman as the chances arose. Almost tactless in the way you attempted to seize the opportunity, allowing him the opportunity to parry your blade quickly and efficiently. Practically toyed into the palm of his hand, guided across the layout. Your speed the only warrant that kept the swordsman on his toes, having underestimated the pace you had mastered. Sigh of annoyance, nor hint of sweat touched upon Muichiro’s features. “First Form: Teru-Teru-Bozu, Teru Bozu.” Caught by surprise, the unfamiliar tone shift. The caught of the swordsman gaze only active at the melodious press of your lips. “ashita tenki ni shite o-kure,” a smile delicate and weaved, slip of a tongue as enchanting as the words tumbled from your lips, and shattered her heart. “Itsuka no yume no sora no yo ni,” distant memories. Some touchable, no faint. “Haretara kin no suzu ageyo,” rain dolls weaved as your parents soothed your small frame. The touch of fuchsia painted upon a small child’s features. “teru-teru-bozu, teru bozu,” The flip of your frame, the sight of your back to her now. The small child who had eagerly reached for Kanae, the small whelp of tears that clung to the ends of your long eyelashes. Her warm giggle as she brushed your hair from your eyes, the same hands that desperately sought her comfort now wielding a blade. “watashi no negai wo kilta nara.” Your movements swift as a song, as longing for sunlight on a rainy day. Fluid as a dance, oh how you used to dance to mother’s songs as she hung the laundering. “Amai O-sake wo tanto nomasho,” fingers that gripped your dagger toes that tipped around the taller swordsman fluid as a melody. How your fingers had clutched the edges of her sleeves, tugged upon them in the dead of a winter night before slipping into the bedding. “teru-teru-bozu, teru bozu,” the resolve undeniable weaved into the tint of your eyes, the once sweet touch of beni imo. How you had looked to her when the children in the neighborhood had teased you. No more capable of fending for yourself, she had elicited justice in her rage. Evidence of that same child bleached from your essence, grounded and capable. “teru-teru-bozu, teru bozu,” the blood had stained the earth. Shattered her existence, ripped her from her home, and the peaceful world she had known. H-her mother’s scream. “ashita tenki ni shite o-kure,” no, no your father had relinquished his life. Tried his best to shield his family, slaughtered in a moment. Horror, how your mother had clutched your small form to her breast, the blood that had radiated from you flesh. The sickening crunch of bonest, your wailing silenced and lsot to the earth. “sore de mo kumotte naitetara,” K-Kanae had checked, soothed your lifeless body to her chest. Himejima- Himejima had evaluated your vital signs. The Stone Hashira had prayed over your corpse, had entrusted your burial to the villagers. H-How had—Lazarus Syndrome. Echoed across her thoughts, practically robbed her of her senses. A term she had come across in a foreign medical book. Rattled her bones. “Sonata no kubi wo chan to kiru zo.”
Metal screeched, fended and blocked. The dance of mist that had met song, elusive as a siren’s wail. Shattered against a dagger before finding a solid mark into your arm. Not enough to inflict permeant damage, nor retire you from duty, but as the first to draw blood, Muichiro had succeeded in the match. The victor sheathing his blade, turquoise eyes that had once been listless and bored, now interested to meet your lilac gaze. The shuffle of bows, the plop of your bottom before the medical tint as your eyes appraised the depth of damage the Mist Hashira had inflicted. The knot that had formed in her throat as you sat before her, oblivious to the way her eyes traced you. Traced out memories, etched out childhood fondness. How she had sworn you annoyed her to no end, the small scuffles Kanae had been left to sort out when your parents were immersed in work. The small scuff of a scar, that scar. She had gifted you so many years ago, carved it into your cheek. Marred your delicate face, in a tussle over a simple pinwheel toy. [YN]. Fought her senses and decorum. Understood duty, defined its necessities in the way the Insect Hashira’s quivering fingers found the bandages at her side. Trembled at the grasp of your sliced training clothing. Delicate, and tremoring as she peeled back the layers. Blood, your blood. Forced the purse of air as she steeled herself. Demanded her attention. To disinfect. To bind the bleeding. It wasn’t fatal—she understood it was nothing more than the casualty of sparing. Yet, she could not cease the quiver of her frail fingers, nor silence the unceremonious way she near choked upon her own spit as her plum eyes met your own, curious. So, unaware. Trembled her resolve in the tilt of your head, gauged her reaction. So. Fucking. Stupid. As younger siblings often were, no, no. she reprimanded herself, you were a child. A small child. D-did you even remember her? K-Kanae, h-had you forgotten her? “Lady Kocho, are you alright?”
The formality that tore the final blow. Seared her, branded her distance. Revealed the horrors of that fateful day when your family had been torn asunder. Shreds of the Kocho clan left danced upon the wind. Oh, gods above, they had left your corpse—no, left you to be raised by strangers. By Uzui. The wide of her eyes, and tears that threatened to fall from her bottom lashes, the confusion touched upon your face. How could she ever explain, no did she even have the right to? W-where you happy as you were? Unaware. The small sniffle that found her slender nose, and the compulsion that found her soft smile despite the aching knot of her heart. The way her fingers slipped between the folds of your hair, patted and soothed. K-Kanae had told her how to do this once, a life time ago. When Shinobu had mistakenly snatched your ginger root. Your older sister had guided her, demonstrated how to sooth the end of your hairs in the way you favored. Offered a dumpling to substitute your stolen bite, now reflected in the way she touched upon your head. The wrinkle of your brow, “Miss Kocho?”
“Y-yes,” The Insect Hashira lamented. Distant memories sweet as they were bitter. Familiar as they were distant, as the child who she had mourned unlike the adult before her. Unexpected, and yet, anticipated in the way life trudges forward. Contemplated the verge of death, and edged upon her heart. To be allowed the opportunity to sooth you as once loved. The ease of your shoulders, and the small blushed that caught your cheeks. Muddled in your thoughts and her actions, there is the child I know. The tease of her smile, in one that only an older sister could provide a younger sibling.
“Yes, I’m alright now.”
#demon slayer x reader#kimetsu no yaiba x reader#shinobu kocho x reader#shinobu kocho#kny x reader#🍡tsuyospeaks
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Sincerely, | Daki
Word Count: 5052
Setting: Daki x fem!reader
Content Warning(s): suggestive, ecchi content, reader is a low key perve (but like, who isn’t in their teen years), will have mentions of assault, girlxgirl, yuri, modern AU
Summary: the fluttering of butterflies in your stomach, the press of your heart that pounds in the moments you see her. The soft of her sigh, the tender moments, the way her fingers thread through your hair, despite how hard you tried to deny it, you knew what this was.
Part I , Headcanons
Neon lights glowed in the distance, luminescent reflections amongst the glimmer of snow that touched upon the ground. Stowed away between narrow buildings, stairs escape that rusted and groaned with age. The distinct glow of night life echoed amongst the buildings, revealing slips of images plastered amongst brick walls, slips of wood that gave way to age.
Chipped wood against aerosol paintings, graphic images. Some acts of vandalism are well composed and detailed, others simplistic scribbles reflecting childish images reminiscent of rakugaki drawings upon school desks. Etched into shaky lines, and faulty work. Nightlife bustled amongst music, clatter of heels against sidewalk. Lovers intertwined and boozed squeezed between giggles, enticed by liquored promises. Late hours attract illicit workers, flirtatious and loud, beckoning onlookers. Interdicted mixed amongst the foot traffic, drawn smiles evoke false security in victims as they danced amongst the interlopers. Rouged lips and enticing fingers, honeyed words pressed to those who dared to stray close to entrances.
