Most people never realize how deeply the Wind Hashira cares.
He buries every ounce of compassion beneath a sharp tongue, violent temper, and enough hostility to keep everyone at arm’s length.
To Sanemi, attachment is a death sentence which only leads to more pain and unnecessary suffering.
He spent years pushing his younger brother Genya away, not because he hated him, but because he loved him too much to watch him die. All he wanted for his brother was to life a full life and not put his life on the line like Sanemi does.
He would rather be hated for the rest of his life than attend another funeral.
Love has only ever brought him unbearable pain.
Vulnerability disgusts him or at least, that’s what he has convinced himself.
If he never lets anyone close, then no one can become another grave for him to mourn.
Despite his cruelty, Sanemi is fiercely selfless. He throws himself into danger without hesitation if it means someone else survives.
Recognition means nothing to him as long as demons die and innocent people live another day, that’s enough.
His hatred burns hotter than almost anything.
Every scar on his body reminds him why Muzan and every demon beneath him deserve to be exterminated.
That fierce fire never extinguishes.
Even after losing nearly everyone he loved, the protective instincts of the eldest brother never disappeared.
They’ve simply become warped by grief and sharpened into something far more dangerous.
“Do you have a death wish or what?!”
Every reckless decision you make sends his heart into a violent panic. He covers his fear with anger because anger is easier.
Anger doesn’t make him feel weak.
He would never admit that he worries about anyone besides the Master.
Yet his feet somehow always seem to carry him in your direction.
His feelings develop painfully slowly.
Like a spark buried under dry grass smouldering, unnoticed until it becomes an uncontrollable raging blaze.
He despises every second of becoming attached.
The stupid smiles you give him when you see him.
Every conversation you make with him.
All the annoying habits of yours he begins to recognise.
They’re all reminders that he’s making the same mistake again.
Yet no matter how hard he tries to distance himself, you continue smiling at him.
You greet him despite his insults.
Thank him despite his harshness.
Treat him like a person instead of a rabid dog. It eats away at him.
“…You’re a damn idiot.”
Somehow Sanemi stops saying it with genuine irritation which he hates.
“Tch. Don’t think I’m doing this for you.”
He absolutely is, no doubt.
He’ll insist he simply happened to be walking the same road.
That he wasn’t checking whether you returned home safely.
That he totally wasn’t listening for your heartbeat with his sharpened senses.
The Wind Estate lies in the complete opposite direction to your home and yet Sanemi insists he was heading that way anyway.
He memorizes your routines without realizing it.
What type of missions you usually take.
Which roads you usually take..
What time you wake up.
The meals you skip.
The people that make you laugh and the ones who make you uncomfortable.
To Sanemi It starts as protection at least, that’s what he tells himself.
Then it morphs into interference. Demons assigned near your patrol routes don’t just “disappear” anymore. They are found torn apart too cleanly, too violently, as if something angry made a point of it.
At times there are no bodies left at all. Just blood and wind-slashed ground.
Slayers who get too close to you. The ones that linger for too long, who look at you wrong are found later with broken bones, bruises and shattered pride, warned in no uncertain terms to stay away.
No one ever sees Sanemi do it. Who would think the wind Hashira would be capable of doing this to his fellow comrades?
Rumours eventually spread that the Wind Hashira doesn’t just kill demons, he erases problems and sometimes people can become problems.
He tells himself he’s simply preventing unnecessary risks. Deep down Sanemi stopped believing that excuse a long time ago. He starts to know his himself better.
For there is such a sickening relief in seeing his victims cut up by his Nichirin sword.
Sanemi isn’t a patient yandere.
He bottles everything up until it becomes impossible to contain.
Every close call.
Every injury you receive.
All times you smile at someone else and not him.
The missions that send you away from his reach. Out of his sight.
It all builds, builds and builds until one day, he snaps.
His possessiveness isn’t soft anymore, it becomes catastrophic.
“How many damn times do I have to save your ass before you learn?!”
His voice doesn’t just rise, it shatters the air around him.
The wooden ground beneath his sandals crack from the force of his aura alone.
Not because Sanemi hates you, because he was terrified.
If someone intentionally puts you in danger, he doesn’t forgive.
He doesn’t warn twice or show mercy.
He doesn’t hesitate to strike.
He does not debate morality in the moment.
He just ends it, there and then.
Quietly and efficiently like the wind itself.
A demon that gets too close to you doesn’t survive long enough to regret it.
A human who tries to use you, touch you, threaten you is found later with the unmistakable marks of Wind Breathing carved into their skin.
There is no mercy or second chance, just silence follows afterward.
Mercy isn’t something Sanemi offers easily, especially not to people he believes have threatened what little happiness fate has foolishly allowed him to have.
The line between protection and control doesn’t exist anymore, it disappears entirely.
He insists on accompanying your missions, then begins assigning himself to them.
Eventually, he no longer asks at all, not even the master.
“You’re staying where I can keep my eyes on you.”
It’s not a request, not even a warning.
An order.
It’s a fact of reality, enforced by violence if necessary, even on you. You simply are far too foolish on your own.
He genuinely believes everyone else is incompetent when it comes to keeping you alive.
Why trust another Hashira when he knows exactly how quickly the world can take you away?
If you argue, is temper doesn’t just flare. It detonates like a bomb.
Doors don’t just slam, they splinter into pieces by his brute strength.
Walls don’t just crack, they fracture under his fists.
The air itself feels heavier, sharper, dangerous.
And when then he sees you flinch, silence follows.
His rage doesn’t fade, it implodes, like a storm swallowing itself.
He hates that he frightened you. You should not fear him, but the world that keeps attempting to hurt you.
He hates that you made him feel something he can’t control.
“…Tch.”
“Didn’t mean that.”
But he never apologizes for the rules he’s decided you will live by.
Because in his mind, the world has already stolen everyone he ever loved.
It is not taking you too, Sanemi forbids it.
If he has to become something monstrous to prevent it, so be it.
Even if he has to be feared more than the very demons he kills.
He would rather have you hate him and stay alive than love him and die..
You’ll come around to understand him eventually, or not.
The ending doesn’t matter to Sanemi if it means having you alive.
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Tags: pre-relationship┇ strangers to friends ┇ fluff
⤷ You're convinced Obanai can't stand you. After all, he never has a kind word for you. What you don't know is that, from the very beginning, he hasn't been able to stop noticing you.
You've spent years admiring the Hashira, and that's exactly why you decide to join the Demon Slayer Corps.
Like every other Demon Slayer, you grew up hearing stories about them. They're the strongest swordsmen in the Corps, and it's impossible not to want to impress them at least once. A simple "well done" from any one of them would be enough to make you feel like all the training, the injuries, and the effort have been worth it.
And out of all of them, the one you want to impress the most is Iguro Obanai.
The first time you're assigned to a mission alongside him, you come back with a cut on your arm and a satisfied smile on your face after taking down a demon on your own. While the Kakushi gather the remains, you can't help stealing glances at the Serpent Hashira. A childish part of you hopes to hear some kind of acknowledgment.
"You took too long to kill it," Obanai says, looking away from you as though he hasn't said anything important before adding, motioning toward the ground with a slight tilt of his chin. "You gave it too many chances to adapt to your pace. If it'd been any stronger, you'd be dead right now."
The satisfaction that filled your chest only moments ago deflates in an instant as you slowly nod, your cheeks burning with embarrassment. You pretend his words don't affect you and help the Kakushi gather the equipment as though nothing happened.
Still, you can't stop thinking about it for the entire walk back. Maybe you've been too optimistic believing you'd one day manage to impress someone like him. After all, he's a Hashira, and you're just another Demon Slayer.
Even so, no matter how much you try to convince yourself that his opinion shouldn't matter so much, you can't help wondering what would have to happen for Obanai, even just once, to look at you and say you'd done well.
After that mission, you stop expecting anything, or at least, that's what you keep telling yourself every time your paths cross again. Reality turns out to be far more ridiculous. You still find yourself searching for him the moment every battle ends, as though some stubborn part of you refuses to give up hope of receiving even a simple pat on the back.
It's ridiculous, you know that. You're a Demon Slayer, not a child desperate for approval, but Obanai isn't just any comrade, he's a Hashira.
Someone whose technique borders on perfection, whose experience surpasses yours by an overwhelming margin, and whose opinion, as much as it annoys you to admit it, matters far more than it should. If someone like him told you that you'd done well, you'd feel like you were truly making progress.
Instead, the opposite always happens.
If you let your guard down during training, he points it out before you've even recovered your stance. If you manage to defeat an especially elusive demon, he finds the one moment during the fight when you hesitated. If you hand in a report without a single ink stain, he notices that you described the wind direction incorrectly or forgot to write down how long it took the demon to regenerate.
They're tiny details, almost insignificant, but he never lets a single one slip by.
Even Mitsuri seems to notice. One afternoon, while the two of you happen to be at the Ubuyashiki Estate, she sits beside you with a cup of tea in her hands and watches you for a few seconds before offering you a gentle smile.
"You shouldn't take what Iguro-san says so personally," she says softly, almost as though she's afraid of offending you.
You let out a humorless laugh and lower your gaze to the cup you're holding.
"It's hard not to when it feels like everything I do is wrong whenever he's around."
Mitsuri parts her lips slightly, as though she's about to answer right away, but ends up closing them again. Something strange crosses her expression, a moment of hesitation, as though she knows something she can't tell you. In the end, she simply sighs and pats your shoulder.
"Don't pay too much attention to him. He's just like that… well, whenever something's worrying him."
That sentence stays with you for the rest of the day, though you can't make any sense of it. He never softens his words or tries to make them hurt less. It's that very honesty that eventually convinces you that, quite simply, he doesn't like you.
It's fine, you don't have to be liked by everyone. You repeat that to yourself over and over again… even if it still stings a little more than you'd ever like to admit.
A few days later, Kagaya gathers everyone to assign the week's missions. You stand alongside the other Demon Slayers, listening carefully as each destination is announced. When he calls your name, you step forward. The mission sounds simple enough, a series of disappearances in a small village to the north, nothing out of the ordinary.
You nod to show you've understood the instructions, but a cold voice cuts through the silence.
"No."
The entire garden falls silent. You don't even need to look to know who spoke. Obanai remains where he is, Kaburamaru coiled around his shoulders, his arms folded beneath his striped haori. His expression doesn't change in the slightest as he meets the Master's gaze without blinking.
"That village is too close to the mountain where the last squad disappeared," he explains to Kagaya without sparing you a single glance, as though he isn't talking about something that concerns you. "There's a chance the demon's been classified below its actual rank."
You press your lips together tightly.
Kagaya remains silent for a few moments. He gives you a brief glance before slowly nodding.
"Then we'll send another group to verify the information first," Kagaya replies, and you don't even have time to react before the mission is taken away from you right before your eyes.
You look around. No one protests or even seems surprised, and Obanai doesn't so much as acknowledge you when you glare at him. A bitter frustration begins to settle in your chest while the rest of the meeting carries on as though nothing had happened.
A single "no" from Obanai has been enough to overturn a decision that had already been made. You suppose that's what it means to be a Hashira, to carry enough weight that your opinion tips the scales before anyone else's.
Meanwhile, you didn't even get the chance to say you were willing to take the mission. No one asked whether you believed you could handle it. You're lower ranked, they're the Hashira, that's simply how the Corps works.
You've always accepted it because you understand that their experience far surpasses your own, but right now, that difference in rank feels unfair.
The meeting comes to an end, but you barely hear everyone's parting farewells. As soon as the others begin dispersing across the estate, your feet are already moving on their own. You don't know what you're going to say once you find him, you only know you refuse to let this go as though nothing happened.
You find Obanai a little while later walking along one of the stone paths that runs beside the pond.
"Iguro-sama," you call out.
He doesn't stop immediately. Only when you're close enough does he slightly turn his head toward you.
"What is it?"
The indifference in his voice is what finally pushes your patience past its limit.
"Why did you do that?" You walk until you're standing directly in front of Obanai, forcing him to finally give you his full attention.
You've spent the entire meeting swallowing your frustration, telling yourself it isn't worth confronting someone of a higher rank over a decision that's already been made, but the more you think about it, the more unbearable it becomes.
Obanai's gaze remains fixed on yours, cold and unreadable, as though he's deciding whether this conversation is even worth having. That thought alone makes your blood boil with frustration.
Kaburamaru lifts his head slightly, sensing the tension between the two of you.
"You changed my mission in front of everyone with just a few words without even waiting to hear what I had to say." You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, slowly shaking your head. "Just like that, without even considering my opinion."
"Is that why you're here?" He lazily raises an eyebrow, and you take another step closer, wanting nothing more than to punch him, but you're not going to fall for his provocation. "That mission wasn't suitable for you."
