#kny reader insert

"I'll do my best to behave from now on," he promised as he pulled away, still smiling down at you. "Or at least while we're in the onsen." The wind hashira's eyes glinted playfully, and you couldn't help but chuckle at him.

"Thank you, my love," you said, pulling him back down into another kiss. Though you allowed the touch to linger for a moment, you did eventually pull away, settling back down with your head resting against his shoulder. When he adjusted his hold on your waist and shifted your position again, you didn't protest, trusting him not to cause you any pain or discomfort.

You ended up sitting with your back pressed to his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your skin a song you hoped you'd never hear the end of. The two of you sat there for a few moments, enjoying the view of the mountains in the distance. Silence settled over you, but it wasn't uncomfortable – it was peaceful, in fact, a pleasant reprieve from the chaos and danger that filled every other day of your lives.

After a few moments, Sanemi loosened his hold around your waist, lifting his hands to your shoulders. The heat of his palms on your skin matched the water that surrounded you, and as his fingers began to press into your shoulder blades, you practically melted into his touch.

Almost as familiar with your body as he was his own, he worked the tension from your muscles with ease, slowly making his way down your arms. He took special care as he reached your wrists where he knew you had the most lingering pain, gentling his touch a bit and using the hot water a bit more to ease your discomfort, even if you both knew it was only temporary.

Eventually, once he had massaged the away the tension and the pain in your hands, he turned them over so your palms rested against his own, and delicately laced your fingers together. The act made you smile, and you tilted your head back to look up at him. Sanemi was already looking at you as did, the look in his eyes speaking his feelings for you louder than any words ever could.

"I love you, Sanemi," you murmured, giving his hands a light squeeze.

Squeezing your hands gently in return, he tipped his head down to steal a kiss from your lips. A soft hum escaped you at the touch, and you easily returned the affection. One kiss easily melted into another, then another, then another, and you only pulled away when you finally needed to breathe.

Still settled back against your husband's chest, you were a bit surprised to see snowflakes falling from the sky. They didn't last long, all of the ones closest to you melting as soon as they met the steam rising from the water, but they continued to come down, slowly dusting the landscape white.

"It's early for snow," you mused, mostly to yourself; it wasn't quite December yet, so though you knew it would be cold, you hadn't expected such wintry weather.

"Just means I'll have to keep you extra warm tonight," Sanemi murmured against your ear, the feeling of his breath across your skin making you squirm and giggle faintly. The chuckle that spilled from his lips in response rumbled pleasantly from his chest and into your ribs, the vibrations grounding you even further in the intimacy of the moment.

"C'mon, baby," he said after a moment, disentangling his hands from yours and pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. "Let's get inside before it gets too cold out here. Can't have my beautiful wife freezing to death on my birthday."

You rolled his eyes at his teasing words, but once he was out of the water and offering you a hand out, you easily accepted. "I guess that would make for a rather unpleasant memory," you responded seriously, though you couldn't manage to keep the playful smile from tugging at the corner of your lips.

"It would," Sanemi agreed, grinning as he pulled you close, wrapping a towel around you as he kissed your forehead. "I'd much rather enjoy dinner and fall asleep with you in my arms."

"No dessert?"

"No need, you're all the sweets I need."

The compliment sent an unexpected heat to your cheeks, and you turned away, holding your towel secure as you made your way back to your room. "That's a shame," you called over your shoulder, "Because I brought some homemade ohagi with us to celebrate."

There was a pause, and when you glanced behind you, Sanemi had started to hurry after you, completely nude, and you couldn't help but laugh at the sight. "Sanemi, your towel! You can't walk naked through the ryokan!"

Your husband groaned, turning back and dutifully returning for his towel, securing it around his waist before rushing back to catch up to you again. "You made ohagi for me?"

"I did. But I'm not telling you where I hid them until after dinner."

He let out a long sigh, but it was clear his mood wasn't actually soured. "Fine," he conceded, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and bringing you into his side. "Thank you, my love," he added after a moment, leaning over and kissing your temple softly. "Today has been wonderful."

"You're welcome, Sanemi. Happy birthday, my love."

also tysm to @eliza-and-her-monsters for beta reading this for me, you're a lifesaver 💜

taglist:

@mitsuristoleme @redlikerozez @oceaneyesinla @pixelcafe-network @cherrisuki 

@lemonloaves @stuckinthewrongworld @hayatoseyepatch @peachdues

@togame-hoe @sootspritestar @roselleviennesstuff @awksrambles @alt--er--love 

Part Five: The Taste Of Home

The sliding doors of the Butterfly Mansion didn't creak, but the silence following their closure felt heavy enough to bruise. It’d been four hours since the chaos at Akazuki. Four hours since the scent of toasted sesame and expensive wood was replaced by the clinical, biting sting of medicinal alcohol and wisteria incense. You sat on the edge of a pristine white futon, your right arm encased in a cool, damp compress that Shinobu had applied with the terrifyingly efficient grace of a master surgeon.