Daki’s fingers wound playfully through her lover’s hair. The rouge upon her lips roughly smeared between teasing lips as the glow of neon lights lit aflame in her chartreuse eyes. Emeralds that toyed dangerously as she allowed her nails to graze across his shoulder as he burrowed his nose into the nape of her neck. The exasperated gasp that lit her lungs as her nose began to wrinkle. The jerk of her shoulders pressed into the building that supported her weight, Daki’s temper began to flare at the biting remarks slipped from her tongue met the stray of his hand up her skirt. “Enough,” she ordered, slapping his hand from her thigh. The hiss of a threat posed as a knife against his neck as his insistence led him to invade further. The push of her hand against his shoulder blade met with his larger hand, how had it never occurred to her the significant difference in their size until this moment. Tangled his grasp around her writ wretched above her head in a way that forced the air from her longs, anguish whine that snapped. “S-Stop it,” she hated it. All of it. Daki could taste the desperation upon her tongue, the way her words quivered and the shiver of her body as his fingers traveled further and further with each wiggle of his digits. The heat of his breath pressed between her collar bone and the nape of her neck, the small hitches indicating the delight he found in the way her body trembled against the press of his knees.
“Go ahead, cry,” he purred in delight. Allowed his chuckle to beginning to resonate against her bones. The tear of his teeth against her flesh, sharp against her shoulder blade. The fear blossoming into her senses, wretched her body as much as she could, the difference. Oh shit, how had she never noticed how big he was? Clutched thighs, knee caps that struggled against one another strained at the press of his knee. Forceful as he coerced his knee between her legs. Allowing his free hand to fondle the buttons at her breast. Delighting in the tremble of her cries, fright beginning to seize Daki’s awareness. The flit of her eyes traced upon the alleyway. Abandoned and empty, a fun escape from their night on the town gone awry with a fiend that danced upon her daydreams. Toyed with her in way that threatened bile in the bae of her throat. Struggled to choke down sobs as the tears formed in her large eyes. Dismay at her surroundings, each moment falling on a life time as she became painfully aware—no aide would be coming. Tucked away from the main street, slipped behind a dumpster, her cries drowned out by the tumult of the escorts, lost amongst the music of bars and night clubs. The realization drawn upon understanding, the preconceived notion of what the night had in store.
The pop of buttons, torn from their secure threading exposed to the night air. Bites that littered her flesh, teeth that bruised her skin, drew blood at each press of his teeth against her bone. The smug shitful delight he hummed into her flesh. As though determined to leave all traces of his essence.
Daki bit down upon her tongue. Clenched her tongue, willed her tears to sremain. Swallowed cries and fought back the bile that threatened to sear her soul, wretched her head from sight. Refused to allow him to savor her tears, pressed her eyelashes together, determined to keep fallen prayers tucked to her cheek as her jaw strained to contain her terror, her rage.
I will not beg.
Exhaustion hung on your shoulders, another failed lesson, you thought with a sigh as you pressed your head to the vending machine. Willed your fingers to find the coffee cans displayed in a ray of colors. Each promise of concentrated caffeine is more enticing than the next. Struggled to catch the yawn that threatened to slip past the back of your hand, as you pressed against the cold display glass, fingers fumbling over the controls. The late hours were beginning to wear on you, fatigue close to claiming you, and with it intrusive thoughts—what were you even trying to do? Daki had openly expressed weeks ago that she had no desire to continue tutoring. As if her open rejection that day had not been an indicator enough, she had gone so far as to write her withdrawal from college exams in bold pink ink, her resignation detailed between curse words and insults directed both at the instructor who had put her up to the notion, and well… you. Her contempt fully captured by her utilization of dedicating yourself to studying in the hope that you could escape to a place where people liked you. In as few words as possible, Daki had properly articulated that she did not believe such a place exhisted, but she hoped you would stay there. Rest assure, she had not intended any of the blows to be insult, rather, she considered them an appropriate description. Her depiction having gone so far that you had considered requesting a funeral rite by the local monks in honor of your self-confidence. What little had been concocted when you had been requested to tutor in the first place, evaporated into the night air. Rest in Peace, self worth. The press of buttons, really any at this point would bring forth the promise of caffeine regardless of concentration. Anything to spark a sense of life into your bones, just enough to see you home. The rumble of joints interlocking, the shifting of product from within the vending machine that drew the small pause of your breath, the silent utter that whatever you had managed to conjure would be enough to ensure safe travels. Pressed the prayer between your lips as you fished the item out, and giving it a tactful pluck upon the tab, a content sigh that was not as satisfying as you had hoped.
Yet, despite having buried your dignity alongside Daki’s resignation from her college entrance exams, you had yet to give up. Why, you could not place into words. Rather, it was as though your feet had a mind of their own, heaved your weary bones up the top of the stairs before the sun had risen, paused only for classes, and then to remain in the room you had agreed upon, left with little more than to wander the library’s selection long after the sun had set. She had made it clear—painfully clear that she would not be joining sessions once more, and yet, you had remained steadfast. Optimistic, and absolutely oblivious to the bristled regard she had for education, or perhaps yourself. Rumors had circulated that she had dropped out, Daki’s presence on school grounds was rare and fleeting, and yet… yet, each time your hand met the door, pressed between the track and the panes. You would find a whisper of a wish pressed to your lips, the flutter of butterflies within your stomach, and the pause of your breath in the hopes that garnet eyes that captured the riches of the earth, passioned and confident would meet your own. Welcomed the snide remarks, her playful teasing at your tardiness, longed for the days when she would mutter over your stumbled words. Painfully aware that such days were over as you pressed the can to your mouth.
Allowing yourself to acknowledge the exhaustion you had placed upon yourself, early hours, and later nights strewn across studying, and hopeless wandering of encounters that would not come had taken its toll on you, and some part of you had begun to wonder if it was not time to let this go. What were you even thinking? Daki had made it clear, you told yourself time and time again as you tucked the stray hair behind your ears. The touch of sorrow, a loss of what you could not place as your fingers captivated your cheek, grazed over the bottom frame of your glasses in a sigh.