"And who are you to decide that?" you ask, unable to hide the frustration that's been building inside you for months. "I've spent far too long swallowing your criticism, listening to you find something wrong with everything I do, wondering what the hell I have to do to stop looking like a burden in your eyes, and now it turns out you also get to decide which missions I can accept. Were you not even going to ask whether I was willing to take that risk?"
"I was going to ask you, after changing the mission," he replies after a few seconds with a shrug. "If the report turned out to be accurate, there wouldn't have been anything to discuss. If it turned out to be wrong, I'd rather you didn't go."
"Of course, because naturally, you're the one who gets to decide which risks I can take and which ones I can't," you snap.
"I'm not saying that."
Without realizing it, you take another step toward him. The distance between you shrinks enough that Kaburamaru raises his head once again, carefully following your every movement.
"Do you know what the problem is, Iguro-sama?" you ask, feeling your voice begin to tremble. "You don't trust me. It doesn't matter how much I train or how many missions I complete, to you I'll always be the Demon Slayer who needs to be reminded of everything she's done wrong."
Obanai parts his lips, but you don't give him the chance to answer.
"Every single time I finish a mission, I look for you like an idiot. Your opinion matters to me, and all I ever get from you is criticism."
His eyes waver. He looks away toward the pond, but you move closer again, forcing him to focus on you.
"If you were expecting praise…" he finally begins, his voice much quieter than before, "… you've been expecting it from the wrong person."
"Are you serious?" you ask in disbelief. You slowly shake your head, unable to hold Obanai's gaze for even another second. The knot you've been trying to ignore for the past several minutes tightens painfully in your throat, and before it can turn into something even more humiliating, you turn around. "Is that really the only thing you took away from everything I said? Forget it. Coming here was a mistake."
You manage to take two steps before a firm, though surprisingly gentle, grip closes around your wrist. The gesture is so unexpected that you freeze instantly. Obanai never initiates physical contact with anyone. Out of every reaction you'd imagined, this one was, by far, the last.
"I wasn't finished talking," he scolds with a frown, and you let out an exasperated sigh as the shock finally wears off. "I don't understand why you're looking for my approval. I've never needed anyone else's."
"Because we're not the same, Iguro-sama. You've spent years proving that you're one of the Corps' strongest swordsmen, you don't need anyone to tell you you're doing well because you already know what you're worth." You raise your eyes until they meet his once more, and your voice loses some of the harshness it carried when you first approached him. "I'm still trying to become better. I still make mistakes. I still hesitate. And when the person I admire the most seems incapable of acknowledging even a single thing I do right, it's hard not to think I'll never be enough."
"I've never thought you weren't enough." Obanai grimaces, visibly uncomfortable with a conversation that's clearly slipping out of his control. "If I believed that, I wouldn't waste my time correcting you. There are Demon Slayers I never say a word to."
"Then maybe you should rethink your way of showing interest, because to me it looked like the exact opposite. Every time you pointed out a flaw in something I did, I thought it was because you wanted me out of your sight as soon as possible." You let out a short, exhausted laugh. "Do you have any idea how many times I've finished a mission convinced you were embarrassed to have to work with me?"
Those words seem to reach him in a way the others hadn't. Obanai lowers his gaze and awkwardly scratches the back of his neck as he mutters something you can barely make out.
"Kanroji was right… I messed this up."
"What?" You frown. "What does Kanroji-sama have to do with…"
"Become my Tsuguko."
"…Did I hear you wrong?" you ask, unable to hide the disbelief in your voice, convinced there has to be some kind of misunderstanding.
"Kanroji told me I should've asked you sooner, but I thought it'd be more useful to prepare you first. If you were going to become my Tsuguko, I needed to make sure you got rid of any habits that could put you in danger. I thought you'd understand why I kept insisting on correcting you."
"You seriously expected me to figure that out?" The words leave your lips in little more than a whisper as you point at yourself.
"No." Obanai pauses briefly. "I'm not used to explaining myself."
The entire argument, all the frustration that's been building inside you for months, begins to unravel inside your mind.
You came here prepared to confront a man who couldn't stand you, not to find out he'd spent all this time trying to make you his Tsuguko, to the point that he'd even asked Mitsuri for advice on how to go about it.
"You're a disaster, you know that?" you finally mutter, pressing a hand against your forehead as you let out a weary sigh.
You press your lips together to stop yourself from laughing. You're still angry with him, very angry, but it's becoming difficult to keep arguing.
Obanai clears his throat as a faint blush spreads across his cheeks. "Kanroji said the exact same thing."
"So…" You break the brief silence that settles between you, folding your arms as you raise an eyebrow. "This whole time you've been training me to become your Tsuguko without ever telling me?"
Obanai nods once. "Yes."
"That's… probably the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."
You slowly shake your head before taking another step toward him until you're standing in front of him once again.
"Next time, Iguro-sama, try starting from the beginning. A simple 'I want you to become my Tsuguko' would've been far more effective than making me believe you couldn't stand working with me."
"Yes… alright. I shouldn't have assumed you'd figure it out." Obanai looks away, and you notice the blush on his face deepen even though half of it is hidden beneath the bandages.
"I accept," you reply with an amused smile. "It would be an honor to become your Tsuguko, Serpent Hashira."
You lower your head in a small bow, and Obanai lets out a quiet huff before taking a step back.
"Your training starts tomorrow at dawn. Don't be late to my estate."
"Of course!" You practically bounce with excitement. This is all happening so fast, but becoming a Hashira's Tsuguko is an incredible opportunity to truly improve, and it's a privilege very few people are ever offered. "I'll be there."
You turn around, intending to leave.
"And…" Obanai begins.
You glance back at him over your shoulder.
"For someone of your rank, you're already among the strongest, but I still have a lot to teach you." The words come out so quickly that it almost sounds as though Obanai is trying to get them over with before he loses his nerve.
The bright smile that spreads across your face is impossible to hold back.
Hiiii yes I do! Lately I just. Haven’t had the inspiration to get anything done 🥲🥲 but if you have a request or idea you’d like to share, please hit me with it; I’d love to hear 🩵🩵🩵
Mother feed me some demon slayer Yandere content please, and my first born is yours
Cadaver
Douma x reader
Thank you for 5000 followers! 🩷God I love Douma so much. I dislike kids so you can keep your first born 🥰 I really love this painting. I’m kinda happy with how this turned out. My requests are open! 🩷
Masterlist
Warnings: yandere, imprisonment, abduction, forced cannibalism, gore, dead dove do not eat, manipulation ig
Word count: 1672
Douma wasn’t supposed to be able to feel emotions. That’s what all they had whispered in the darkness. The demon without emotions who put other demons to shame with his cruelty. That’s what you had thought, believed. Yet here you were. Trapped in the palace of his cult. He had kidnapped you in the middle of the night while you were patrolling the area. You were only but a low ranking Demon Slayer, your skills unimpressive and your katana dull. You didn’t even have the chance to fight him off when his rainbow eyes entered your field of vision and it became the last thing you saw before darkness swallowed you whole.
You expected him to skin you alive and tear your flesh slowly, separating it from your bones and drink your blood from your veins as if it were the finest wine money could buy. Oh, how wrong you were. He didn’t hurt a single strand of hair on your head. His servants dressed you up in the finest silk and served you the most exquisite food you could ever imagine. It didn’t take long before you realised the emotions Douma expressed weren’t fake as your fellow Slayers had told you, but real. The truth dawned on your harder than everything. The fact that the demon seemed to be madly in love with you was more terrifying than the sight of him consuming women alive before your very eyes.
Every single day was a new nightmare you were forced to live in.
You were trying to ignore the severed head that was staring into your soul with empty eye sockets. The mouth was hanging open, revealing a black abyss within. Her long black hair was blood soaked and knotted. The missing eyes were speared on two of Douma’s long claw like nails. He popped one of the eyeballs into his mouth before he bit into it with a crunch that made you taste bile. He followed soon with the other eyes as he moaned loudly in delight with a low “yummy”.
“Are you hungry, cutie?” the demon hummed sweetly.
You swallowed the bile that had started to gather in your mouth and slowly shook your head. “No thank you.”
Douma straightened his back slightly as he tilted your head in curiosity. “Really? When’s the last time you ate?”
“I’m not hungry” your voice was firm, yet you couldn’t help the way your hands had started shaking in your lap.
“I don’t believe that. I can’t have you dying on me from starvation. That would make me a terrible husband” he giggled.
“I’m okay” your voice was weaker than what you had hoped and the small smile you gave him was unbearably fake. Your heart was hammering against your chest, desperately trying to escape its confinements.
He licked his hands clean from blood before he beckoned you closer with the wave of his hand. Your rose slowly to your feet. Your entire body was screaming at you to not go any closer to the demon. With steps heavier than lead you made it over to where he was sitting on on the tatami mat. He simply watched you with great amusement as you hesitantly sat beside him. You had made sure to keep a few centimetres between you.
His hand wrapped around your shoulder and pulled you closer. “Don’t sit so far away!” Douma pouted. “I really can’t have you go around hungry! I’m sure you understand. You humans are so extremely fragile, can only go so long without any food! How inconvenient” he clicked his tongue as he shook his head.
He paused for a few seconds. “Hmm… The servants are all busy at the moment. Of course I could order them to come here, but I am not so cruel that I would take away the little free time they have” he let out a harsh chuckle which only made you uneasy. “I’m not really a great cook either… Hmm… what to do…” his pale hand gently stroked his chin as he was in deep thought. Your anxiety only worsened as you could tell a terrible idea was forming inside his sick and twisted mind.
“Oh! I know!” the demon gingerly turned to you with a wide smile that showed off his razor sharp fangs “Why don’t I share some of my food? I have more than enough!”
Your blood ran cold and your heart stopped for a few beats. The bile that you had swallowed only rose up again and everything seemed too far away and too close all at once. You were positive you would faint at any moment.
“Why so pale?” a sharp nail poked your cheek as a shrill laughter fell from his lips. “Isn’t this romantic? I’ve heard about human couples sharing their food, so it’s only appropriate that I do the same thing.”
“Please no” you whispered, not daring to raise your voice.
“But you need food to survive?” Douma squinted his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll find you something you will like” he gently kissed the crown of your head.
You had kicked, screamed and clawed at the demon, yet nothing worked. There was simply no way for you to change his mind.
“Shhhh darling, don’t cry” his honey smooth voice gently shushing you, but it only mad enough panic further. Snot and tears were mixed together at you bawled.
In his hand was a severed arm. It’s skin pale and still warm. It’s nails were long and painted red. Blood were dripping down on the floor from the open wound where it had been thorn from its body. You had seen countless severed limbs in the past, but none and made you so sick and terrified.
“I promise you are going to like it.”
No.
“Say aaa…” Douma rested the fleshy side of the forearm against your lips. The skin was soft. Too soft. “Open up sweetheart.” It was too real.
“Please, Douma. Please don’t” your words were barely audible against the skin. You couldn’t breath, couldn’t think. You were going to throw up.
“Just bite down. You humans have stronger bites than you think. It’s not difficult. You can do it” his words rattled through your bones and swept over your mind. You could do it.
No. You couldn’t.
Or could you?
Your slowly opened your mouth, your tongue combing in contact with the skin. Douma’s smile widened and he leaned closer to you. His rainbow coloured eyes were wild and intense as he watched you with anticipation.
“Come on.”
What were you doing? You couldn’t eat another human. You shook your head and tried to distance yourself from the limb, but his hand pressed your head forwards, leaving you no room for escape. His claws scrapped against your scalp, threatening to draw blood.
“I thought you humans were predators? So what’s the problem?” he was starting to sound irritated, bored. Douma was at his most dangerous when he was bored.
You closed your eyes as you sobbed even harder. You didn’t have a choice. There was no way for you to get out of the situation. You wrapped your lips around the arm. It tasted slightly salty, kind of like your own sweat.
“You can do it.”
You sucked in a breath and bit down. It was easier than you thought. Your teeth sunk into the flesh like it was butter. Warm blood filled your mouth and you had to press your nails into your palms so hard that blood got drawn in order to not throw up. The taste of iron was unbearable. It felt as if you were drowning in it. Maybe you were.
“Good job!” he cooed proudly. “Nah ah… don’t back down now! You are only getting started! You won’t get full from just a bit of blood. I’m sure you’re smart enough to understand such” his hand passed you back when you tried to remove your lips from the arm. “We don’t want you to go hungry.”
Thick streams of tears ran down your eyes and down onto your kimono. The demon’s nails dug into your scalp in a warning. You swallowed the bile and blood in your mouth before you bit even harder down, separating the flesh from the bone. It was tender. As tender as the fine steak you and some of your former Slayer friends had eaten at the steak house near your home. Your tears were never ending and your entire body screamed at you to spit the foreign mass out. It was as if your body knew you were consuming human flesh.