The room was bathed in the pale, watery blue of moonlight filtering through the shoji screens. It was quiet. Too quiet. You could hear the distant, rhythmic drip of a water basin in the garden and the occasional soft rustle of a nurse’s uniform in the hallway. Your lip throbbed where it’d been split, a steady, pulsing reminder of Kenji’s arrival. But the bruise on your arm was worse. It felt like a hot iron was pressed against the bone.

Shinobu had been gentle. When Sanemi had hauled you through the gates, looking like he’d just survived a landslide and was ready to cause another one, she hadn't asked a dozen questions. She’d just looked at your face, then at the blood on Sanemi’s knuckles, and pointed toward an examination room. Sanemi had explained it in short, jagged bursts of words. He’d talked about the door. He’d mentioned the man. He hadn't mentioned the kiss, but the way he’d looked at you the entire time he spoke had told its own story.

"You’re safe here," Shinobu had said, her voice a calm, unwavering chord that cut through your shock. "I promise you, if that man so much as breathes near these gates, he’ll find out exactly how many ways a person can regret existing. Shinazugawa-san was right to bring you."

Sanemi had stayed until the bandages were set. He’d paced the small room like a caged animal, his shadow flickering against the walls, huge and jagged. He’d looked like he wanted to say something—ten different things, maybe—but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he’d just grunted, told you to sleep, and disappeared into the night.

You missed him the second he left.

It was a ridiculous feeling. You were a grown woman. You ran a successful business. You’d handled difficult suppliers, erratic weather, and the relentless pressure of a dinner rush for years. You were independent. You’d built your life from the ground up, refusing to be a footnote in any man’s story. Yet, as you sat there in the dark, you couldn't stop thinking about the way his scarred hand had felt against your waist. It hadn't been an act of ownership. It’d been a shield.

To everyone else, Sanemi was a terror. He was a man of scars and shouting, a storm given human form. But you’d seen the way he looked at the stitching on his haori. You’d seen the way his eyes softened, just for a fraction of a second, when he realized you weren't afraid of him.

He was a good man. The realization hit you with more force than Kenji’s fist ever could. He wasn't just a protector because it was his job. He was a protector because his soul was built for it. You found yourself tracing the edge of your futon, your mind replaying the moment you’d pressed your lips to his. It’d been a desperate, impulsive act, born from a mix of adrenaline and the sudden, overwhelming realization that he was everything you’d ever wanted.

You felt like you’d just met your husband. The thought made you want to laugh and cry at the same time. It was fast. It was insane. But in a world where demons ate people and doors were splintered by the ghosts of a past you tried to outrun, maybe fast was the only way love knew how to happen.

…

Three miles away, the Wind Estate was anything but quiet.

Sanemi didn't bother lighting the lanterns in the main hall. He didn't need them. He knew every floorboard, every corner, every shadow of this place. He marched through the dojo, his boots thudding against the polished wood with a violence that echoed in the rafters. His heart was still hammering against his ribs, a frantic, angry rhythm that wouldn't let up.

He stopped at the center of the training floor and let out a breath that was more of a snarl. He reached into his uniform and pulled out a scrap of parchment and a charcoal pencil. His handwriting was like the man himself—sharp, aggressive, and impatient.

"Uzui," he wrote. "The restaurant. Akazuki. I broke the door. The whole frame. I need your best carpenters there tomorrow at dawn. I don't care about the cost. Just fix it. Make it stronger than it was before."

He whistled, a sharp, piercing sound that cut through the night air. A moment later, Sorai, his Kasugai crow, fluttered down from the rafters and landed on his shoulder with a soft rustle of feathers.

"Take this to Uzui," Sanemi growled, tying the message to the bird’s leg. "Don't stop. Don't dally. If he’s asleep, peck him until he wakes up."

Sorai let out a disgruntled caw, ruffled his wings, and took off into the moonlight. Sanemi watched the bird vanish over the tree line, his jaw tightening until his teeth ached. He should’ve stayed. He should’ve stayed at the Butterfly Mansion and sat outside her door until the sun came up. He didn't trust the world right now. He didn't trust that the scum he’d thrown into the dirt wouldn't find a way back.