So many people in the world, each passing you by even on nights like this. All busy, and going, and for a moment you found yourself watching the bustle of the night streets. The enormity of the foot traffic pressed against your skin, lovers intertwined in an embrace cooed and shameless of their surroundings. Though, some part of you wondered if it was perhaps, you who was in the wrong. The lude way in which the woman peered over her lover at you, pressed kisses and a near enjoyment at your baffled state as you stumbled to give the pair space, pushed amongst the crowd. Tossed as though you were a mere leaf amongst a stream, scattered to the side of the building, jostled to and fro before plopping on your bottom. The scatter of your belongings that met with the ground, and all awareness drooped. The thought of lovers, so close and entrusted to one another. Regardless of whereabouts, careless of who may see, and just delighted in one another was foreign. Odd, and… well empty. The sigh you burrowed into your lungs as you fought together your belongings, stuff them into your bag, and retreat for home, an empty apartment void of life. Alone. Again. The drop of your shoulders, and the knot in your stomach. Pained and chilled, alone was something you were familiar with, and it was not expected to change. Studying… studying had not changed that. The crunch of papers that pressed into your bag, forced, and scrapped into one another. Soothed on edges, reprimanded yourself for treating them so callously. Clutched your drink to one hand, threaded your bag securely once more, and attempted to dust of--- oh god, please say it wasn’t urine—from your knees that had caught on your stockings. “Oh, god,” you whispered to yourself,
Pungently aware of the unidentified liquid pressed into your stockings, Eyes that wandered the area, an alley way caught between one of the buildings. Toyed by the whispers of street workers, and delighted in their coos to potential customers, dreaded searching for the answer, prayed to discover a beer bottle as the source. This street had always been eventful, the fall of your shoulders, etched into neon lights that reflected across the fowl the odor of waste and garbage. Stockings hung from lines, brothels tucked discreetly from sight, and delicate waved into the night air. If anything, you shouldn’t have been surprised to witness the embrace in the alley. Rather, you should have just been grateful to discover it was not in fact piss you had landed in. Hardly able to avert your eyes at first, shocked and horrified to have discovered lovers…. Oh, gods above, you needed out of here, you uttered in horror. Eyes exposed to far more than most of your curious internet searches had engaged, the fumble of your bag far louder than intended that curse from your lips as garnet eyes met your own. Tears that dazzled amongst their gleam and the can of coffee that escaped your grasp.
Water droplets rolled down her cheek. Caught at her jawline, the trace of water revealed the bruising of porcelain flesh. The snag of flesh that delivered the baring of fangs at the trace of her shoulder lines. The drape of her luminescent hair unable to shield the wander of your gaze, nor the shame in which her frame dipped. The wrath had long since extinguished from her garnet eyes; Daki’s eyes trembled with each press of the cloth against her flesh. Flinched at the delicate fingers formed around the cloth, nor registered the utter of words that fell between your unsure lips. Cautious, and tactful to whisper your sincerest apologies and intrusions. Voiced your intentions, announced each movement before you dared to touch upon her. The mangle of her shirt beyond salvaging, though you could not imagine such details were of concern for Daki at this time. Her eyes had struggled to concentrate. Quivered at the slightest touch, and the tears that threatened to shatter at unexpected noises, the hold of her hand braced against your arm as though at a moment’s notice, she would collapse into you, or perhaps within herself.
The details were fuzzy. What little bit you could piece together, you dare not press. The rattle of her voice hitched and thick ached within your bones, and in the moment, you hadn’t fully considered your actions. The coffee can had left your hand long before it had occurred to you that you had chunked it at the creep’s head, threw caution and your term papers to the wind when you had placed the entirety of your weight into a single swing with your school bag before catching Daki’s wrist in your grasp, and fleeing into the emerging crowd. Far too aware of the bellowing way—whoever the hell that was had attempted to follow. Never had you been so grateful to live on the shadier aspects of town, his pursuit quickly deterred by the ongoing crowd of partygoers, and entrepreneurs of the night. Though, that was as far as your adrenaline had dragged you, the crash of reality had descended into your apartment. Face to face with the very girl who despised you, the tars that threatened to roll over her high cheeks, the smear of rouge that painted her features—nope, you did not dare press, and in truth, were completely out of your element. Pleads to call law enforcement had bene vehemently refuted, nearly drawing terror from her bones. Rambles of home, of a mother, a brother—details that seemed jumbled and rampant. Shook at her bones, the state of her dress, the quiver of her body as she clung to your arm unwilling to part. A bath seemed, well sort of the right step to go, told yourself you would attempt to secure evidence as much as she allowed the moment she dipped into the bath. Such openings did not occur. The moment you had attempted to guide her into your bathroom, Daki’s grasp had not relinquished, clung to what little pride she could managed that gnaws at her bottom lip. Averted eyes, and the length of her nails that threatened to dig into your skin. Swallowed the lump in your throat before accepting her nonverbal cues and aided. Told yourself that you would use swabs to collect evidence, though the horror of the marks had been more than anticipated. Sorrow at the shame that drew across her face as your eyes found the wounds. Heavy, and uneasy.
Numb as your fingers worked to carefully cleanse the area, aware of the small moments in which Daki dared to catch your gaze. Fleeting, and silent. Wordless as your fingers threaded through her moon kissed mane, removed debris of the incident from her hair, whispered each movement before you dared, yet throughout the entirety of the bath, Daki did not move. Did not dare to breathe, nor did tears fall from her lashes. The clutch of her jaw remained as you quietly toweled her hair. Bit down pride, wallowed in the pieces she had managed to sew together, and for you, the struggle to soothe her. Painfully aware that an embrace ran the risk of damage rather than comfort. Solemn to the sight of her adorned, wrapped in your oversized t-shirt, snuggled between the sheets, and pressed into your side. Wordless, as though the passage of time could not be tracked as her garnet eyes peered quietly at you before exhaustion drained from her nerves spirited her to sleep.
In the same breath that eased her to sleep, you had found any sense of slumber robbed. Left with only the small slips in which your shirt rolled from her shoulder in her sleep. Marks bared to her flesh, mournfully tucked away as you knitted Daki into the blankets.
The days to come were restless; Daki had made a return to school. Though she had yet to speak a word of that night, nor of her return to education, you had become increasingly aware of her presence. So much so that she had rattled your senses, the peer of garnet eyes between closed doors. Peeped between classroom windows, the peek of her eyes over the framing as she peered into your classroom from the hallway. Quick to duck out of sight as soon as you ponder what had encouraged the disruption from your peers. An occurrence that had not been missed, or an isolated occurrence. The upperclassmen’s aura radiated from behind trees, crept between students, scurred between classes and peeked behind doors, so much to an extent that you had begun to worry that Daki’s restoration to the school grounds was an act of an omen, a promise of death should you dare to divulge the details of that night. Caught in her glare, coaxed the shiver up your spine as you attempted to remain faithful to the mundane task pungently aware of how she stalked you like a predator. A venomous viper, entangled and intrigued by prey. Coiled, and tempted, lured to the spot outside of the classroom in which you were intended to offering tutoring. The stunned realization that you had continued your day-to-day activities led you to this fateful door—bashed yourself for remaining a creature of habit in the hopes she would grow tired of the chase.
Daki’s long eyelashes battered against the shock; her eyes traced upon your form as the blush captivated your cheeks. Horrified your senses as the internal struggle engaged, the war of your next step, tactics that had fallen in anxiety. To turn around would mean to engage the vipers in a battle of wits, stumble into her trap, and receive the shattering blow. Practically able to feel the fangs upon your neck, but to press forward. To stead the course, would mean admitting… you had waited for her all this time. Clutched teeth, and searing cheeks, stumbling, and allowing your eyes to skate across your surroundings, desperate for any retreat. Any out that could be utilized for escape. Squeezed your eyes tightly closed, lashes that gripped one another, as you willed yourself to breathe. Reminded yourself to work the problem out—anything, anything at all. The only route of escape would be to jump from the second-floor window.
I-I could make it!
The rattle of the track, swift and course rattled your nerves. Elicited the highest of shrieks that breathed in humiliation. Touched upon all of your senses, slid your glasses down the bridge of your nose. Left your hair on end, as luminescent green eyes traced your outline, and rouge lips formed a delicate, knowing smile before allowing her hips to sway with intentional step. Slowly. Into the classroom.