“You should chew it before you swallow. I’m not good at helping choking humans” Douma was enjoying himself. He had always enjoyed your misery.
You didn’t want to chew. You wanted to die. Maybe he would eat you if you did? You highly doubted it. He wouldn’t grant you the mercy of it. He would never let you die. No matter how much you begged.
Your jaw was clattering as you forced your teeth together and your lips shut. The taste was overwhelming, taking control of all your senses. It was foreign, wrong, yet you couldn’t help but chew. It was only when the meat was completely grounded by your teeth that you swallowed. It glided down your throat smoothly. Too smoothly for your liking. Your breathing was erratic and your eyes stinging with the amount of tears you had shed.
You had eaten a human being.
It didn’t feel real. It felt like one of those horrible nightmares you had to force yourself to awake from.
“You can take on more bite, no?” You opened your eyes and were met with the sight of Douma smiling. However this time his smile was genuine. It was one of the few times you had seen him expressing such tender emotion. It was terrifying. It was human. His eyes were slightly lidded and his gaze heavy with something you didn’t want to realise. He was crying.
douma x softish dom upper moon (3>) gn reader—you find out where he’s most sensitive.
-no way i wrote ts so fast, suggestive, you give him a massage, feelings realization (kind of), fade to black, idk how to write douma
You can’t recall the last time you had an actual conversation with Lord Douma.
It seems like nowadays, everybody’s absolutely lost their minds over the Corps and the boy with the hanafuda earrings.
You don’t really care, quite frankly. The Upper Moons have stayed in power for quite some time now. It’s not like anything’s going to change just because of some kid who happened to inherit a special something.
But anyhow, Akaza has asked for Douma’s presence—though you’re sure it’s only for a minor inconvenience. Those two fight more than anything else.
When you walk in to Lord Douma’s room, he’s naked, lying on his stomach, with only a towel covering his lower half. A man kneels at his side, massaging his back with his hands.
You quickly close the door just as Douma spots you. Whoops.
Clearing your throat and making sure your cheeks had cooled off (why did they burn in the first place?), you knock on the door this time, gently.
“Come in,” Douma chuckles.
You open the door once more, making sure not to lay your eyes on him for any longer than necessary.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite colleague! What brings you here, hmm? Did you miss me?” He waves the man’s hands off from his back and he rushes out, bowing before exiting the room.
Now it’s just the two of you. And Lord Douma is practically naked.
“Lord Akaza has requested your presence,” You say quietly.
“Is that so? Tell him to save it for later.” He stretches in place—and you desperately try and tear your eyes away from how his hips sway slightly as he does so.
Lord, what is happening to me?
“…Certainly.” You turn on your heels to forget the rather inappropriate image of the man as soon as possible—
“Wait.” He orders, calm.
You stop in your tracks and cautiously turn around.
“I missed you, you know. Have a seat, we’ll talk.” His voice is pure sweetness—how could you even decline? “And I could use a masseuse.”
You swallow a ridiculous amount of spit and nod. “If you insist...”
He sighs, grinning with a look in his eyes that you haven’t seen for a long time. “Stop with the formality, will you? I like to consider us equals.”
You slowly kneel beside him like the other man had done before, and with Douma’s bare torso before you, your body feels unusually warm. “Really? Equals?” You ask.
“Yes, equals. Did you consider us something else? That’s silly.” He says it as if it were common sense. It makes you happy, in a way.
“Maybe you’re right.” Your fingertips brush over the nape of Douma’s neck, trailing down his back. You’ve never done a massage before, but you figure it shouldn’t be too difficult.
To start, your thumb presses down on his pale skin, soothing the muscles of his behind. You can’t stop staring at the lean yet sculpted shape of his back. It’s as if he’s a greek sculpture come to life.
Everything feels absolutely filthy—like you shouldn’t be doing this at all.
He sighs, “Feels good… you’re a natural.”
You hear him let out quiet breaths and soft noises as you move your hands further downwards—to his skinny waist, the dip of his hips…
You press down on his spine, just above the towel covering him.
An instant whine escapes past his lips.
“Yeah, right there-!”
It’s loud, and awkward, and you have to stop and remember to breathe for a moment.
“God, I’m sorry,” Douma eventually says, gazing at you over his shoulder with a certain sadness that makes your heart trip down a flight of stairs. “Didn’t mean to scare you. You don’t have to do this anymore if you don’t… hnngh…!”
You press down on the same spot again—and sure enough, you’re rewarded with another pathetically high-pitched moan, as well as a slight arch.
“No, I can keep going.” You reassure him, a sudden surge of confidence overtaking you.
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girl… abt douma… i get you so much 😭 his character is just way too fascinating and so intriguing… the voice acting (mamoru miyano) did an excellent job as well aaaa! i would love to kinda poke your brain for relationship/smut hcs abt him if you have any..! 🤲
上弦の弐 — DŌMA relationship headcanons
contains: MDNI 18+・f!reader・religious themes・manipulation・power imbalance・reader is unaware of dōma's demonic nature・size kink / size difference・p in v・fluff・headcanons
note. i rewatched every single scene featuring dōma in the anime & movies yesterday. might start watching death note bc mamoru miyano voiced light yagami
❅ ── dōma has no real attachment to material things, yet he understands the human fondness in beauty. so the hairpins, jeweled combs, and silken sashes he presents to you are drawn from his vast collection of "leftovers" from decades ago. he is careful, so careful, never to risk placing in your hands an keepsake that might once have belonged to someone you could remember. instead, he offers them with a flourish, smiling as though each gift were chosen specifically just for you.
❅ ── insults don’t faze him in the slightest; if anything, they seem to delight him. you can call him childish, annoying, a downright a charlatan, and he'll laugh heartily, before pressing a kiss to your knuckles, "why, yes, all true! but you still like me, don't you?"
❅ ── scolding earns you no contrition either, as he doubles over in gales of laughter, shoulders shaking as though your reproach were the finest joke he's ever heard. he looks up, grinning widely, and croons, "ouch, how cruel! i think i rather like it when you're mean to me."
❅ ── hand-holding with him is constant. if not to swing your arm in wide arcs, then to twirl you mid-step into an impromptu dance. sometimes, he simply threads his fingers through yours, admiring how small they look compared to his own.
❅ ── when dōma sleeps (or rather, pretends to,) he habitually slides a leg between yours or drapes an arm across your waist.
❅ ── he enjoys sake baths with you. the bath is deep and aromatic, liquid steaming with a golden-tinged glow. half-submerged he sits across from you, hands respectfully idle unless you initiate play. when you splash, he counters with mischievous ripples, shooting rivulets from clasped hands and laughing uproariously at your shrieks and retaliations.
❅ ── he's perpetually cold, corpse-like to the touch, yet that never stops him from sliding icy hands against your stomach just to hear you yelp. "ooh, you're so warm! like a little stove~" but on a redeeming note, when you shiver at the mysterious draft in his quarters, he drapes his cloak over your shoulders with unexpected care.
❅ ── his kisses are never quite solemn. dōma peppers them across your cheeks and nose in a flurry, punctuating each with cute little "mwah!" sounds until you're laughing or annoyed. if you try to kiss him properly, he plays along (though inevitably, he'll attempt to slip his tongue past your lips, far more invested in your fluster than in the kiss itself.)
❅ ── he insists on "sharing meals" with you, though you notice he never seems to partake himself. instead, he sits across from you, plucking up sweets and slices of fruit to hold against your lips. whether you're hungry or not is irrelevant; he beams as you accept the morsel, praising you as though you've done him a great kindness by eating.
❅ ── in front of his followers, dōma tempers his physicality so as to maintain his guru persona. his disciples see you as part of his court or his favoured companion, but nothing more; as he offers serene smiles and gesticulation with elegance, but never touches you beyond polite proximity.
❅ ── formalities bore him in private. he waves them away with a grin, pressing a finger to your lips. "none of that stuffy '-sama' nonsense, alright? just dōma. nicer that way." he prefers the sound of his name on your lips without adornment.
❅ ── when storms roll in, he insists on pulling you outside to watch, uncaring if the rain soaks through your clothes. he gestures toward the sky, presenting the lightning and thunder as a divine performance for the two of you to enjoy. every flash throws his features into violent chiaroscuro, and you cannot help yourself but steal glances at the kaleidoscopic whirl of his irises, the colours ever-shifting. each thunderclap earns an exultant clap of his hands, laughter ringing clear and bright like a child at a firework festival.
❅ ── and when the weather clears, dōma's amusements turn domestic. he delights in dressing you like his personal doll, layering brightly dyed silks across your shoulders, fussing over which colours flatter best. when he finally deems you finished, he guides you to the mirror, slides in behind you, and rests his chin on your shoulder. arms encircle your waist, his smile reflected alongside your image, as he marvels aloud at just how cute you are.
❅ ── he enjoys walking with you after dark, wandering through the estate garden. holding your hand, he twirls you in dizzying circles. at some point he leans down and plucks a flower, tucking it into your hair without concern if his followers watch from afar.
❅ ── when you cry, dōma's reaction is twofold: fat, shimmering crocodile tears immediately well in his own eyes, coursing dramatically down his cheeks as if he's weeping on your behalf. he gathers you into his arms, cradling you close, stroking your hair in gentle yet practiced consolation.
❅ ── when you're feeling down, he produces games to keep you busy: go boards with their black & white stones, hanafuda cards painted with flowers. or even simple menko, slapping decorated cards to the floor with gleeful noise. he plays with exaggerated concentration, and yet somehow always manages to lose. when you "win," he explodes into applause and cheers. (though you suspect that he threw the game on purpose.)
❅ ── he loves to create small "rituals" with you that seem important only to him. for example, braiding flower crowns together from the blooms his followers present to him, a pastime he treats with uncharacteristic solemnity. he selects the brightest blossoms, tongue poking between his teeth in concentration, then beams when his creation is finished. he settles the crown onto your head with a flourish, before bowing his own to receive yours in turn.
❅ ── being sheltered all his life, even the simplest chores fascinate him. he trails after you with bright eyes while you sweep or cook, insisting on "helping." and though he manages a few useful tasks, he is a whirlwind of chatter.
❅ ── he carries you whenever the impulse strikes, with little regard for dignity. sometimes cradled in his arms bridal-style, sometimes straight up tossed over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. every time he lifts you, it is heralded by his singsong "up we go!" followed by laughter when you protest.
❅ ── you take turns brushing each other’s hair, the simple act a shared ritual. he hums tunelessly as he combs through your strands, teasing knots apart with care, fingers occasionally trailing along your neck.
❅ ── when boredom sets in, he idly traces shapes across your bare skin with manicured nails. often it's kanji characters or doodles. he urges you to guess what he's written.
❅ ── for a guru with nearly two hundred and fifty followers ready to obey his every word, dōma proves disarmingly agreeable when it comes to humouring you. any whim is met with sparkling enthusiasm, "ooh of course! let's try it!" the result never matters half as much as the novelty itself, the brief reprieve you grant him from that endless void inside. in practice, it means he is willing to try anything in bed. he'd probably even let you peg him.
❅ ── the moment he realises his cock is simply too large for you, his reaction is both merry and seemingly flustered. tilting his head, he gives a helpless little laugh, "ahh… tight fit. that's a shame, isn't it?" still, the discovery doesn't stop him from rocking his hips in small, testing motions, determined to find out just how much you can manage.
❅ ── when he finally bottoms out, your gasp and frantic squirming bring him to a pause. he blinks down at the sight of you straining around him, genuinely mystified by how poorly suited you seem to be for his size. then, with mock-despair, he sighs, "poor thing… 'm too big for you, huh?"
❅ ── his way of encouragement borders on parody, but it's hard not to find comfort in it. he strokes your hair, coaxing, "c'mon, you can do it! just a little more and you'll fit me like a glove—oh, not that you're a glove, that would be weird—hehe." the chatter is aggravating, yet in its own way, reassuring. when at last your body yields, he claps his praise with tears spilling freely down his face, shimmering trails on his cheeks. "look at you… so brave! you really did it!" as if you had performed a great miracle.
❅ ── he watches himself disappear inside you with rapt fascination, murmuring to himself, "wahh… it really all goes in, huh?"
❅ ── when you whimper that it's too much, his lips curl into an exaggerated pout, "eh? too much? but it's just me! i'll be gentle, promise." the promise shatters within two thrusts, his eagerness far outweighing his self-control.
❅ ── dōma has no true concept of intimacy, but he wears the mask convincingly enough. after sex, he pulls you into his chest, smothering you in tender gestures: kisses pressed to your forehead with a resounding mwah!, his fingers combing idly through your hair. "you’re so warm. i don’t think i'd ever get bored of this." whether it is genuine affection or simply another diversion hardly matters.