But he knew Shinobu. She was a master of poisons and hidden blades. She’d keep you safe. And he knew you needed rest—real rest—away from the smell of splintered wood and the sight of his own rage.

He stripped off his haori, the one you’d mended. He folded it with a care that would’ve shocked anyone who knew him, placing it on a clean stand. Then, he grabbed a heavy wooden bokken from the rack.

He didn't start with a form. He started with a strike.

The wooden sword whistled through the air, connecting with the padded training dummy with a sound like a bone snapping. Sanemi didn't see the dummy. He saw Kenji’s face. He saw that slicked-back hair and that arrogant, proprietary smirk.

"Mine," the man had said.

Sanemi’s vision blurred with a sudden, hot wash of red. He swung again. Thud. The dummy rocked back on its base. He didn't stop. He moved into a flurry of strikes, his feet shifting with the precision of a predator.

He hated men like Kenji. He didn't just hate them; he loathed them with a fervor that was rooted deep in his own marrow. Seeing that man's hand on your arm, seeing the way he’d twisted your limb as if you were nothing more than a stubborn piece of livestock, had triggered something ancient and dark in Sanemi’s chest.

It reminded him of the sound of his mother’s muffled sobs. It reminded him of the way his father’s shadow used to stretch across the doorway of their cramped house, a harbinger of pain and smell of cheap sake. He remembered the feeling of being small, of being helpless, of watching the woman who was the center of his world be reduced to a punching bag for a man who claimed to love her.

He’d vowed, years ago, that he’d never be that man. He’d vowed that he’d use his strength to ensure no one else ever had to feel that helplessness.

But you weren't his mother. You weren't helpless.

That was what made his heart ache in a way he didn't know how to handle. You were a master of your own world. He’d watched you command that kitchen. He’d seen the way you held your head high, the way you handled the most powerful warriors in the country without flinching. You had passion. You had skill. You’d built an empire out of flour and spice and sheer, unyielding will.

You were the most incredible thing he’d ever seen.

And that piece of shit had tried to break you. He’d tried to turn your brilliance into property. He’d tried to put a leash on a woman who was meant to fly.

Sanemi let out a roar, a raw, guttural sound that tore from his throat as he delivered a vertical strike that cracked the wooden bokken right down the center. The dummy collapsed, its padding torn, its frame leaning at a broken angle.

He stood there, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his chin onto the floorboards. His hands were cramping from the force of his grip. He looked at the broken sword in his hands and threw the pieces across the room.

"Damn it," he whispered, his voice cracking.

He walked over to the open veranda and leaned against the railing, looking out at the dark silhouette of the mountains. The anger was still there, but it was cooling into something else. Something steadier.

He was falling. He knew it. It wasn't a slow descent; it was a cliff dive. He’d spent his whole life building walls, convinced that love was a liability and that softness was a death sentence. He’d lived on a diet of rage and duty, convinced that he was nothing more than a weapon meant to be used until it shattered.

But then he’d smelled that sweet plum and toasted sesame on the street. He’d felt the weight of you in his arms. He’d seen the way you didn't look away from his scars, but looked through them, as if they were just a map of where he’d been, not who he was.

He wanted to protect you. Not because you couldn't protect yourself, but because you shouldn't have to. He wanted to be the wall that the world crashed against so you could keep creating your art. He wanted to see you smile again, the real one, the one that made your eyes sparkle and his brain go numb.

…

Back at the Butterfly Mansion, you’d finally drifted into a light, fitful sleep. You dreamed of a kitchen that was also a dojo. You were wearing a white apron, and Sanemi was standing at the pass, his haori pristine, his face free of scowls. He was tasting a sauce, his eyes closed in concentration, and when he looked up, he was smiling. Not the kidney-stone smile, but a soft, private thing meant only for you.

You woke up when the first hint of gray light began to bleed through the shoji. Your arm was stiff, the pain a dull ache now. You sat up, shivering slightly in the early morning chill.

There was a soft knock on the door.

"Are you awake?" Shinobu’s voice was hushed.

"Yes," you said, your voice raspy from sleep.

The door slid open. Shinobu stood there, already in her uniform, a tray of tea and light broth in her hands. She looked rested, though you knew she’d likely been up half the night tending to the wounded slayers in the other wards.

"How’s the arm?" she asked, setting the tray down on a low table.

"Better," you lied, though the broth smelled heavenly. "Thank you, Kocho-san. For everything."