Hours fell to days, and days fell to weeks. The snow had lifted amongst the winter setting, the fragrant peek of blossoms caught and tangled into the chilly air as spring greeted the youth. Children delighted in playground antics, toyed with one another in warm delight. Birds entangled, greeted the growing daylight, and with it, her presence had grown on you. Daki’s attendance had grown consistent, never missing a single school day, nor falling ill. Your bond had grown over studying. Her comprehension was far more capable than you had been led to believe when you had been asked to take this task on, and more so, her interactions with you had grown more insistent. Coupled to your side, snuggled against your shamelessly on the train ride despite your obvious shyness; Daki did not mind onlookers, and openly expressed so each day she tucked into your side Never offering so much as a complaint at the press of your bodies one on one, nor the whispers of the girls who had incited this chain of events. Days spent together, pressed between the pages of a book, her fingers through your short hair as she purred odd praise. Unaware of how sensual her behavior had increased, teasingly raked against your scalp as she uttered praise after praise. Wished to see your hair grow over time, the implication enough to rattle your heart. An odd hint of a future in which she may witness. Told yourself that Daki had always been flirtatious—and after everything that had happened, you allowed her to toy with you without question. Just happy to see the small slips of who she was before begin to peek beneath her surface. Reminded yourself at the time she pressed an indirect kiss, shamelessly stole your sausage octopus between chopsticks, or how she giggled as she traced the high of your cheeks along your reaction. Delicious, she had purred.
Reprimanded yourself for allowing her to toy with you, but found yourself smiling as you had prepared a bento for her that night. The shy way in which her eyes had traced the traditional lunchbox. Confused, and bashful as her long nails broke the seal. Confused, and pressed lips as her gaze wandered your own. Almost childlike, whispered the last time she had seen bunny onigiri had been a mangled attempt by her older brother. Pleased to have placed a blush on Daki’s cheeks, and even more delighted to be given a snippet of her private life. A brother. Little bits, slowly but surely as the cherry blossoms had grown, warmed and given little pieces of herself to you. To you alone, you thought. Descriptions, details of a life none knew. Such as the time Daki had discovered you in the library. The smell of her fragrant perfume bright amongst the stark aged pages, ironic in the way it portrayed your own relationship. Her presence a welcome breeze amongst a cold day, the softness of her hands, the touch of lotion as they threaded over your eyes. The press of her lip, coy as she taunted you with a delicate, “guess who.” Or how she had leaned against your shoulder as Daki peeked at the pages of the book you had been considering. Another piece of herself gifted to you as she whispered the imagery reminded her of the moon princess, a fairytale her brother had often read to her as a child.
No, you had known far too long the weight of your breast. The sinking feeling in your chest. Her bright smiles, the eager way she waited for you at the classroom. The touch of her make up, or the small moments when she fell asleep on the desk. How Daki called your name across the courtyard, or how her hand, her fingers flawlessly entangled between yours on the train. Small snips of her temper flared when someone dared to look at you, or she noticed the shake of your body.
No, you had known, and yet, diluted yourself into denial. Told yourself that this was enough, time was coming to an end, and with the entrance exams approaching, your time together had little to offer. Slipped between your fingers and found the pride of her scores as your own. Her efforts bore merit, the small gift her brother had dropped at the school entrance to her embarrassment like a child whose parent dropped into meet her friends. Practically cooed as his hands rubbed her head like a cat, shyly praised her for a job well done before zipping off on a motorcycle, leaving only your favorite snacks in a nicely wrapped package, and the sharp remark that you had better not think for one moment she had ever told Gyutaro about you, or your snacking habits.
Or the obvious shy plush of her face, and the pout of her lips the one day Daki insisted you call her senpai.
You knew better, you did. You were smarter than this. Studious, and dedicated to a future, one secure in the hopes that… you wouldn’t be alone, and yet, and yet……. Yet, the envelope between your fingertips weighed upon this future. Frayed edges of what you had imagined. Torn asunder, and heavier than a brick between your fingers. Floral paper scented of rose petals and composed in delicate script all enfolded together in a pressed, light envelope closed with a ribbon. Girly, embarrassingly so, and the shame of how hard you had attempted to write a letter that would capture Daki’s interest left you feeling a small amount of shame. Fragrant, and feminine, the opposite of yourself as your teeth gnawed at the bottom of your lip, eyes that traced her locker. Her school mandated shoes placed upon the shelf, unmoved in the early morning hours. With this, you sighed to yourself. The burdens of your heart, questioned sanity, and threatened to uproot your life’s cause. With this, you will have burned everything to the ground. Closed your eyes as the envelope pressed into your forehead, wishing for peace. For closure, a confession wrapped in acceptance that rejection would inevitable, but with its cold shatter, she could go to school, and you, you could disappear to a world in which you could be someone else.
“Oh, what’s this?” High voice, nails across a chalkboard as swift as the hand that slipped the envelope from your fingertips. Tucked the envelope with sheer delight, cruel at the open taunt as her nails slipped across the ribbon. “Confession?” Leaned her chin forward encouraged by the giggles amongst the group. Sasaki’s grin was undeniable, your classmate found the mark of weakness, delighted in the way she flopped the envelope knowingly as her words knotted in your stomach. “But, [LN], you know who’s locker this is, don’t you? The boys’ lockers are over there, after all. Right, Fujiwara?”
The cackle that followed, “who else could it be?”
“Give it back,” you whispered.
Aware of the eyes on you, the pointed looks. Accusing, and dissecting the moment. Delighted in pray, and shook shoulders at probing curiosities as the letter circled around you. Each passed between the chorus of the entertainment, picked details amongst the clench of your teeth. “Oh god, you didn’t seal it with a kiss did you?”
“Give…”
“A ribbon is a bit cliché, what do you think she wrote?”
Bowed your chin to your chest, shattered silence. “Geez this reek.”
“Aw come on girls, it’s cute, isn’t it?” Sasaki purred before taking the envelope between her fingers. The grip lethal. “Our little [LN] is in love,” jostled, fluttered the bow you had tied repeatedly until it was perfect. Practically shredding the package in its approach.
“Give it back!”
The scowl that spread across her pursed lips and sharp as a blade that threatened to tear open your very confession, and read it aloud for all those in attendance to hear. As she did, her nail snug at the folding, “Make. Me.” You could feel your tears sear at the corner of your eyes before a bag slammed into Fujiwara. Her screaming echoed across the entrance way.
Followed by the slam of Sasaki into the ground. Daki straddled over the girl’s belly, forced herself onto the younger classmen, as her fists contacted Sasaki’s cheeks. Screamed and evident at the shake of her head. Unrelenting as the fist that made contact, bellowed as she inflicted blow after blow. Daki did not allow hesitation, offered no openings for the girl pinned below her, even despite the useless fists that attempted to catch the fistful of her hair. Regardless of how hard he had tried to use the tug of her hair, Daki’s blows did not slow. Fist after fist, blind to the screaming of the girls who could only look on at the scene in absolute horror. The sight of her, near venomous, a predator who had finally seized unsuspecting prey coiled around Sasaki. The rage evident on her behaviors, misplaced tears as you caught Daki’s hand in your own.
Painfully aware of the sharp gaze of her eyes, lethal before soothed quietly in silence at the sight of your tears.
“S-senpai, p-please.”