Douma had asked for a kiss so many times that Y/N had lost count.
At first, it was annoying. Then it became background noise. Every day, he would somehow find a way to bring it up. While she was reading, while they were eating, while she was trying to have a moment of peace. It was always the same thing. "Just one kiss". And every time, she would reject him without even looking up.
Yet somehow, he never stopped asking.
Maybe that was why she finally gave in.
The room was quiet that evening. No followers. No distractions. Just the two of them sitting together as the sun slowly disappeared beyond the windows. For once, Douma wasn't talking endlessly. He was resting his head against her shoulder, enjoying the rare comfort of her hand running through his hair.
When he looked up at her, his colorful eyes were softer than usual.
"Can I have a kiss?"
It was the same question he had asked countless times before. This time, however, Y/N closed her book and looked at him properly.
"...Okay."
For a moment, Douma simply stared.
It was such a simple answer, yet it felt impossible to believe. The grin on his face slowly disappeared, replaced by something almost vulnerable. Something genuine. He searched her face as if expecting her to take it back.
"Really?"
Y/N nodded.
The excitement that lit up his face made him look younger somehow. Less like an Upper Rank demon and more like someone who had just been handed the world.
Slowly, he moved closer.
Y/N could feel his eyes on her. Feel the anticipation. The happiness.
It was almost embarrassing how much a single kiss meant to him.
She leaned forward.
Douma did the same.
The distance between them disappeared little by little until there was barely anything left.
And then—
The sound of a biwa echoed through the room.
Everything stopped.
The walls shifted.
The floor distorted.
Y/N immediately recognized it.
Infinity Castle.
Douma did too.
The joy on his face vanished instantly.
"No."
The room continued to change around him.
His hand immediately reached for hers.
"No, no, no, no—"
For the first time since she'd known him, Y/N heard actual panic in his voice.
"DON'T DO THIS TO ME."
The castle swallowed him whole before he could get any closer.
And just like that, he was gone.
The room fell silent.
Y/N sat there for a moment before a laugh escaped her lips. Then another. Soon she couldn't stop laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all.
Meanwhile, inside Infinity Castle, Douma appeared among the Upper Moons looking as though his soul had been ripped from his body.
The others could feel the tension in the air as they waited for Muzan's arrival, yet Douma wasn't paying attention to any of it. He stood there completely still, staring at the floor with the expression of a man who had lost everything.
All because after weeks of begging, months of asking, and countless rejections—
He had finally gotten his kiss.
Only for Nakime to take him away before it could happen.
And somewhere deep inside, Douma decided that the moment this meeting ended, he was running straight back to Y/N.
Because there was no way he was letting fate steal it from him twice.
Summary: Let's say you're incredibly lucky and the sound guru and festival god took you in as his apprentice and tsuguko.
Type: Platonic, Headcanon
Warning: None
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Tengen treats his Tsuguko like son, always making sure he's okay and motivated. He cares about his physical and emotional well-being and often gives him advice on life and combat.
Tengen is known for his rigorous training style. They train together for long hours, combining combat techniques with breathing exercises.
Tengen makes sure his Tsuguko masters Sound Breathing, but he also teaches him to be creative and use his own style.
Training begins before dawn with a 15km run using ankle and wrist weights, while Tengen runs alongside you… walking and eating. Every time you fall behind, he yells, “MORE FLASHY! The sound of your footsteps is pathetic!”
Sparring sessions with music blasting (he plays a modified shamisen with small explosives that sound like beats). You have to fight by dodging attacks while feeling the rhythm.
Extreme sensory training: entire days with your ears plugged or completely bandaged. Tengen throws rocks, kunai, and even firecrackers at you to develop pure shinobi instincts.
Acrobatics and parkour on the rooftops of the Uzui mansion. He forces you to perform impossible jumps between poles and trees. If you fall, he makes you repeat it 50 times while his wives watch and comment.
Speed and strength training: he makes you carry enormous stone blocks while he times you. When you improve, he celebrates with fireworks.
He teaches you to use explosives artistically. They're not just bombs: they're "sound art pieces" that have to explode in beautiful and lethal patterns.
He treats you like a mix of son/daughter, star disciple, and "newest member of his flashy harem" (in a platonic-familial sense). He's extremely proud and possessive of your progress.
Daily nicknames: "My Sparkling Tsuguko!", "The Shining Jewel of the Extermination Corps!", "Little Sound God/Demon!"
If you have low self-esteem, he makes you stand in front of a mirror and shout "I'M FLASHY!" until you believe it (or until you're mortified).
He's a surprisingly good listener. On quiet nights, he sits with you in the engawa, drinks sake, and gives you very mature life advice about having no regrets, living life to the fullest, and protecting what you love.
He constantly showers you with gifts of clothes, jewelry, and weapons. Everything has to be flashy. If you wear something black and plain, he gives you a look of betrayal.
When you're sick or injured, he gets dramatic but takes care of you personally. He forces you to rest while he prepares (or sends his wives to) nutritious meals for you.
You become the fourth member of the Uzui family. You sleep in the mansion and have your own extravagantly decorated room.
Makio: your tough personal trainer. She yells at you when you make mistakes but is the first to heal your wounds and the one who motivates you the most. She teaches you close combat and how to handle a strong temper.
Suma: the mama bear. She makes you giant bento boxes, hugs you when you come home tired, and cries if you get hurt, even with just a scratch. She spoils you rotten.
Hinatsuru: the calm older sister. She teaches you strategy, the use of poisons, disguises, and how to read people. She's the one who gives you the best romantic and emotional advice.
The four people (Tengen + wives) are terribly overprotective. If a Hashira criticizes you or a demon touches you, they all go into "nobody touches our Tsuguko" mode.
At first, he only sends you on low-ranking missions to "polish your flamboyance." Later, he takes you on more dangerous missions as support.
In battle, he uses your presence as a distraction: "Look how dazzling my Tsuguko is!" while attacking from another angle.He teaches you to combine your Breathing Style with sound techniques (even if it's not Sound Breathing, you have to incorporate vibrations and explosions).
After every successful mission: a mandatory party with food, sake (in moderation), music, and fireworks. If you fail, he still celebrates that you're alive.
Tengen always has your back. If you're in real danger, he gets serious and uses all his power to protect you. Afterward, he dramatically scolds you, but with relief.
He makes you more extroverted and confident. Tengen hates excessive modesty and forces you to acknowledge your achievements.
You learn to use two swords (even if your styles are different) because "a single sword is boring and not flashy enough."
You have jewelry with built-in explosives, decorated kunai, and modified uniforms with glittery details.
Interaction with other Hashira:
Rengoku: They get along great. They train together and compete to see who can be the loudest.
Shinobu: Tengen constantly brags about you to annoy her.
Gyomei: He respects you because he sees your effort.
Obanai and Iguro: They look at you with suspicion at first because of Tengen's "outrageous" influence.
If you develop your own style (a Sound Breathing variant or a completely new one), Tengen is obsessed with giving it the most flashy name possible.
On your birthday, he throws you an extravagant celebration with expensive gifts and a "flamboyance ceremony" where he officially declares you "the most brilliant Tsuguko in history."
Tengen is afraid of losing you. He's lost many people in the past, so even though he masks it with his flashy attitude, he's very protective. He says things like, “Don’t die before me. You still have to surpass my level of flamboyance.”
If you manage to become Hashira, he starts crying (disguised as tears of pride) and says he can finally retire in peace.
yanderes ! douma, kokushibo, and muzan react to you moving on...
you're in my world now, you can stay, you can stay
but you belong to me, ooh, you belong to me
cws; yandere themes, including possessiveness, psychological manipulation, gaslighting, threats of violence, emotional abuse, and implied captivity, and moments of coercion. please read with caution. mdni !
douma :
the temple glowed with golden lanterns, incense curling in the air. followers gathered in a reverent half-circle around their master, heads bowed, murmuring prayers as douma sat cross-legged on his throne, waving his fan lazily with that ever-present smile plastered across his face.
“mmhm~ you’re all so lovely,” he cooed, voice lilting and sweet. “so faithful, so pretty when you kneel like that.” he fluttered the fan, giggling to himself.
one follower trembled before daring to speak. “m–master douma… i bring news. about… lady y/n.”
at once, his expression brightened. his pastel eyes widened, almost sparkling. “ohhh? my sweet little y/n? do tell me everything! i’ve missed her sooo much.” the girl bowed lower, voice shaking. “she… she has been seen often with the flame hashira. with kyojuro rengoku.” the smile froze.
for a beat, the entire temple went silent. then—snap. the fan in douma’s hand broke clean in two. his laugh came a second later, high-pitched and too sharp, echoing unnaturally off the walls. “hahaha! rengoku?! him?! ohhh, that’s so—so funny! how.. sad” he doubled over, slapping his knee, laughter ringing like glass shattering. his followers forced nervous chuckles, unsure if they should join in.
but the laughter didn’t reach his eyes. his smile was wide, yes, but his gaze glittered too brightly, a trembling intensity just beneath the surface.
“y/n thinks she’s moved on…” douma whispered, twirling the broken fan until the splinters pierced his pale skin. blood dripped lazily onto the tatami mats. “…how precious. how pathetic.” he stood, spreading his arms as though delivering a sermon, voice dropping low and honey-sweet. “she doesn’t belong to him. she doesn’t belong to anyone. not a single soul in this world but me.”
the air thickened, colder, as his followers pressed their foreheads to the floor. his grin only widened as he pictured you smiling at rengoku—smiling at someone who wasn’t him. “ohhh, y/n,” he crooned, the sound both tender and cruel. “you’re going to make me jealous. and when i get jealous… well.” he tilted his head, blood dripping from his cut fingers, eyes glassy with a mad kind of devotion. “you’ll only have yourself to blame for what i do next.”
you laughed—soft and nervous—at something rengoku said as the two of you walked down the quiet road. his bright presence was like a flame in the darkness, steady and protective.
you almost believed you were safe.
then came the sound. light footsteps, almost playful, echoing against the stone. a lilting hum, sweet as sugar, carrying through the air like a hymn. rengoku stopped, eyes narrowing, hand drifting toward his sword. “someone’s here.”
“woah, woah, woah, don’t stop on my account.” his voice. that voice. douma emerged from the shadows as though he’d been part of them all along, fans in hand, pastel eyes wide and shining with delight. his smile stretched ear to ear.
“y/n!” he sang, spreading his arms as if welcoming a child. “look at you, out on a date. how darling. how… tragic.” you froze, blood running cold. “douma—” rengoku stepped forward, placing himself between you and the demon, fire in his eyes. “i won’t let you harm her!”
douma tilted his head, his expression never faltering. “harm her? oh no, no, no. i’d never hurt my sweet little y/n.” his gaze slid to you, soft and adoring, yet suffocating. “i only want her to come home. where she belongs. with me.” rengoku’s jaw tightened at his words. “she’s made her choice. and it wasn’t you.”
for a beat, the temple leader’s smile twitched—just barely. then he giggled, high and sharp. “ahh, flame boy, you really don’t understand, do you? let me explain to you... her choices don’t matter. because she’s mine. her soul, her smile, her every breath—mine, mine, mine.”
he stepped closer, his followers’ laughter seeming to echo from nowhere, though none were there. you clutched at rengoku’s sleeve, your heart pounding. “please… don’t—”
douma’s eyes glittered like shattered glass as he whispered, soft enough for only you to hear, “don’t worry, my love. i’ll be gentle when i take him away from you. you’ll forget him soon enough.” rengoku drew his blade, fire crackling in the night, but douma only laughed—bright, airy, empty—as if this was all just a game.
“ohhh, y/n… you should have known better,” he sighed, smile widening. “you can’t move on from me. not ever.”
rengoku’s blade flashed, fire roaring to life at his side—ready to strike.
but before steel could clash, your body moved on instinct. your hand shot forward, gripping douma’s cold sleeve, fingers trembling.