Shinobu sat across from you, her expression unreadable. "You don't need to thank me. You’re a friend of the Corps now. And besides," she added, a small, mischievous glint appearing in her eyes, "I’ve never seen Shinazugawa-san so... agitated. It’s quite entertaining."

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks. "He was just being kind."

"Was he?" Shinobu tilted her head. "I’ve seen him save hundreds of people. I’ve seen him carry wounded slayers on his back for miles. He’s always efficient. He’s always loud. But I’ve never seen him look at someone the way he looked at you when he thought I wasn't watching."

You took a sip of the broth, using the bowl to hide your face. "How did he look?"

"Like he’d just realized the world was a lot bigger than he thought it was," Shinobu said softly. "He’s a complicated man. He’s been hurt in ways that don't show up as scars. He thinks he’s a monster because that’s what he’s had to be to survive."

She reached out and patted your hand, her touch cool and steady. "But you... you make him want to be a man. There’s a difference."

You looked at her, your heart throat-bound. "I think I’m in love with him."

Shinobu didn't look surprised. She just nodded once. "I know. And I suspect he’s in the same predicament. Which means you both have a very long, very loud road ahead of you."

She stood up, smoothing her uniform. "Eat your breakfast. A message came from the district. Uzui-san’s carpenters are already at your restaurant. They’re working on the door. He sent a note saying it would be 'flamboyantly indestructible' by noon."

You laughed, a genuine, light sound that made the room feel warmer. "Of course he did."

"Shinazugawa-san will likely be here within the hour," Shinobu added, heading for the door. "He’ll want to take you to the market. He mentioned something about fish."

You looked down at your bandaged arm. You looked at the reflection of the morning sun in your tea. You weren't a refugee anymore. You were a woman with a purpose. And a man who was willing to break the world to keep you safe.

At the Wind Estate, Sanemi was already dressed. He’d showered, the cold water doing nothing to dampen the fire in his veins. He stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his haori. He looked at his face—the scars, the sharp lines of his jaw, the eyes that always seemed to be searching for a fight.

He tried to soften his expression. He relaxed his brow. He let his shoulders drop.

He didn't look like a monster. He just looked like a man who hadn't slept.

He grabbed a small silk pouch from his desk. Inside were several high-denomination coins. He’d never cared much for money, but he was glad he had it now. He’d buy you the best fish in the market. He’d buy you every sea bream in the district if it made you happy.

He walked out of the estate, the morning air crisp and smelling of pine. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and bruised purple.

He started toward the Butterfly Mansion, his pace steady and purposeful. He had a date. He had a mission. And for the first time in his life, he wasn't thinking about the dead. He was thinking about the living.

He was thinking about you.

As he reached the gates of the mansion, he saw you standing on the veranda. You were wearing a simple kimono the nurses had lent you, your arm in a sling, your hair messy but beautiful. The light hit you, and for a second, Sanemi forgot how to breathe.

You saw him and smiled. It was the smile. The one with the dimples.

Sanemi didn't scowl. He didn't glower. He just stopped, his heart doing that stupid, violent thump, and he realized that Tengen was right.

He was going to have to learn to fly. Because a woman like you deserved nothing less than the sky.

He walked up to the veranda, stopping a few feet away. He looked at your arm, then your lip, then your eyes.

"Ready?" he grunted.

You nodded, your eyes shining. "Ready."

"The sea bream," he said, as if it were a battle cry. "We’re getting the best ones."

"I expect nothing less, Shinazugawa-san," you teased.

He felt a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. A real one. It didn't hurt. It didn't feel like a snarl. It just felt right.

"Let’s go," he said, turning toward the gates.

You fell into step beside him, your shoulder brushing his arm. The walk to the market was quiet, but it wasn't the silence of a funeral. It was the silence of a beginning.

Sanemi walked a little closer to you, his hand hovering near yours, ready to catch you if you stumbled, ready to strike if the world dared to get in your way. He was a wolf, a guardian, a Hashira. But as the sun rose over the district, he realized he was also something else.

He was a man falling hard and fast. And he was never going to let you go.

The market was already bustling by the time you arrived. The scent of salt, ice, and fresh catch filled the air. Merchants were shouting, bells were ringing, and the ground was wet from the morning’s wash-down.

Sanemi moved through the crowd like a hot knife through butter. People parted for him, eyes widening as they recognized the white haori and the scarred face. But he didn't notice them. He only had eyes for you, making sure no one jostled your injured arm, his hand firmly on the hilt of his blade as a silent warning to anyone who got too close.