The sharp hiss she released, the touch of your hand against her own before allowing her weight to shift, Sasaki tore off immediately, bolted from the scene. The glare that sent the remainder of the girls reeling from the sight and horrified to be entangled in the scuffle a moment longer. Abandoning only you, with your hand still wrapped around Daki’s wrist. The fumble of realization, the blush that ignited upon your realization. Her hand felt warm, shammed and rattled. “Oh, I-I, I’m sorry.”
“Say it again.” The note pressed between your fingers to your silent demise, struggled to understand what she wanted to hear as your heart thundered in your breast. Slammed in your ear drums. “Call me senpai, when you read this to me.”
The rattle of your hands and shake of your fingers, “N-no, no I, you see about this—I can explain---”
“Call me senpai,” her smile blossomed, and the rouge of her lips met the brights of her eyes. Daki pressed the envelope into your hands before whispering in your ear, “or I won’t accept.”
#🍡tsuyospeaks#demon slayer daki x reader#demon slayer x reader#kny daki x fem!reader#kny x reader#kimetsu no yaiba x reader
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Psssst... it's almost April!
And so many drops are on their way. I'm so glad your still here; I'll see you soon!
Also, just literally me, surrounded by flowers and more flowers(weeds), lollipops, drawings, and a cookie cake. I am sitting on a bed of goodies, enjoying a few well earned comforts.
In all seriousness, and trigger warning+emotional dump, I have struggled with my mental health so much in my life--- to even thoughts of "disconnecting". I had never thought, I would be happy to say...
Today is my birthday.
I made it.
I started the day with soothing tears of one of my students (her pet passed this morning) asked her too tell her me funny stories about him that ended with the biggest hug, and her telling me, "your one of the bestedst things in my life". Yes, I cried.
Then the realization today is my birthday spread throughout the school with little kids (some even from other classes) bringing me little things all day, and weaving flowers into my hair. 🥺
I'm here.
I made it.
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Can you do romantic modern au HCs for daki and a female y/n the same age whos kinda nerdy and introverted but very patient and affectionate towards daki? Kind of like an opposites attract sort of thing, like maybe they met in class and get paired together for a group project, and things slowly escalate from there? Like Daki eventually grows a soft spot for y/n
-🐼
hello, hello, 🐼
I kind of love the idea of Daki falling for a shyer personality, one that struggles with socializing, and easily nervous. Specifically, when we consider that Daki was a oiran in her human life as a means of survival, and even continuing the line of work in her demon rebirth, Daki essentially is predisposed to considering other women as threats whether its status or financial. Oirans are terrifying--- just imagining Daki with a female she can actually grow to trust and love over time is wholesome fluff I need.
And all of a sudden—I’m just going to have to break this into two parts. That’s really all there is to it. Oh the wellllllll
Sincerely, | Daki
Word Count: 2382
Setting: Daki x fem!reader
Content Warning(s): suggestive, ecchi content, reader is a low key perv (but like, who isn't in their teen years), will have mentions of assault in parts to come, girlxgirl, yuri, modern AU
Summary: an unlikely train encounter, and questionable tutoring.
A/N: the amount of effort I put into calculating how tall Daki would likely be is just… why am I like this? Spoiler alert, she is likely around 5’2-5’4, but as she appears tall for her era when you take away her shoes, such as when you view her height in comparison to Koinatsu, but for the purpose of adapting her to a modern AU, I would put her height at 5’6, as statistics show the average female height to be 5’4.
Part II , headcanons
The clench of your bag in your hand, as your other hand fought to reach the handgrip. The reach just escaping your grasp, the tips of your fingers brushed against pull. The sea of bodies that pressed against your form, jostling you to and fro despite the reach of your fingers. The cram of suits, the buttons threatening to break skin as it scraped across your cheek. Early morning commuters, businessmen and women alike operating on late hours, and caffeine. Dedicated to daily survival, murmured of yawns, dreary in their stark existence. Old men that sighed into newspapers, flipped through pages and drew exhaustion upon weary bones. Their fatigue met only by the civil servants that mentally prepared themselves for the hour to come. Laborers corralled next to office workers, college students shuffled between members of the workface, their discussions of lectures hollow against the weight of data, and meetings. Ironic in the experience against the new to the world; the rare high school student such as yourself lost amongst the crowd. Victims to the push and pull of the fluctuation of passengers, your low status upon the totem pole revealed by the flutter of your school uniform as you fought against the sea of bodies, the grit of your teeth before managing your weight to the tip of your toes, the thread of your fingers secured at the caught of the metal in your palm. The rattle of the train, the murmurs of the morning as you allowed the breath to release from your lungs Struggled to multitask holding your belongings, the train rail, and push your glasses up the bridge of your nose. The murmuring of giggling girls drawing your attention out of sincere curiosity. The press of the back of hand from one to another, snickers that fell pass distinct neckties, and khaki blazers. Pressed uniforms, meticulously maintained as their fingernails, hair styled and fashioned as their sneers fell upon glossed lips. Fresh faces that fell upon haughty glares upon a girl seated amongst the crowd. Having secured a rare seating opportunity though the lecturers glances of the older men that lamented near the seats hinted that the opportunity had not afforded itself. Yet, the group of onlookers merely whispered ideal gossips, painted a portrait of a whore amongst faculty members. Murmured poisonous accusations, and delved details shameless of their surroundings. The clench of your jaw, fumbling upon the bag in your hand as your eyes caught upon the victim of their scandalous discussion.
Moonlight kissed hair that drew the breath from your lungs, threatened to smother you with its vision. The high of her ponytail reminiscent of the beauty of oirans of the past, intentionally placed hair pins that met the curls that formed at her hips. Thick locks that captivated every curve, danced upon ever trace of her silhouette. Shuddered the chill of winter down your spine. The reveal of her breast, openly exposed, the buttons of her white uniform blouse intentionally left undone, snug against the cup of her form, the peak of—lace? W-why? S-she was clearly a high school student, was she not? Ah, n-no maybe it’s a costume. The small shift of her hips reflected the sheer material of her thigh highs as she rolled her pelvis into the seat. The adjustment having drawn a small scrap of fabric, a skirt, and its pattern that drew the heat of your cheeks in one swift strike. As though you had been slapped with the reality of its familiarity—n-nope. Not a costume, the telling pattern back and red plaid patterns, the thin strip of black that drew at the pleating of the skirts. Her brown loafers school issued as the very ones you wore. Though your uniform had never… left such a lasting impression as the one she adorned. The fairness of her skin that the peeks of her uniform provided despite the chilly weather February provided was delicate as though she was a portrait painted by Tsukuyomi-no-Mikoto. The celestial god the only one capable of providing such beauty upon the earth, the draw of her breast and the distinct hiss that rumbled at the base of her throat. The meticulously draw of kitten eyeliner dipped into shades of crimson rouge, and the press of her lips into a disapproving scowl. Lush, summer grass that threatened the very existence of winter’s chill upon your spine. Rattled your bones with the press of her painted lips together as her eyebrows met a furrow.
“What, are you look at?”