“don’t,” you gasped, eyes wide and wet. “don’t hurt him… i’ll come back.”
time stopped.
douma blinked down at you, lips parting in mock surprise, before his smile bloomed again—softer this time, almost tender. “ohhh, my sweet little y/n…” he cooed, voice dripping with honey. “do you mean it? you’d really leave this boring flame and come back to me?”
rengoku’s head whipped toward you, stunned. “y/n—” you couldn’t meet his eyes. your grip tightened on douma’s sleeve, knuckles white. “just… please. don’t kill him. i’ll go with you.” douma shivered like you’d just confessed your eternal devotion. his laughter bubbled up, high-pitched and giddy, echoing through the night. “ahhh! i knew it! you do love me, after all. i’m the only one you could ever belong to.”
he bent down so close his breath brushed your ear, his tone dropping to something more chilling. “good girl.” rengoku snarled, stepping forward, but douma only wagged a broken fan between his fingers, blood from earlier still staining the wood. “uh-uh, flame boy. she’s coming with me. and you…” his gaze flicked lazily to rengoku, still smiling, “…you should thank her. if it weren’t for her begging, you’d already be in pieces.”
you felt his hand slide around your wrist, deceptively gentle as he tugged you closer. “see? no more silly little games, y/n. you don’t get to move on. you’re mine. and now—” his smile stretched, glassy eyes shining as he pulled you into his side, “—you’re coming home.” the night closed in, rengoku’s protests lost under douma’s empty, ringing laughter as he swept you away.
the temple was quiet that night, lanterns flickering low, the air thick with incense and something… metallic. you’d been summoned to douma’s private drawing room, the place his followers whispered about but never dared enter. your heart pounded as you slid the door open and froze. blood. it slicked the tatami, painted the walls, soaking into the silks draped carelessly across the floor. and at the center of it all sat douma, legs folded neatly, a smile stretched sweetly across his face.
in his hands—kyojuro rengoku’s body. or what was left of it. douma’s fingers were stained crimson, his mouth ringed with gore as he lifted a chunk of flesh to his lips, humming as if savoring a delicate fruit. “mmhm~ flame hashira meat is so… warm. so lively.” his glassy eyes flicked up, sparkling when they met yours. “ah, y/n! you made it.”
your breath hitched, knees weak, bile rising in your throat. “you… you promised… you said you wouldn’t—” “shhh, shhh.” he waved one bloodied fan, his voice lilting, airy. “don’t pout, my love. i didn’t hurt him because of you. i hurt him for you.”
he tilted his head, chewing thoughtfully as though explaining something perfectly reasonable. “he was a threat. a distraction. and now he’s gone. see? i fixed it.” he patted the blood-soaked floor beside him, smile never wavering. “come sit. let’s share this moment together. he’s part of us now. part of our love.”
tears blurred your vision, your legs trembling as the metallic scent consumed you. but douma only reached out, his hand still slick and warm, beckoning you closer. “don’t be shy, y/n,” he whispered, voice honeyed with obsession. “you’re mine. and you belong to me...” his laughter rang high and empty, echoing in the chamber as the flames of rengoku’s life flickered out for good.
kokushibo:
later that week, the night air felt heavier than usual. you clutched your jacket tighter around yourself as you hurried down the quiet street, trying to ignore the uneasy silence pressing against your ears. it wasn’t the kind of silence that brought peace—it was the kind that carried weight, that whispered you are being watched. you didn’t see him at first. but you felt him.
the shadows thickened unnaturally, the chill seeped into your bones. then, from the mouth of an alley, six burning eyes flickered into existence. “kokushibo…” your voice broke on his name, your chest constricting painfully.
he stepped forward, the slow, deliberate sound of his sandals on the stone enough to make you want to flee. towering, unreadable, his face half-consumed by the grotesque marks of his demonhood, yet his gaze locked on you with something sharper than malice. disappointment. possession. “you thought you could discard me,” his voice was deep, resonant, each word like steel drawn from a sheath. “replace me with… that.”
you shook your head quickly, backing up a step. “n-no, i—” but he cut you off with a low growl of a sound, six eyes narrowing. “do not mistake your fleeting impulses for freedom. you are bound. you always were.” he loomed closer, the air suffocating with his presence. his hand lifted—hovering just shy of your throat, not touching, but the threat of touch was enough to freeze you in place. his fingers twitched slightly, as if reminding you how easily he could close them around you and end everything.
“kokushibo, please—” your voice trembled, half a plea, half a sob. his expression didn’t change. if anything, it grew colder. he leaned down, closer, his breath fanning across your face. “do you think i cannot see it? the way you look at him? as though i am… replaceable.” his tone sharpened, cruelly quiet. “you belong to me. your soul, your breath, your every thought—it is all mine.”
then you saw it. over his shoulder, blurred in the dark, the pale outline of your partner. broken. discarded. already gone. your knees buckled, a strangled cry tearing from your throat. but kokushibo’s hand shot out, steadying you by the arm—firm, possessive.
his six eyes bore into you, unblinking. “do not cry for them. they were nothing.” his tone softened slightly, but not in kindness—in claim. “there is no ‘moving on,’ y/n. you will never escape me. even death would not free you.” his thumb brushed your wrist, almost tender, though the gesture was more chilling than comforting.
“remember this,” he murmured, voice low, final. “you were born to be mine. and mine you shall remain.” the world felt smaller under his gaze. the night swallowed you whole. and as he pulled you closer, you realized he was right. there would be no freedom—not from him.
“you bastard.. why do you always do this!” your voice cracked as you shoved at his chest, palms flat against his cold armor. “you don’t own me! i don’t care how many eyes you have, or how strong you are—i’m not yours. get it through your thick.. fucking..head!”
your voice echoed against the walls of the narrow alley, hot tears burning down your cheeks as you screamed at him. “i hate you! do you hear me? i hate you! i don’t love you, i never did, i—” your words cut off in a startled gasp as kokushibo’s hand snapped out, iron-strong fingers gripping your jaw. not crushing, not violent—just unshakably firm.
six eyes locked onto you, glowing like molten coals in the darkness. his face was inches from yours, every line of it carved with a calm that made your blood turn to ice. “enough.” just one word. deep, resonant, a command that settled in your bones.
you tried to squirm, claw at his wrist, spit defiance in his face, but the sound came out broken, weak. he tilted your chin upward with a slow, deliberate pressure, forcing your eyes to meet his. “you mistake noise for power,” he murmured, voice low and steady, carrying a weight that made your chest tighten. “but your screams are nothing. your rage is nothing. you cannot wound me, little one.”
his thumb brushed along your lower lip—slow, deliberate, like a master reminding his pupil of their place. you shuddered, hating yourself for the way your body betrayed you, heat pooling under his unblinking stare. “you think hatred frees you?” kokushibo’s tone deepened, almost velvety in its coldness. “it only binds you tighter.”
you whimpered, tugging weakly at his wrist, but his grip didn’t falter. instead, he leaned closer, his lips ghosting against the shell of your ear. “you are mine. in your fury. in your despair. even in this…” his voice dipped, husky, dangerous, “…in your trembling.”
your body went still, breath shattering against the heat of his words. his hand slid from your jaw to your throat—never tightening, just resting there, a reminder of his power. six eyes bore into you, devouring every flicker of defiance, every shiver of fear.
kokushibo’s final whisper sealed it, dark and intimate: “scream all you wish, y/n. the night will always bring you back to me. and one day… you’ll beg for me, not because i force you—” his lips brushed just shy of yours, “—but because you will finally know what it means to belong.” your knees buckled, your voice broke, and in that suffocating silence, you realized he hadn’t silenced you with violence. he’d silenced you with control.
muzan :
you thought you’d hidden well. thought that by slipping quietly into someone else’s arms, by forcing yourself to smile, to laugh, you could outrun the shadow that clung to you. for a little while, it even felt real. warm hands held yours, soft words promised you safety. you told yourself this time will be different.
and then you came home. the body was waiting at your doorstep. what was left of it, anyway. twisted, mangled beyond recognition, painted across the stones like a warning written in blood. your stomach lurched, a scream catching in your throat. the door creaked open before you could run.
and there he was. muzan stood in the center of your home as if he’d never left, his elegant white suit now kissed with crimson. his pale hands, dripping. his eyes, burning red in the lantern light, softened when they found you. “did you really think,” he murmured, voice silk and steel, “that you could replace me?”
you stumbled back, shaking your head, tears blurring your vision. “y-you promised— you said if i—” he was on you before the words could finish, a blur of cold power, one hand pressing flat to the wall beside your head, trapping you. his other hand lifted, bloodied fingers brushing across your cheek as though he were wiping away a tear.
“i promised you eternity,” he whispered, tone almost tender. “not freedom. never freedom.” his thumb smeared crimson along your skin as his gaze devoured you. “look at me. do you see what happens when you defy me? when you dare to put your lips, your smile, on someone unworthy?” your breath broke in sobs, but muzan only leaned closer, his lips ghosting against your ear.
“you are mine. your heart beats because i allow it. your lungs draw breath because i let them. and if you ever think of moving on again…” his hand slid down, wrapping around your throat with deceptive gentleness, “…i will tear apart every man who looks at you until the world understands the truth.”
his lips grazed the corner of your mouth, soft, poisonous. “you’re mine, y/n. always have been. always will be.”
you tried to look away. you tried to shut your eyes, to bury your face in your hands, but muzan’s grip was unrelenting. his bloodstained fingers caught your chin, forcing your head back until his crimson gaze was the only thing you could see.
“no, no, little one,” he purred, voice dripping with venomous sweetness. “don’t close your eyes. you wanted to move on, didn’t you? then watch. watch what becomes of the men who dare touch what’s mine.”
he dragged you closer to the carnage at your doorstep, your body trembling violently in his grip. the mangled corpse was still warm, still bleeding. muzan crouched gracefully beside it, never letting go of your wrist, his lips curling into something that wasn’t a smile but an intimate, cruel mockery of one.
he dipped his fingers into the blood, lifting them slowly, deliberately, until they glistened in the lantern light. then he smeared it across your lips, painting you with the taste of his violence.
“see?” he whispered, eyes burning into yours as his thumb pressed against your mouth, coaxing it open. “this is love, y/n. not the pitiful warmth he offered you. this. devotion, permanent and absolute.”
your breath came ragged, your body frozen in his grip, but he leaned in until his forehead pressed against yours. his voice dropped, husky, dangerous, almost reverent.
“your body knows the truth, even if your heart resists. you tremble for me. you burn for me. and you will learn…” his lips ghosted over yours, teasing, “…that the only ecstasy worth tasting is mine.”
muzan tilted his head, brushing his bloodstained mouth against your cheek in a mockery of a kiss. his free hand settled at your waist, firm, possessive, pulling you flush against him while the corpse lay at your feet—his final warning carved into flesh and blood.
“remember this lesson, my love,” he murmured, tongue flicking crimson from his lips as he forced your gaze back to the ruin he’d made. “every time you think of leaving me, you’ll taste him again. you’ll see what it costs.”
his grip on your throat tightened just enough to make you gasp, your pulse hammering under his fingers. his mouth hovered over yours, hot and suffocating.
“say it,” he commanded softly, sweetly. “say you’re mine.”
-
omg.. god i love douma like ongggg I NEED THEM NUTSS GIMMIE THENNN AWAOOOOGGAAAAA. anyways... more demon slayer content. feel free to request more.
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I am so sorry for the trouble, but may I request zenitsu and fem reader who works at the wisteria house please? Kind of platonic but kind of romantic (I’ll explain what I mean) Totally ok if not!
Reader is not pretty or attractive at ALL, but has a heart of gold. super duper sweet, kind, and patient and gentle. Like literally the softie and the biggest sweetheart that will always go out of her way to be nice to others, and will put others first always before herself. Super duper loving and kind and aww
Also very quiet, shy, timid, and overapologetic. Like will apologize for EVERYTHING, even for speaking.
Reader is also super insecure, worries about not being likeable enough, is paranoid that she’s a burden, and is going through a lot. Also very sensitivie and emotional like zenitsu, but she always keeps those feelings to herself rather than expressing them unless she’s alone. she never shows these feelings to others, in fear of bring a burden and making others worry for her.
OKK ANYWAY
maybe like,,, kamaboko boys go to wisteria house because they need healing and that’s where zenistu meets reader.
Maybe somehow, they become friends, and then slowly they become like really really close friends? Like they grow a really tight bond through like cute little bonding moments etc. They become each other’s closest friend and confide in each other and are each other’s comfort, and then they develop a crush on each other (but they don’t like date yet or anything)
How would they become friends, and how would they become really close? And how would they be when they are crushin on each other?
Im so sorry for all the trouble, ik this is hella specific!! Don’t feel forced to write this at all!
Have the bestest day and remember to stay hydrated!
I am so sorry for the trouble, but may I request zenitsu and fem reader who works at the wisteria house please? Kind of platonic but kind of romantic (I’ll explain what I mean) Totally ok if not!
Reader is not pretty or attractive at ALL, but has a heart of gold. super duper sweet, kind, and patient and gentle. Like literally the softie and the biggest sweetheart that will always go out of her way to be nice to others, and will put others first always before herself. Super duper loving and kind and aww
Also very quiet, shy, timid, and overapologetic. Like will apologize for EVERYTHING, even for speaking.
Reader is also super insecure, worries about not being likeable enough, is paranoid that she’s a burden, and is going through a lot. Also very sensitivie and emotional like zenitsu, but she always keeps those feelings to herself rather than expressing them unless she’s alone. she never shows these feelings to others, in fear of bring a burden and making others worry for her.