"There," he said, pointing to a stall at the far end of the row. "That’s the one you mentioned. The sea bream."

The vendor, an old man with skin like parchment, looked up as you approached. He saw Sanemi and nearly dropped his scales.

"Shinazugawa-sama!" he squeaked.

"The fish," Sanemi growled, but he kept his voice lower than usual. "The best bream you’ve got. For the Chef."

The old man looked at you, then back at Sanemi, a slow realization dawning on his face. He bowed low. "Of course! Only the finest for Akazuki! I have a shipment that just came in from the coast. Pristine!"

You stepped forward, inspecting the fish with the practiced eye of a master. You pointed out the ones you wanted, your voice clear and authoritative, even with the sling. Sanemi stood back, watching you. He watched the way your eyes lit up when you found a perfect specimen. He watched the way you talked to the vendor, respectful but firm.

He’d never felt so much pride in his life.

When the transaction was done, Sanemi handed over the coins before you could even reach for your purse. He grabbed the heavy crates of fish, hoisting them onto his shoulder as if they weighed nothing at all.

"I can help," you said, reaching out with your good hand.

"No," Sanemi snapped, then caught himself. He took a breath. "No. You’re injured. I’ve got it."

"You’re going to carry three crates of fish all the way back to the district?"

"I’ve carried bigger things," he grunted.

You laughed and shook your head. "You’re impossible."

"Hn."

The walk back to Akazuki was slower. The crates were heavy, but Sanemi didn't slow down. He walked beside you, his presence a solid, unmoving wall between you and the rest of the world.

When you reached the restaurant, you stopped dead.

The door was fixed. It wasn't just fixed; it was magnificent. The wood was a deep, rich cedar, reinforced with heavy iron bands that had been worked into the shape of swirling clouds—Tengen’s touch. It looked like the entrance to a fortress, elegant and terrifyingly strong.

A note was pinned to the center of the wood in flamboyant calligraphy.

"A queen needs a proper gate. Don't let the wind blow it down. —Uzui."

Sanemi growled at the note, but you could see the relief in his shoulders. He set the crates down by the side entrance and looked at the new door.

"It’ll hold," he said.

"It’s beautiful," you whispered, running your hand over the smooth wood.

You turned to him, the morning sun casting long shadows across the street. You wanted to thank him again. You wanted to tell him that he was the most incredible man you’d ever met. You wanted to tell him that you were yours, if he’d have you.

But you didn't have to.

Sanemi looked at you, his face serious, his eyes searching yours. He reached out, his calloused thumb brushing the edge of your jaw, just below the bruise.

"I’m coming back," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a promise. "Tonight. After closing."

"I’ll have ohagi ready," you said, your voice trembling.

"Good."

He turned and started walking back toward the Headquarters, his haori flaring out behind him. He didn't look back, but he didn't have to. You could feel his presence, his strength, his love, hanging in the air like the scent of toasted sugar.

You opened the new door and stepped into your kitchen. The smell of cedar was fresh, mixing with the lingering ghost of spices. You were home. You were safe.

And you were waiting for the night.

…

Sanemi didn't believe in ghosts, but his lips were haunted. He stood in the center of his dojo, the silence of the Wind Estate pressing against his eardrums. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the ghost of a pressure. It was a frantic, desperate thing—the way you'd surged up on your toes and claimed a piece of him he hadn't known was for sale. It wasn't a soft kiss. It wasn't something out of those flowery novels Mitsuri was always crying over. It was a crash. It was the sound of a wall coming down.

He touched his mouth with his thumb, his calloused skin catching on the scar that ran across his cheek. He couldn't believe it. He'd spent his life as a weapon, a jagged piece of steel meant to be swung until it shattered, and yet you'd looked at him—blood-stained, terrifying, a monster in his own mind—and you'd kissed him.

"Damn it," he muttered, the words a low vibration in his chest.

He needed to get ready. He had a date. The word felt like a death sentence, but one he was eager to serve. He'd washed the scent of Kenji and splintered wood off his skin, but he couldn't scrub away the nerves. 

A sudden, sharp thud at his door made him jump. He nearly drew his blade before he recognized the rhythm of the knock. It was too loud. Too self-assured.

"Shinazugawa! I know you're in there! Open up before I flamboyantly decide to kick this door in too!"

Sanemi groaned, dropping his hands. "Go away, Uzui! I'm busy!"