Her beauty unescapable, deadly as delicate. Caught amongst her glare, the point of her sharp eyes, becoming aware of the ends of her Chrysoberyl hair that appeared as though it had captivated her hiss, and robbed you of your own voice. The small shiver that met at your shoulders as you dumbly found yourself drawing your finger to your face, “M-me?” The horrific realization that you had been caught ogling her, only amplified by the chuckles of the girls that had drawn you into this situation. The sharp tint of her eyelashes, long and lush as they captivated your own. Willing your glasses at the tip of your nose to shield you from her edged lour. The flare of her breast, i-it was not your fault that you gaze had drifted as you forced your hand from the pull, tucking your finger tips to fumble with your eyewear. Struggled to choke down the lump that formed in your throat, aware of her flaring temper as she pulled herself to her feet. Abandoning her seat, and ignoring the appealing way that older men traced her steps. The shameful realization that, perhaps she was accustomed to men leering at her, and found your wandering gaze a peculiarity. Though you had not the opportunity to rationalize why she had fault with yours, nor how horrified that you were on pare with perverted old man. Fumbled with your glasses, tucked awkwardly at the strands of your hair that fell to your ears, as you attempted to find any way out of this. The draw of her pointed glare down upon you, standing a few inches taller than yourself. The hint of osmanthus followed a spice you could not name tantalized your senses, the sputtering realization of how hard her perfume had hit you left you choking on your lips.
The ding of the station, hitched upon the knot of the track. The rock of bodies, pressed every which way, the shutter of the girl before you rocked backwards, pinioned against you as you struggled to find your footing. The slam of your hand into the window pain at her head. The bend of her knees, and the shocked quiver of her pupils. Rattled at the pinion of her body pressed beneath your own lsot amongst the shuffle of passengers. All of the shoujo-ai you had read in your lives could not have prepared you for this moment. K-Kabedon?! The internal screaming upon your heart, shattered your brain. Short circuited all thought presses, blissfully unaware of the growing wrath that seethed beneath you alongside the ding of the train doors. Foreboding, and impending the girl before you descent to the platform. The rattle of her skirt hiked up, the rack of your form pressed into her. Old men that chuckled as they rushed to their offices; college students that lingered far longer than you’d prefer. Prayed that none of the snickers, utilized cellphone cameras, nor instilled this moment for later purposes. The rattle of your heart, the spread of her hair beneath you despite the obvious seething wrath that immolated across her doll like features. The green strands of her hair that coiled beneath her, the scathing glower that caught amongst your own. The scream of fury that threatened the cull of her throat, quivered her bones as the veins began to pop in her forehead, only furthered by your insufferable, incoherent apologies. Fumbled over your belongings. Snagged your bag, shoved your glasses up the bridge of your nose, and retreated.
If there was a god, he was laughing. Delighting in your misery. Savoring the anguish, ignored the prayers you uttered in horrified internal screaming, begging him to allow the earth to swallow you whole as your teacher stood before you. Ignorant to your obvious apparel, all bartering from your swearing off meat to joining a nunnery intentionally ignored for sheer folly. No, no god must be a woman, it was the only explanation to the sight before you. Aoki-sensei’s clueless smile, eyes shut, and proud of his own suggestion. Tutoring, assisting another student’s preparation for college exams, and the very subject before you. D-daki, he had said with such delight upon introducing her. Absolutely blind to the turbulent forces that circled around him. The coil of a viper posed and agitated. Her green eyes flaring the grit of her teeth. The small slip of her canines against pursed rouged lips. Her freshly manicured nails rapped against the desk before digging into the wood grain. Twitching eyebrows, wrinkled nose, as the green mamba hissed, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
No, no it appears not.
Who says that the gods do not have a sense of humor?
It had been a few weeks of—could you really call this studying? Any attempt to navigate course material fell on deaf ears. Was muddled by the click of her nails against the desk, the pop of bubblegum, or the occasional flip of a fashion magazine. The evidence of her bubbling rage at each pointed glare she shot you when you attempted to stutter for her attention. The break of your voice, a higher pitch due to your duress than you’d like to admit, and yet despite the notable hostility, she had continued to attend the— “study” sessions. Her irritability having reached an all time high today as her bubblegum popped, the twitch of her lip-enhancer glossed lips quipped with the wrinkle of her nose. The vein in her head practically throbbing with each nervous fumble you could conjure. The chalk practically shaking in your hand as you attempted to demonstrate the proper algebraic equation. The searing lesions her vision threatened to brand into your back as the chalk nervously rattled against the chalkboard. An incomprehensible tapped scribble as you forced an awkward smile, attempting to find your voice. The cup of your hair cut off at your ears and utilizing the opportunity to press up your glasses in an attempt to avoid her eye. Each movement betraying your nervousness had only tempted her ire. The dodged glances when Daki sought your gaze, frail voice that lacked any resolve. She had even witnessed your knees clatter against one another, the height of her panty hose unable to shield the obvious state of tremors that rolled up your spine every time she watched your back diligently scribble incomprehensible. A flush guaranteed to kidnap your fatures, and your gaze from her own when the taller girl successfully met your gaze—what fucking help were you supposed to be to her?
You couldn’t even help your fucking self.
The knot of a mocked sticker—an immature attempt at humor from one of your female classmates that had escaped your notice. Successfully implemented when she had patted you on the shoulder before your tutoring session had begun, the smug grin and how boldly the little bitch had met Daki’s eyes had been enough to piss her off, but met face to face with the rainbow flag and homophobic slur stickered to your collar had her boiling. The grip of her magazine crumbled between clenched fists; she had attempted to remove it. She had, but ever action had a reaction. Her close proximity regardless of how perfectly timed, or well intended, resulted in you trembling and babbling. It only pissed her off more. How were YOU supposed to help her? With your little insult sticker, and inability to even make eye contact—fuck how pathetic must she be to seek your HELP? The thought had dropped her brows to the point that they dipped at her enhanced eyelashes, threatened to simmer over as though she were a neglected pot. She could feel her temper boil, and her teeth scrapping against one another before she allowed it to steer her.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Daki seethed, slamming her hands to her desk, forcing her chair back in a rattling screech of her chair across the floor. Tremored your bones and drew your attention to her in shock worthy of some B horror film. The click of her school issue indoor shoes clapped harder and harder with each step forward, as you attempted to position the podium between the two of you. “Are you screwing with me? Pisses me off seeing you worm around like this?”
Manicured nails caught the collar of your school uniform, her height foreboding against your own as she leaned forward. Daring your averted eyes to catch her own, pressing her gaze against you as the vein in her forehead threatened to burst the longer, she glowered at you. The clench of her canine teeth against one another before shoving you from her sight. Exasperated pursed rogued lips that grunted dissatisfaction with your response, “Whatever, I don’t need this.” Daki’s absence in the classroom marked only by the quite of an abandoned lecture, the most peculiar sticker discarded in the trash on her way out, and the sinking pit in your stomach that something, something was wrong.
#demon slayer x reader#kimetsu no yaiba x reader#daki x reader#demon slayer daki x reader#kny daki x fem!reader#kny x reader#🍡tsuyospeaks
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Hi ! Sorry if this request is a little ehh yk since i aint so good at this but your writing absolutely amazes me so .
would you consider a request kinda suggestion thing thats like . A shinobu x gn reader that where friends (mostly around their training for the final selection) but just after that they just dissapeared completely , but like after 4 years they accidentaly reunite when the reader is sent to the butterfly state for medical attention . kinda hurt comfort yk ? If you dont like it feel free to ignore it !
hello, hello!
Can we talk about how cute moments in the training years with Shinobu would be? When she wasn't tied to the duties of the Insect Hashira, and just allouwed to be fiesty? She would be a total terror on the Butterfly Estate!