OKK ANYWAY
maybe like,,, kamaboko boys go to wisteria house because they need healing and that’s where zenistu meets reader.
Maybe somehow, they become friends, and then slowly they become like really really close friends? Like they grow a really tight bond through like cute little bonding moments etc. They become each other’s closest friend and confide in each other and are each other’s comfort, and then they develop a crush on each other (but they don’t like date yet or anything)
How would they become friends, and how would they become really close? And how would they be when they are crushin on each other?
Don’t feel forced to write this at all if you don't want to!! Ik this is hella long lol
Have the bestest day and remember to stay hydrated!
AHH THIS ISSO CUTE!!! I love it!! Someone as clingy as zenith would love someone so caring and sweet!
I’m currently busy with studying for exams but I’ll give it a try! I’m a slow writer, but I’ll reply to this request again (I hope that is possible LOL) once I’m done. Thank you so much for requesting me!!🩵
hi!! Im the anon that said i love ur inosuke writing and asked if you take requests :>
IF it's not too much trouble, can I please request kimetsu academy inosuke and gentle softie reader who is kind and enjoys singing?
Reader loves to sing but only sings when nobody else is around, because she's very insecure of her voice
inosuke meets reader and they form an unexpected friendship, despite being polar opposites, and become best friends, and they start developing feelings for each other??
I hope this is okay!! I am so sorry for the trouble, don't feel forced to write this at all!!
THIS IS SO CUTE!!!! Yes I’d absolutely love writing this!!! I’m currently busy with studying for exams but I’ll give it a swing! Thank you so much for requesting me!! :D🩵
Summary: Zenitsu's other side doesn't seem half so bad
word count: 2.2k
i have been starving for some delicious competitive thunderbros content but couldnt find any. so i wrote it myself :D
reader gets referred to with 'she' a couple times, but readers gender doesnt really matter
not proofread because im lazy, so im sorry if theres any mistakes ;3
I hope you enjoy:D
“He’s disgusting.”
Kaigaku gnashed his teeth together, his eyebrows furrowed into a permanent scowl.
“He’s revolting.”
You watched how clench his fists, his shoulders tensing up as his nostrils flared.
“Trash like him shouldn’t be allowed to live.”
You looked like him like a deer in headlights, utterly clueless on how to respond to this tidal wave of contempt Kaigaku had for his sibling. The soft muttering of other voices in the small café filled the gaps of silence, along with the peaceful humming emitting from its speakers.
“There’s nothing about that sad sack of piss and wind that has any value to me.” He continued. “In fact, I’m nauseated by having to share the same house as him.”
You had no idea the mere mention of Agatsuma Zenitsu would have triggered this kind of outburst. Judging by his bodylanguage, you could tell Kaigaku and Zenitsu weren’t exactly on good terms, but still. The fact that Kaigaku could not bear to mutter at least one positive syllable about his other half left you bewildered.
“He’s pathetic. He’s a crybaby. He’s the furthest thing from manly to exist.”
The aroma of the steaming teacup in front of you managed to calm you down a little. The coffee Kaigaku had ordered remained untouched as well.
“Kaigaku…” you muttered. “What is your definition of manly then?”
He huffed in response, raising his eyebrows in such a cocky manner only Kaigaku could.
“A man.” He slammed his fist on the table. “Doesn’t beg girls to go out with them. Doesn’t blame others for their own shortcomings. Doesn’t take the easy way out.”
He let out a sigh, letting his spine collide against the cushions.
“Whatever. Let’s talk about something else. Speaking of that scum just makes my blood pressure go through the roof.”
You weren’t exactly sure how to feel about the project partner mister Himejima assigned you with. Zenitsu had mentioned once that Kaigaku had high scores, and whenever you managed to peer at his exam results, he was right.
Kaigaku strook you as someone disciplined. Serious. Dedicated.
Hopefully a breath of fresh air compared to other group projects where you yourself did all the work.
Zenitsu however, was not happy.
“YOU’RE WITH KAIGAKU????????????????????” He exclaimed, honeyed eyes blown wide as saucers by the news. His hand was desperately gripping onto your jacket, utter fear swirling in his eyes. “PLEASE TELL ME YOU’RE JOKING. PLEASE!!!!!!!!”
You sighed, gently putting a hand on top of his head like you always did. “Hey, it wasn’t like I assigned the group partners for this project. Mister Himejima did.” You rationalized. “Besides, Kaigaku doesn’t seem that bad to me. He has some of the best grades in our class, right?”
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?????????????” Zenitsu wailed. “HE’S THE DEVIL!! THE DEVIL!!!!!!”
You sighed once more, trying your hardest to soothe his worries.
“It’s just us working together for this project. It really isn’t the end of the world.”
Zenitsu’s lip trembled. He reminded you of a sad, wet puppy.
You mindlessly grabbed ahold of the teacup in front of you, the warm liquid gracing your lips.
“Kaigaku.” You spoke, straightening your spine a little. “I believe you are entitled to your own opinion of Zenitsu. But please don’t insult my friend in front of my face.”
You were surprised to see Kaigaku’s posture relax a little. You had expected him to see your statement as a challenge, seeing it as an invitation to spew more insults at your face.
“Fine.” He said, leaning back. “Guess that’s fair.”
A short silence followed. A waitress walked by your table.
“Why are you friends with him, (__)?”
You blinked, letting a silence settle as you tried to come up with an answer.
“Because I like Zenitsu.” You replied. “He’s funny and kind. I love how loud and chaotic he is. He never makes a single day boring.”
Kaigaku’s eyes narrowed. You could almost see the flames of a bitter jealousy burning within them.
He hummed. “Tell me, has he ever tried hitting on you before? Begged you to date him even?”
You stayed quiet at that.
Kaigaku was right. You lost count of the times Zenitsu had gone on his knees, desperately clinging onto your clothes as he wailed and begged you to marry him.
The bitter chuckle emitting from Kaigaku confirmed his suspicion.
“I knew it.” He clicked his tongue. “But he’s dating that girl isn’t he? That second-year from the Taro class?” He tapped a spoon against his cup. “What’s her name again?”
“Nezuko.”
“Nezuko!” He laughed, repeating her name with great amusement. He smirked as he ran a hand through his dark hair. “Oh man. I cant believe all his begging and pissing himself in front of girls managed to land him someone.”
Kaigaku’s arrogance was dripping from his demeanor. He genuinely believed he was above him.
It was kind of attractive.
“But oh man. Everyone can see how utterly pathetic their relationship is. It’s been a year now and they never even held hands before. It’s hopeless. I almost feel bad for him. Even talking about it gives me secondhand embarrassment.”
You stayed quiet. Although something inside you itched to defend their relationship, you bit your tongue. Kaigaku wasn’t exactly wrong.
Nezuko was a good girl. Much kinder than anyone you’ve ever seen. But still, you’d be lying if you said their relationship wasn’t one-sided. Nezuko barely initiated any kind of physical contact, and from how busy the Kamado bakery could be, she often failed to reply to her texts on time.
You watched as Kaigaku suddenly leaned forward, a sly smirk etched onto his lips when he did.
“(__).” He almost purred your name. “Don’t you think you can do better?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Look at you.” He said, finally taking a sip from his abandoned coffee. “I’ve seen you. Your grades are good. You’re smart. You’re disciplined. You’re pretty too.”
You tried your hardest not to look shocked. You hadn’t expected him to compliment you so easily.
“Aren’t you worried that guys like him end up dragging you down? Aren’t you tired of babysitting your supposed friend like that?”
You inhaled briefly, his constant slander now getting on your nerves. There was only so much you could handle.
“I think I can decide that for my own, Kaigaku.” You asserted. “Now, let’s just begin with the project.”
Kaigaku stayed quiet. You watched the smirk melt off his features as his green eyes bore into yours.
“Fine.”
——
Their kitchen smelled of steamed rice and vegetables as Jigoro scooped a handful of the food into three separate bowls. The two boys thanked him as he set down their dinner in front of them and began to eat.
Kaigaku watched as Jigoro and Zenitsu laughed about something he didn’t care about, reminiscing your company at the café. In a way, he kind of respected your assertiveness when it came to Zenitsu. Despite his constant slandering, you remained loyal and defended him as much as you could.
He thought about your body language, about your straightened spine and stern look in your eyes.
You had a backbone. He liked that.
He perked up as he heard a phone rang. Jigoro got up from his seat as he walked towards the living room, mumbling something along the lines of ‘I’ll go get it.’
A silence followed.
“Hey.” Kaigaku spoke, making Zenitsu look up from his dinner.
“That friend of yours. (__).” He paused. “She’s pretty hot. She single?”
Kaigaku watched in utter delight at how Zenitsu’s eyes widened in utter disbelief, his surprise quickly making way for vengeful, acidic rage. He chuckled when he watched the blonde’s hands grip his chopsticks til his knuckles turned white.
Veins of rage were throbbing atop his temples, his breathing quickened.
“Stay away from her.”
“Hah?” Kaigaku replied, enjoying every nano-second of ragebaiting Zenitsu. “Why do you care? It’s not like you ain’t got a girlfriend already.”
Although he’d expected a certain kind of annoyance about showing interest in Zenitsu’s best friend, he hadn’t expected him to get this enraged about it. Wide, unblinking eyes stared him down, mimicking a predator that looked ready to pounce.
He’d never seem him this furious before.
“You will not date her.”
Kaigaku clicked his tongue. “That isn’t your choice to make, asshole. She can think for herself.”
Even when Jigoro re-entered the room, it did not dilute the aggression plastered on Zenitsu’s face.
His eyes were glued onto him for much longer than he liked.
——
“(______________________________!!!” Zenitsu whined, pushing his face into the plush of your arm. You chuckled at the familiar feeling as you tried to get comfortable on your couch.
“Hold meeeee!” He pleaded. “My girlfriend is ignoring me AGAIN!!!!! I’M GOING TO DIE FROM A LACK OF ATTENTION!!!!”
You merely sighed, gently patting his head to soothe his emotions. He said that sentence way more often than he should.
You kept stroking his soft hair until his whines died down a little. He slid his arms around your arm, nuzzling it.
“Hey (__)…” He spoke. “How’s the project with Kaigaku coming along?”
“Honestly? He’s a much better partner than I expected.” You replied, smiling.
Zenitsu hated that subtle spark in your eye as soon as he mentioned him.
“He’s very disciplined and reliable. He takes a lot of initiative and takes his classes seriously. I like that.” You continued. “Besides, when me and him agreed to meet up at the Aozora café, he insisted on paying the bill. He even walked me home after!”
Zenitsu felt his stomach acid begin to bubble. You sounded way too positive about him. He hated it.
“Of course, we exchanged phone numbers to make communication easier. He even texted me asking if I got home safe. So far, he really exceeded my expectations!”
The smile melted off your face as soon as you saw Zenitsu’s horrified, disgruntled expression.
“Zenitsu…?”
--“But!” He pleaded, his grip onto your arm tightening. “But Kaigaku’s a brute!”
“I honestly didn’t get that impression…” you admitted.
The only thing that really bugged you about Kaigaku was how negative he was about Zenitsu. Although you stuck up for the latter like a proper friend, you didn’t want to sprinkle salt in an open wound. Perhaps Zenitsu was better off not knowing what he said.
“Besides..” You paused. “Do you really feel like that?”
Zenitsu sighed deeply as he let go of your arm, his eyebrows scrunched up in a sad expression as he stared towards your floor.
“No…” He sighed again in frustration. “Kaigaku…he’s a real pain the ass, but despite everything, I do admire him…”
You stayed quiet, letting Zenitsu speak.
“It’s like you said. He’s smart. He’s disciplined. He’s arrogant too, sure, but he always works hard. Harder than anyone else.”
His hands found your arm again.
“He never whines, never moans or complains. He always gets his work done properly and never makes excuses. If anything, he’s the real opposite of me…”
Your hand started rubbing soothing circles atop his head again.
“It’s alright.” You reassured as he locked eyes with yours.
“You’re still my favorite, Zenitsu.”
——
The following days, Kaigaku proposed meeting up at his place instead. According to him, the tables and atmosphere the Aozora café provided were no good to get any proper work done.
You agreed, seeing no reason as to why not. He did live together with your very best friend after all, and Jigoro was no stranger to you either.
How Kaigaku reveled in seeing Zenitsu’s sour expression as he opened the front door to let the both of you in. His keen eyes observed him carefully, taking in every detail about his tense body language.
That hungry look in his pathetic eyes. The way his teeth clenched and fingernails dug into his skin.
He loved it. Bathed in it. Pissing off Zenitsu was truly his biggest joy in life.
And so, what better method to aggravate him more than to be touchy with you?
Zenitsu noticed.
The way his filthy hands gently rested on your lower back, far too intimate for his liking. The way he leaned closer to you ‘because he didn’t quite catch that’, and finding other bullshit excuses to get closer to you.
The times he called you ‘pretty’ were the times Zenitsu was ready to fly off the handle. His nails dug violently into whatever he held, trying to calm his racing heart as it vibrated against his ribs.
Of course, Kaigaku remained gentle, never going as far as to make you uncomfortable or afraid. After the dreaded study-sessions were over -which Kaigaku insisted on doing in their living room, the scene of you two bonding all too painfully clear for Zenitsu to see- he insisted on walking you home, always texting you if you got home safe like the true gentleman he was.
You couldn’t help but think about him sometimes. Although you audibly despised and disagreed with the way he badmouthed Zenitsu, there was something about his overbearing arrogance and carefree attitude that clung to you. Something enticing about that overbearing sense of self.
You were almost sad when the project was finished. Although you’d never admit it, part of you felt like the whole trajectory ended way too quickly.
Two eyes widened in surprise as soon as the grades were published. A gratifying score of 90/100.
“Hey.” Kaigaku’s low voice spoke as his teal eyes registered the grade. “Let’s work together again sometime soon.”
Fanart for After Hours by @chiharuhashibira. (Warnings it IS NSFW so minors DNI!!!). My takes on adult Zenitsu and Inosuke. Never drew either before so I hope it came out ok.
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Content Warnings: Aged Up / Hurt/Comfort / Slowburn / Romance / College AU / Dance Club / Rivalry / Dark Humour / NTR / Cheating / Emotional Neglect / Secret Relationships / Betrayal / Curse Words / Sexual Scenes / Suggestive Content / MDNI / Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
“I will stay. For now.”
You don’t know what in the world happened, but here you are inside your bedroom, pondering why you had said yes to him for the nth time. The constant buzzing of your air conditioning echoed inside your bedroom as you looked at yourself at the vanity.
It seems to be surreal how your eyes looked emptier than before. The dark circles around them became more prominent, a hint from the sleepless nights that you had endured just because of the endless voices inside your head.
You can’t recognise the reflection in front of you even if it were your own. Is this the price to pay just to be with you… Zenitsu?
The path towards the shadow that you had chosen is slowly ebbing out of your life; you know it. It’s sipping away all of your remaining shame and dignity, so your only option was to look the other way, especially if the sun that you had let go shines so brightly.
Maybe I lost my mind. Right? I lost my mind, for sure.
And yet, the thought of leaving Zenitsu felt like something you also cannot grasp. You had wanted this, right? You had wanted this for so long, and yet the sense of dread and the underlying guilt and pain kept on tugging your heartstrings, and you know quite well that even if you left him without a trace, you’re the one who’ll die with it.
Making love with Inosuke seemed to be a distant memory, slowly vanishing as days go by and as he continued to be your good friend… if that’s how we’ll put it. Actually, if being a ghost also means being good, maybe Inosuke would be the winner.
It isn’t unfair, right? This is what you have wanted—for him to stay away from the thought that he has a chance with you. Thus, you definitely have no right to cry about this.
You finally earned first place over something: being a hypocrite. You became the best at something that you had promised yourself not to do when you were younger.
The memory of the night when you first committed this mistake came to you like a flash.
“So now, tell me… Tell the girl who was always living with the remnants of that love, like a scavenger pushed to the brink of building walls to secure what’s left of her—tell me that love is worth it.”
The incarnation of everything that you have hated—it all became you. Your hatred of romance, your loathing for hurting others, your big ego and pride? They all faded with the wind the day you chose to let your desperation overcome your senses. They all dissipated after you used Inosuke and told him that everything was a mistake the next day—leaving him nothing, even the remnants of his dignity.
The very thing that hurt you when Zenitsu did it, you successfully used as a weapon to kill the remaining light in Inosuke’s eyes. And the worst part? You know it.
His avoidance, his sudden disappearance lately… This wasn’t just some mere coincidence. This was all because of you.
Fear constantly enveloped you as you walked to the university halls. YOU ARE the dance club’s president; people love you—they even used to worship your footsteps. Nothing changed, actually. And yet, because of that fear that swallowed your peace of mind, every step felt like a sin.
Especially when Nezuko is around.
The constant sensation of jealousy itched the core of your soul like a parasite. Her presence reminded you of one of the things that you hated as well. And that is the fact that you had stooped so low just to fill the gaps inside your heart.
If you were her… perhaps everything would be easier? Yes, she can be neglectful, but she’s the chosen one. She’s Zenitsu’s light while he hides you in the dark—shoved you with all his dirty little secrets that shouldn’t have existed in the first place.
Feeling dirty was an understatement. And you know that you didn’t just lose your mind.
I lost myself.
“Y/N… baby. Why are you still awake?”
Zenitsu’s voice should have grounded you. Yet, all it did was keep you floating away from reality.
Watching his reflection from the mirror slapped you. With how messy his hair was and how… naked he was under that duvet, you realised that your Alice Cave became the chamber of secrets.
“Zenitsu… Sorry, I… I was just—”
“Thinking again? I told you, Nezuko didn’t see us earlier. She just passed by the dance studio. I bet she didn’t even know I was there. Ugh… Y/N. Just come here… it’s so cold.”
Two warm arms wrapped around your waist, dragging you back to the bed. “Hmm… Don’t think about her. She’s busy on her commissions anyways.” His breath against you sent you tingles that you can’t control. You leant into Zenitsu’s touch—trying your best to seek comfort from the harsh reality that you will never be her.
“Zenitsu… aren’t you afraid of what we’re doing? Don’t you feel… horrible?”
“Why… do you want to stop?”
“No.” Fuck… no… because if we stopped, I think I'd just shatter to pieces.
It was the truth. You don’t feel alive anymore, and having Zenitsu by your side is your last lifeline. Yes… his heat is the only thing that has been fuelling you—and perhaps his words before about love healing the holes in your heart.
But why does it feel like… there’s nothing that is being healed? It all feels like a… bitter lie to your tongue.
The thought made your stomach flip, and yet, the warmth of being in his arms and the mint scent of his shampoo slowly oozed those sensations all away.
“I promise… soon, we will be free. Okay? Just trust me, Y/N.”
Fucking traitors…
Waking up beside Zenitsu always brings you the fear of him waking up and realising that everything was a mistake—again.
The words that he had thrown you before are still fresh inside your head. “Y/N… Last night… it was a mistake. I shouldn’t have—I wasn’t thinking.”
What if he wakes up now and thinks of that?
“Y/N… Good morning.”
Your eyes widened as Zenitsu pulled you closer to him… His skin felt like fire against yours; you shouldn’t touch it, but… you’re already so addicted to the feeling of being hurt, right? Understanding your state of mind is something that you yourself can’t fathom.
You are hurt, you are scared, and yet you are still here… kissing him back.
Zenitsu tasted like a drug on your tongue. He could be the death of you soon, and yet here you are, addicted to his presence and that attention that you had craved for a long time.
“Can… can I put it in?”
Pills… those little poisons became your best friend for a month. And yes, your protection so that you won't create another sin that will surely wreck both of you.
Oh yes… it has been a month already after I told him that I’ll stay… for now…
What a liar. ‘For now’ felt like forever, especially when you were waiting for him to finally end it with Nezuko.
And the remnants of you being pure? They’re all gone. You were on his bed, and he was in your bed a lot of times already. Especially on those days that everything felt heavy? All you needed to say was, "Yes, of course," and everything would fade into a white light.
Your fingers curl into the cotton of the duvet that was covering you as his heat slowly filled the gap between the two of you. And yes, it felt like a branding iron, leaving you with a lasting mark of this betrayal—this sin that you are committing with your supposedly best friend.
“Zenitsu… so… so deep. Ahh…”
Your breath hitched, trapped behind a throat tight with secrets. Your conscience screamed so loud, and yet your body yielded to his touch as if there were no tomorrow.
This was nothing like the worship Inosuke has given you.
Making love to Zenitsu felt like digging into your core, bringing up all your instincts… needs. And yet, those needs continued to bury your sense of truth and honestly.
“Mmm ahh… So… so good.”
“Shh… I know… you fucking feel so good.”
The mattress became a vast, white sea beneath your back, the fabric bunching uncomfortably under your shoulder blades as his weight finally settled. There was a heavy, inescapable heat to Zenitsu. It was the kind that seemed to seep through your skin and into your bones. Your heart was a frantic thing, hammering a rhythmic protest against your ribs, yet your limbs remained heavy and compliant.
Zenitsu moved with a torturous, agonising slowness, his gaze searching yours for a hesitation that you refused to show. When he finally began to push forward, harder, the sensation was a searing, steady occupation of space.
It should have been a moment of connection, but instead, every inch he gained felt like a fresh betrayal. Your eyes slid shut, the darkness behind your lids instantly filling with the jagged memories of the pain you were keeping.
"Y/N, you alright?" he murmured, the vibration of his voice thrumming against your collarbone.
You couldn't trust your voice to answer. Your throat was too tight, constricted by a thousand unspoken apologies for everyone that you are hurting right now. So you simply arched your back, a silent, traitorous invitation for him to continue. Your fingers curled into the sheets. clutching the duvet until your knuckles ached, desperate for something solid to hold onto as the world began to tilt.
“Fuck… you are so… hot.”
Zenitsu’s mouth slammed against yours; his hips continued to thrust back and forth, giving you everything.
“Zenitsu… Zenitsu… I’m so near.”
“Me too! Ahh…”
The tension in your lower stomach coiled into a tight, frantic knot that finally snapped. A sudden, searing wave of release crashed over you, radiating from your core and trembling through your fingertips.
It was a violent, shuddering collapse that forced a broken sound from your lips—a cry that sounded more like a plea for forgiveness than an expression of joy. Your muscles spasmed, clutching him with a desperate, cloying intensity even as your mind recoiled from the overwhelming intimacy of the act.
As the tremors began to fade, leaving you hollow and aching, he slumped against you. Zenitsu’s forehead rested in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. It was a steady, trusting rhythm that made your chest ache with a fresh surge of loathing. It… it’s so hard to breathe…
Yet, you stayed perfectly still, staring at the dark curtains over the window while the silence of the room rushed back in. The quiet felt heavy, stagnant, and deafening.
“We better prepare… we’ll be late.”
Zenitsu’s words were a sudden splash of freezing water against your senses, shocking you out of the rhythm and forcing the reality of your choices back into the forefront of your mind.
“Oh yes… the uni. We have a performance later.”
The mattress sank as Zenitsu pulled out from you, sitting beside you and pulling you on his lap as if you were lighter than a feather.
“You ready for our routine later, baby?”
The word "baby" fell from his lips with a sincerity that made your heart ache. It should have been a comfort, but instead, it felt like a stolen garment that didn't fit your frame. You sat on Zenitsu’s lap, a silent impostor beneath his touch, while your mind spun a web of guilt that made every one of his soft words feel like a fresh accusation against your character.
And yet, you didn’t let it show. You cannot let it show.
He leaned over the bed, pressing a sweet, lingering kiss to the back of your head that felt like a mark. He whispered a promise to see you at the university later, his voice thick with a casual intimacy that implied a future you knew was a fiction.
“Of course!” It was too cheerful; it didn’t sound like it came from your own throat even. Yet, the lie hung in the air between you both, a brittle mask that hid the spiralling noise in your mind.
As he finally slipped out of the door to head back to his own place, the weight of the silence rushed back into the room. It was a perfect picture of a morning after, a seamless transition from the bed to the day ahead, but it only made the truth feel more corrosive.
After all this… Zenitsu wasn't yours, and this wasn't a shared life; it was just a mistress and her lover playing house in a room that suddenly felt like it belonged to a stranger.
“One… two… three… go!”
The stage lights were a blinding, clinical white, turning the polished wood of the floor into a shimmering lake. As the count finished, the bass drummed in your chest, shaking you out of your sleepy senses and forcing your muscles into a sudden, rehearsed precision.
You were the centre of the world in this moment, the president of the troupe, and Zenitsu moved as your shadow. As your vice president, he was perfectly mirrored in every sharp extension and fluid shift of weight.
Every step you took was weighted with the awareness of his body. Your hand found his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt already damp with the shared heat of the performance. The choreography demanded a level of intimacy that felt like a public confession.
His grip on your waist was firm and possessive, a silent reminder of the nights he spent in your room, and you leaned into the turn with a grace that felt like a beautifully rehearsed lie. Your heart hammered against your ribs, not just from the exertion, but from the electric, dangerous proximity of the man who had made you his secret.
Within the roar of the music, your gaze instinctively flickered toward the wings of the stage. The spot where Inosuke usually stood to wait for his turn was empty.