Anyways, thank you for your sweet words. <3 I did my best with this one, and I hope it meets your expectations. (I admittedly, may play with fluff prompts of all of the hashiras in their training days because.. it just sounds adorable). I'm sorry it took so long to respond, I wanted ot be sure my research for the weapon and techniques would be useful and insync with one another.
What Remains | Shinobu Kocho
Word Count: 2508?
Setting: Shinobu Kocho x gn!reader [friend fic, but if you squint underlining pining]
Content Warning(s): gore/blood, mentions of death, and depression, minor spoilers if you are not familiar with Shinobus past
Summary: caught in a battle with a worhty advisory and the tilt of fate no longer in your favor, you reflect upon the friend you have left behind in your youth and fears. Regrets that threaten to follow you to the grave. You would do anything to piece back together what remains of the friendship you fled so many hears ago.
A/N: the reader’s staff is inspired by a silambam staff originating from Southern India. I highly recommend looking up the history if you have the time. The inspiration for the original breathing is from the, if you can believe it, mother of pearl (Nacre), the inner lining of shells used by some species of molluscs.
Blood spattered the side of your brow, dripped down the lining of your draw. The tinge of metallic searing your nose, blinding your senses. It had been years since someone had successfully penetrated your barrier.
The weight of your faithful staff balanced between your dominate arm, curled around your forearm and the end pressed against your back. Knees bent beneath you as the force of air shattered your lungs. Heaved in the sharp breath of oxygen, struggled against cracked ribs, the burden of your weapon beginning to wear upon your body over the extended period of use. The battle had waged far longer than you had anticipated, nor had you expected your opponent to be such a troublesome demon. It had been years since you questioned the reliability of your weapon, and felt the strain upon your muscles. Ligaments strained under the weight. Trembled your grasp, revealing the exhaustion tumbled over your form. When was the last time you doubted your abilities in combat? Pondered the resolve of your might in battle. Your breathing technique had become renowned for its capabilities. Had received praise for being a fortress, impenetrable. Though you certainly knew the limitations of its uses—this had not been the first time you had found an enemy in close range despite the protective field of your breathing. The curl of a growl shattered across your back, the metallic swing, the draw of your staff curled around your sides. The tilt of your hips into the sway, catching the draw of claws that threatened to pierce your skin once more. The iridescent of your breathing technique catching the dying stars of night. The wet grass beneath your feet stumbling your normally tight form, the slick beneath your sandals offered little traction. Ah, no, this had not been the first time someone had penetrated your defenses, distant memories of your younger years toyed in your mind as your body ran on instinct.
She had been small, adorably so. Standing significantly shorter than your peers for her age, her weight provided little substance to her bones. As though a butterfly that had been carried upon Himejima-sensei’s shoulders. Regardless of the way she furrowed. Her scowl noticeable despite her older sister’s insistence to cool her temper, her tongue remarkably sharp despite her age. At a glance, one would assume that the smaller girl had been younger than expected. Teased by the other students for her less than remarkable stature, humorous in comparison to the gentle giant who instructed your techniques. Over saw your manners, and guided you through training under the Demon Crops care. Though, you knew better than anyone as having been a longtime student, Himejima-sensei neither cared if any of you went on to be slayers. Rather, the distant burdens of a forgotten past had strengthened his mentor resolve. Insured that the children under his care would not leave his protection until they were capable of fending for themselves, the tears he shed at those who had departed upon new lives, and the comfort for those who remained—yet, for all of his kindness, this little brat spat out words wielded by drunken adults. The vein upon her brow throbbing as she spat out curse after curse, Shinobu’s temper triggered by the littles of infringements. This time having resulted from another student commenting on her stature, a noted sore spot evident in how she had pursued the source. Slammed him to the ground, crawled on top of him, and flinging her fists in all the might she could muster, only swayed from her assault by her older sister’s obvious disappointment and soothing words. You had begun to wonder if the younger Kocho had a sense of restraint, often pondered how it was two beings so unlike one another could in fact be blood relatives.
That day had been the final straw for you. Drawn from the disrespect the younger Kocho had once again inflicted upon your instructor, you had challenged her to a match. Her over confidence having met you head on, so sure of herself despite the fact that a rationed bag of rice in the store house weighed more than she had—you knew this, had born witness to Shinobu’s attempts to heave it into the storage before being crushed beneath its weight. Yet, despite the fact that she was nearly a foot shorter than yourself, and severely under her weight class, the dagger wielder had met you head on. Resilient despite the ways you popped her repeatedly. Speed, in practice you had noticed how fast the younger girl had been on her feet. Honestly, it was likely the only reason she had ever gotten the jump on any of the other students, but not this time. The practice stick pressed between your hands, swirled in each movement, any attempts to out maneuver you quickly thwarted with a pop of bamboo upon her cranium. The loss of the match staining her pride, and driving her forward. Training had become a pass time less spent crucifying her peers, but truly immersed in instruction. Her temper only making her slopping and agitated, yet she persisted. Swat after pop, after jab, time after time. Regardless of the way you swept the feet beneath her frame, plopped disgracefully upon her bottom. The sparing matches would wage over weeks. Each encounter drawing your chuckles, for all of her wit and her rage, the younger trainee was playful. Determined, a trait you rarely saw in your peers, and before you had known it, you had welcomed these sparing matches. At times, she would catch you by surprise, and others, you were able predict. Drawing forth snacks to place upon the veranda before meeting her practice blade. The distinct smack of your staff across her cheek resulting in the cool of a pack pressed against flesh. The mumbling of frustration between small pursed lips, and amethyst eyes that glanced at you in her pout, the smile you provided soothing as you offered her a treat. In time and under instruction, Shinobu would learn to utilize her strengths in battle, and when she had done so, she had become a worthy rival. One quick to seize opportunities, to slip between the cracks your swings. Tumble her small frame against your height, the close encounters drawing the swept of your brow. The triumph of her laugh, upon the smack of your bottom across the ground. The first time she had ever bested you, drawing the joy of hard work, and a ridiculous dance. Her small hips wiggled beneath her hakama. Trembled as she shook her hands together before stretching them to the sky. Proud. She had been so proud, and you found yourself laughing aloud when she offered her hand to your own.
Days of sneaking upon the butterfly estate echoed through your mind. Mischievous kids that evaded duty and medicinal instruction offered by the older Kocho, Shinobu flying over the small ownings, while you lifted yourself through the air with the plant of your staff to the ground. Laughter upon the obvious scolding of kakushi insisting you to return your duties, abandoned to the wind in favor of dango stalls. To hear the Wind Hashira openly scold you, for dodging the Flower Hashira’s care. The whelp upon your heads that had grown in place of his righteous smack, the blush that painted his cheeks when Kanae attempted to sooth his ire. Not that he nor her had ever admitted to such affections, and it never lasted long. The slip of Shinobu’s tongue only eliciting another outburst from the swordsman. Pressed fingers of the older girl keeping him in place, as you dashed down hallways. Weaved past kakushi and slayers alike, snuck castella cakes from the kitchens, and played in the trees of the gardens. Partners in crime joined at the hips through your training years, unafraid to wreak havoc across the Butterfly Estate. The pride Kanae had expressed upon your passing of the final selection. Touched clothes to your cheek, evaluated the strain upon your wounds. Both of your bodies tumbled through thickets of wisteria, rattled against rivals. Pride beaming form your features, equipped to take on the world despite the sting of antiseptic pressed against your cheeks. Prayed for the moment to never end. TO disappear in to the folds of time, to remain upon such happy memories… Her smile. Y-you could remember how Kanae had beamed at you. Accepting, and warm, the night the smile had slipped from her lips. Blood that painted the night air, the chuckle and nauseauty joy of rainbow eyes that elicited humor at your suffering. The loosening of her haori drawn in battle, discarded as a means of escape for you. She knew. Damn it, she had known, the blood drawn, the soothing sound of her voice as though she were comforting a child. Y-you hadn’t been a child! You had a duty! To the Corps, to the Flower Hashira who had requested you for this vary mission. To Shinobu who awaited your arrival at home. Little of your protest mattered. The slam across your head, the fading of the sky before you, and the haori that fluttered over your shoulders before you collapsed to the ground.