He had never been absent before, not until that month following the one-night-stand that had shattered the ease between you. Since you told him it was a mistake and begged to stay friends, the goofy, challenging spark in his eyes had simply vanished. A part of him had died that night, replaced by a ghost who attended the club less and less, leaving a void that Zenitsu was all too happy to fill.
It was a bitter irony to feel Zenitsu’s presence increasing, his attendance more frequent than ever, while the one person who used to challenge you was fading away.
Zenitsu pulled you back into a tight embrace for the final sequence, his breath hot against your temple as the music swelled toward the finish. Your vision blurred for a second, the orange glow of the stage lights blending with the sweat on your brow. You felt like an impostor, draped in the prestige of your place and the heat of your lover.
The final beat thundered through the hall, and you struck the closing pose, frozen in Zenitsu’s arms. The applause was a deafening, distant wave, but your chest felt hollow. It was a flawless performance from the president and her vice president. Actually, it was your first public dance together, as Zenitsu had never danced with a partner as a centre before.
But things changed, and his girlfriend was too busy to see it.
However, the emptiness still killed you. As you looked at the empty space where your best friend, Inosuke, should have been, the silence of his absence was louder than the cheering crowd.
The overexertion from your sex last night and this morning, plus the physical demands of your routine with Zenitsu for the club’s performance, was so tiring, and your muscles felt like they would be torn out of your body.
You sat beside Zenitsu, handing him a bottle of water. It was an action that you would usually do with Inosuke, and yet now, he’s not here. “Zen-Zen… Nezuko didn’t come?”
Saying her name out loud felt like exposing yourself—and now you are burning alive with the guilt of crossing the line.
“Nah… Told you, she’s busy with her commissions.”
“Ah…”
“Pig-Head didn’t come?”
Inosuke… It was the first time that Zenitsu had mentioned him. Actually, it was the first time that he had cared about his presence. Am I being too obvious?
These two had maintained a rocky friendship ever since you first met them at twelve years old. In this case, 'rocky' meant eight years of endless disagreements, sharp teasing, and constant bickering. Yet, never in all those years had you seen them truly cold to one another. There was always a heat to their arguments, a spark of life that proved they still cared enough to fight.
However, even if neither of them would ever admit it to your face, it felt as though something significant had shifted beneath the surface level of their relationship. The air between them had grown heavy, stripped of the usual playful malice that once defined their bond. You didn't know the reason for it, but the change was undeniable. It was as if an invisible wall had been erected between them, turning their shared history into a minefield of unspoken tension.
You could sense the fracture, even if you couldn't see the break, and it made the silence of the backstage feel heavy with the weight of things left unsaid.
“I suppose he didn’t. He hasn’t been attending practice lately, remember.”
“Ah…”
The heavy velvet curtains of the backstage area muffled the roar of the crowd, turning the applause into a distant, rhythmic thrum. You pulled Zenitsu toward a shadowed corner, away from the other dancers and the frantic energy of the crew. The sweat was still cooling on your skin, but the heat of the performance had been replaced by a sudden, sharp need for the truth.
“Actually. Is there something that happened between the two of you?”
The question hit him like a physical blow. Zenitsu stiffened, his eyes widening in a flash of genuine shock that he could not quite mask. For a heartbeat, his expression was a raw, open book of panic before he scrambled to pull the shutters down.
He looked away, his fingers nervously fidgeting with the hem of his damp costume, and the denial was already forming on his lips. It was written in the way his jaw tightened and the way he refused to meet your gaze.
“Inosuke doesn’t know about us,” you whispered, stepping closer so the words were for his ears alone. “But even before all this... Something had already changed between the two of you.”
The silence that followed was heavy and jagged. You watched the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed, the guilt you felt for your own secrets mirroring the obvious weight he was carrying.
Zenitsu looked like a man standing on the edge of a precipice, desperate to maintain the lie but crumbling under the pressure of your scrutiny. The goofy, loud-mouthed friend you had known for eight years was gone, replaced by this hollow, guarded version of himself who could not even look you in the eye.
“Nice performance, Monitsu… Boss Lady.”
His voice cut through the backstage gloom like a blade. Your eyes widened, and you suddenly moved away from Zenitsu, the physical distance between you both increasing before you could even process the instinct.
Inosuke stood there, leaning against a stack of equipment crates with a casualness that felt entirely staged. He looked exactly as he always did, yet seeing him after weeks of his mounting absence sent a sharp, painful ache of longing through your chest. It was a traitorous feeling, one you shoved down instantly.
You were Zenitsu’s secret, the person he tucked away in the dark, and that role required you to be composed. And besides… it’s you who had told Inosuke that everything was a mistake, right? And he should forget everything.
Perhaps, being a ghost is his way of forgetting… But damn… I miss you, Inosuke.
Zenitsu’s hand, which had been reaching out toward you only seconds ago, froze in mid-air. He noticed the shift immediately. He felt the way your entire posture changed the moment Inosuke’s shadow fell over the floor.
Zenitsu’s gaze flickered between you and his old friend, a flash of hurt crossing his features. He was the one who held your heart, the one you loved despite the stinging humiliation of being his mistress, yet he was not blind to the way your breath hitched at Inosuke’s arrival.
“Inosuke,” Zenitsu said, his voice tight and lacking its usual warmth. “You actually showed up.”
Inosuke did not answer him. His focus remained on you, his eyes searching your face with a blunt intensity that made your skin burn. There was no teasing remark, no goofy challenge about your footwork.
The silence between the three of you was suffocating, a tangled web of things Inosuke did not know and things Zenitsu wished he could forget. You felt caught in the middle of a war you had started, loving one man who kept you in the shadows while mourning the loss of the one who had always stood in the light with you.
“Nice… seeing you here.”
Your smile was the only thing that kept you from crying right now. And you can’t ponder why the hell you are being confused right now. If you’ll look back to that day when you decided to hurt Inosuke, you were so sure to shove him into the closet inside your head and label him as ‘mistake’.
But right now, seeing him here is a breath of fresh air that you never expected to need. Everything felt like it was back to normal. For a while.
“I’ll always do anything to find you in your Wonderland. Always.”
You told me you’ll always find me in my Wonderland… But where are you now… Inosuke?
The feeling of being left out never came to you whenever Inosuke was around. It was because he’s always chasing your shadow… always appearing whenever you need him. And yet now, he’s nothing but that shadow in the back of your head.
And here you are, feeling… empty despite having the very person that you craved… Zenitsu.
Everything is puzzling… I am tired.
“I… I miss you, Inosuke. Where have you been lately?”
“I’m quitting the dance club.”
Your world stopped. You turned to look at Zenitsu, and there he was, stunned as you were. “What?” he asked, confirming if he had heard it right.
“Inosuke… this is so sudden—”
“You guys are doing well without me. And, I… I’m tired.”
The words did not just fall from his lips; they seemed to tear through the very fabric of the room. You stood frozen, the sweat on your neck turning to ice as you stared at Inosuke. And that shattered you… Is he tired of the dance club… or is he tired of pretending that everything between the two of you is the same?
He looked older, somehow. You just realised it, but the boyish, reckless energy that had been your constant for eight years had been replaced by a heavy, hollow exhaustion that made your chest ache.
"You cannot just quit," Zenitsu said, his voice cracking. He stepped forward, a frantic desperation in his eyes that mirrored your own. "The club... the performance... we are a team. We are supposed to be a team."
Inosuke finally shifted his gaze from you to Zenitsu. The look he gave him was not one of anger, but of a profound, quiet defeat. Inosuke hates defeat, and yet now… all he looked like was a guy ready to surrender everything.
The spark of challenge in his eyes is really gone. You had successfully killed the Inosuke that you used to love so much…
He did not mention the night you had spent with him that became a secret hidden behind closed doors. He simply looked at Zenitsu as if he were a stranger. Inosuke didn’t even mention how Zenitsu told him before to stay as a friend you need—the start of the unsaid competition between them.
"Teams do not feel like this, Monitsu. Everything feels different. It has for a month."
Your breath caught in your throat. You looked at the floor, unable to bear the weight of his stare. Every lie you had told, every moment you had spent pretending that things were normal while you allowed Zenitsu to keep you as a secret, came rushing back.
You felt the stinging irony of your position; you were the president, the one who was supposed to keep everyone together, yet you were the very reason the foundation was crumbling.
"Inosuke, please," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Whatever happened... whatever is wrong... we can fix it. Do not do this. We need you… I need you."
He looked at you, and for a second, the old Inosuke flickered in his eyes—the boy who would do anything to find you. But then the light went out. He did not confess his love, and he did not show the vulnerability you both shared, but the way he looked at you told you that he could feel the distance you had put between you.
Inosuke didn’t know about your nights in Zenitsu's room. He didn’t even know that you had chosen that path, but he knew that the girl who used to be his anchor was now drifting in a sea he could not reach.
"I am just tired," he repeated, his voice barely a whisper. "I am tired of looking for something that is not there anymore."
He turned his back on you both, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floorboards. He did not look back. He did not give you a chance to beg. The door to the backstage area creaked open and then clicked shut, the sound final and deafening. You reached out instinctively, your fingers grasping at the empty air where he had just been standing.
Zenitsu reached for your hand, his touch light and seeking, but you pulled away. The person you craved, the man you loved enough to sacrifice your dignity for, was standing right beside you, yet you had never felt more alone. The silence Inosuke left behind was a physical presence, a cold vacuum that sucked the air from your lungs.
You stared at the closed door, the reality of his departure sinking into your bones like lead. He was not just quitting a club. He was letting go of the thread that had held the three of you together since you were children.
And as you stood there in the dark, surrounded by the ghosts of your choices, you realised that while you were busy holding onto Zenitsu in the shadows, you had let the only person who truly saw you walk right out of the door.
The silence that followed the heavy click of the door was worse than any argument they had ever had in eight years. It wasn't the fiery, loud friction of your childhood; it was the cold, hollow sound of a bond finally snapping under a weight it was never meant to carry.
Zenitsu stood beside you, his breathing shallow and hitched. You could feel his eyes on you, searching for a reaction, perhaps waiting for you to turn back to him so he could comfort you. But his presence felt suffocating.
Every time he reached out, you were reminded of the hidden room, the hushed whispers, and the way he had quietly allowed your best friend to drift away while he moved into the space Inosuke left behind.
"He’ll come back," Zenitsu whispered, though he sounded like he was trying to convince himself. "He’s just being dramatic. You know how he is."
"He’s not being dramatic, Zenitsu," you said, your voice sounding dead even to your own ears. "He’s gone."
You looked down at your hands, still trembling from the adrenaline of the dance. These were the hands that had held Inosuke’s as you navigated the terrors of being twelve, the hands that had pushed him in play, and the hands that had once, in a moment of desperate confusion, reached for him in the dark. And now, they were the hands of a president who had presided over the destruction of her own inner circle.
You felt a tear finally track through the heavy stage makeup on your cheek, carving a cold path down your skin. You loved Zenitsu—you loved the way he made you feel seen in the dark—but at this moment, looking at him was like looking at the evidence of your own betrayal. He was the man who had made you a mistress, a secret to be kept, while Inosuke was the one who had always wanted to find you in the light.
"I have to go," you murmured, stepping out of the reach of Zenitsu’s hand before he could touch you.
"Where? The after-party is starting, we have to lead—"
"I don't care about the party," you snapped, the sudden sharp edge of your voice making him flinch.
You walked toward the stage exit, the sequins on your costume catching the dim backstage lights, mocking you with their sparkle. You had just given the performance of your life, a flawless display of synchronicity with your vice president, but as you stepped out into the night air, the cool wind felt like a slap.
Inosuke was gone. He didn't know about the sex; he didn't know about the affair, and he didn't know why the air had turned sour—but he had felt the loss of you anyway. He had felt the "mistake" you made with him being buried under the weight of your devotion to Zenitsu.
He had been chasing a shadow for a month, and today, he had finally realised that the shadow didn't have a heart anymore.
You leaned against the cold brick wall of the theatre, sliding down until your knees hit the pavement. You were the star. You were the beloved mistress of your other best friend. And yet, as you listened to the distant muffled cheers from inside, you realised you had traded your Wonderland for a gilded cage, and the boy who knew the way back had just thrown away the map.
And there you realised that you never really wanted to be Nezuko… You just wanted to be your old self…Maybe if I were her… this wouldn’t happen.
My heaaaart! Thank you for reading this and I am really sorry that this took soooooo long!
There are just so many irl stuff that are falling into me lately XD But yesssss! Thank you as always for reading!
Also, you see, this is a very hard chapter to write. I meeeaaaan, Y/N is so indecisive that I want to go in the story to slap her really XD But that's her... HAHAHA