You never got to apologize. How could you? When you had awoken, you had seen the shatter of her tears. The kakushi had founded your body practically discarded in the woods, the haori painted over your shoulders. Unable to fend off the chill of your body. Evidence of the battle, blood marred across the mountain terrain. Shattered over trees, yet, no remains to be found other than your own. Overheard horrors of the night like a ghost upon your flesh. Sickened and nauseated. Pressed between vomit that threatened to spill as your heart plummeted to the grave. The slip of the burdened haori revealing your sins as it sunk to the ground. Your feet eliciting a response before thought. Run. Run. RUN. Tripped over boulders, stumbled over branches, and fallen trees, the distant shouts of kakushi falling upon ears of the dead alone. Heedless of the blood that caught against branches, nor the tarnished of your uniform across your form, revealing peeks of skin as you fled into the day. Fled from your duties. From your home. From your friend.
The staff drawn between practiced hands. Fingers that ached and had become slashed open by opportunistic claws. The growl in your ear, and the fatigue that drew upon your brow. I’m going to die, whispered upon your thoughts. Numb realization as the iridescent gleam that captivated your staff shattered over nails. Colors that faded across the spectrum of a rainbow, glistened in their resolve. Just a little more, you told yourself. The meadow drawn upon little shade, the distant shatter of night in the distance of the east. Colors that shooed away the late hours, and the tremble of large eyes against your opponent, desperate to get away. The shake of your smile as you seized your staff upon their back, entrapping them against your chest. “Fourth Form, Inner Shell,” hissed against your teeth. The revolt of bones, the demon becoming increasingly fringed upon the break of day. Desperate to escape the light, the encompassing of your breath. Draws of color that folded over the two of you. Shattered your bones together in a sickening crunch. Illuminating the last touches of the night sky as blood drew from the force of two bodies forced together as bones snapped. Your fortress utilized as a steel trap. For the both of you.
Shinobu, I wish… I’m- I’m so sorry.
Voices echoed through the passage of time. Demanded tools, whispered needs of bandages. Imparted details you could not quite grasp, nor completely understand. Details across a series of confusion that blurred your conscious. Ached your headache, and shunned your thoughts. It, it really didn’t matter anymore. Told yourself it would only be a matter of time before death greeted you, escorted you into the afterlife. No, no perhaps not the afterlife. Unfinished business, your desires to see an old friend once more would likely bind you to the world. Conscious that faded in and out, drifted upon the passing of words. Some soothing and sweet, praising progress though the world seemed dark, and one such voice threatening. Scolding really, dared to reveal any and all obscure details of childhood. Peculiar, and childish. To threaten your youthful fears, regardless of how silly they had been… who would dare? Temper seethed, and… shook your shoulders? Who would treat a corpse in such manner.
Sunlight flittered over the drawings of curtains; the nauseating smell of antiseptic greeted the flutter of your eyelashes. Your sight hazy as it swept over your environment. Having expected the embrace of death, the warm linens pressed into your surprise. Flowers tucked into cared for vases, bare antique furniture. The numb movements, testing whether or not you had in fact returned to the living, or rather trapped between the state of life and death. The tremble of your toes, testing out their existence. The draw of a white kimono pressed into your chest, the signs of the battle you had endured written across your flesh. Bandages wound tightly over weary muscles. Wrappings drawn across your ribs, snug and difficult to breathe as you attempted to fidget your fingers. Unable to properly navigate their being. Rather, unable to feel them at all. The room… the room far too familiar for your liking, though the thought was difficult to grasp. Distant memories, of laughter, and poorly bound wounds… you had never been adapt at medical care. Glimpses of a past you had left behind wrinkled into your bedding. The press of lavender hair curled upon the white bedding. Touched upon your lap. The telling curl of butterfly ribbon that threatened to shatter your heart caught upon the slightly unraveled curl of dark hair. Released from a bun that had begun to tumble in her sleep. The press of her long eyelashes into the bedding, purple hues that bordered her eyes, the small draw of her breath against your leg. Exhaustion, hours of late work having drawn upon her form. Collapsed at your side, the water basin had grown worm, as the cloth pressed between her strained fist, caught amongst the fingertips of her other hand. Your own hand, having grown numb under her strain. The Insect Hashiras fist trembled beneath her fist as her resolve to cling to your side snagged at the bandages of your fingers. Her pale complexion, illuminating of the moonlight, and the draw of her purple strands the envy of any wisteria branch. The trouble of your smile, tumbled over trembling lips. The met of your brow. To see her once more like this. To have her at your side as though no time had pass. Distant recollections of her poor bedside manners drawing an unsure smile—she had always struggled in that department. The curl of her fingers, calloused and practiced as her resolve. The worry evident in the way she curled into you, refused to release you from her hold. Nor could you bring yourself to part from her grasp.
Words to spill. Apologies, and confessions. Heart ache, and betrayal, to bridge time lapses, and share had the years had treated you. To apologize—there were so many things you heart longed to express to her. The soft sigh of slumber, hours of dedication in her collapse. Tears that trembled, ghosts of memories. Her laughter, her smile. Her temper. All of it within reach, and how your heart begged to see all sides of your estranged friend once more. Left with little ability to seize the closeness of yearning, the shiver of your other hand, dared to fumble through her hair. As you had so many years ago, her pride never had allowed her to confess how the Insect Hashira enjoyed having her hair soothed back. Too childish, you had understood, but in quite moments when the hours of study had drawn from your day, and sleep met her upon the veranda, you would comfort her in such ways. Smiled upon the resolve of a woman who was bound by her resolve. The quiver of your eyelashes, and the weight of tears that succumbed to gravity as you fought back the sob in the back of your throat. The curl of her bangs pressed between your fingers, as you tenderly swept her bangs from her brow. Studied the softness of her face, noted how age had captivated some of her features. Whispered prayers of gratitude to the gods who had given you one last chance. The bonds of time wearing upon your heart. You had been given, one more chance, and though you were unsure of how the passage of time, loss, and circumstances had marred your friendship, you could not help but feel relief at the sight of her so close. Within grasp, a friend your heart had desperately longed for all of these years, eternally grateful that she still remained upon this world. The care etched into your bandages, and faded memories offered the opportunity for new life. The opportunity to piece back together what remains of your friendship, or to endure her wrath… Tears that rolled upon your cheeks as you bent down, pressed your forehead to her own. Y-You would plead forgiveness, but for now.. you just..
I missed you.
#demon slayer x reader#kimetsu no yaiba x reader#kny x reader#shinobu kocho x reader#shinobu kocho#insect hashira#🍡tsuyospeaks
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