The door didn't wait for an invitation. It slid open with a dramatic bang, revealing Tengenin all his over-the-top glory. He wasn't wearing his standard uniform; he had on a silk kimono that cost more than most people's houses, and his headband was practically blinding in the late afternoon sun. He leaned against the doorframe, a smug, knowing grin plastered across his face.

"Busy? Busy doing what? Practicing your 'I’m not a total disaster' face in the mirror?" Tengen sauntered into the room, his eyes scanning Sanemi with the clinical precision of a man who'd spent years perfecting his own aesthetic. "You look like you're preparing for a war, not a night of sweet rice balls. Your shoulders are up to your ears. Relax. You’re going to scare the poor girl into a different prefecture."

"I don't need your advice," Sanemi snapped, finally getting his uniform to sit right. He reached for his haori and pulled it on. The warmth of the fabric felt like a shield. "And she's not a 'poor girl'. She's tougher than you'll ever be."

Tengen’s grin didn't falter. He hopped up and sat on the edge of Sanemi’s low table, swinging his leg. "Oh, I don't doubt that. Anyone who can handle your temperament and still want to feed you deserves a medal. But seriously, Shinazugawa, have you considered a gift? Flowers? A new set of knives? Maybe a personality that doesn't involve constant growling?"

Sanemi ignored him, moving to a small cabinet to find a clean pouch for his coins. He felt the heat rising in his neck. He wasn't going to tell Tengen about the kiss. He wasn't going to give him that satisfaction. But Tengen wasn't just a loudmouth; he was a hunter. He noticed everything.

The flamboyant Hashira’s expression shifted. The mockery faded, replaced by something sharper. "I saw the restaurant. My carpenters sent word. They said the door didn't just break. They said the whole frame was pulverized. Like someone had been thrown through it with the force of a falling mountain."

Sanemi went still. He didn't look back. "He had his hands on her, Tengen."

The silence that followed was rare for Uzui. It wasn't heavy, but it was serious. "Who did? An ex-lover?"

"Yeah," Sanemi growled, his hand clenching into a fist. "He broke in. He thought he could just take her back. Called her his property. Said she belonged to him like she was some kind of animal." He turned around then, his eyes burning with a dark, cold fire. "I didn't use my sword. I didn't want to give him the honor of a slayer's death. I just... I taught him that he's a bug. And bugs get crushed."

Tengen nodded slowly. He didn't laugh. He didn't make a joke. "Good. You did exactly what a man should do. You protected your woman."

Sanemi’s face went from pale to a deep, agonizing crimson in a heartbeat. "She's... she's not my woman! We're just... I'm just getting ohagi with her because she's a citizen and I'm a Hashira and it's my duty to—"

Tengen let out a loud, disbelieving bark of laughter that echoed through the entire estate. He leaned back, holding his stomach. "Duty? You’re going to use the 'duty' card? Shinazugawa, you’re a terrible liar! You’re head over heels! You’ve got it bad!"

"Shut up!" Sanemi roared, grabbing a wooden sandals and throwing it at Tengen’s head. Tengen caught it with one hand, still laughing.

"Go on then, you hero," Tengen teased, sliding off the table. "Go get your ohagi. But listen to me for once. Don't go in there and act like a soldier. She knows you're strong. She knows you can kill things. Show her that you can be... well, whatever it is you hide under all that scar tissue. Show her that she's safe not just because you have a sword, but because you have a heart."

He walked toward the door, pausing at the threshold. "And Shinazugawa? If you mess this up, Tomioka is actually going to kill you. He’s already asked me twice if I think the dessert menu is going to expand once you two get married."

"GET OUT!"

Tengen vanished into the garden, his laughter trailing behind him like a colorful ribbon. Sanemi stood there for a long time, breathing hard. Married. The word was a heavy weight, but it didn't feel wrong. It felt like an anchor. He shook his head, trying to clear the image of you in a wedding kimono from his mind. It was too much. He wasn't ready for that kind of thinking.

He checked himself one last time. He looked clean. He looked like a man who was trying. He stepped out of the dojo and into the cooling evening air.

The walk to Akazuki was a blur. He found himself taking a scenic route, passing through a small park near the edge of the district. The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of bruised gold and deep violet. He stopped near a patch of wild flowers growing by a stone wall. They weren't roses. They weren't flashy or expensive. They were simple, white and yellow blossoms that looked resilient. They looked like they could survive a storm.

He reached down and picked a small handful, his rough, scarred fingers moving with a delicacy that would've baffled his subordinates. He felt like an idiot. A Hashira with a bouquet of weeds. But he remembered Tengen’s voice. Show her she’s safe.

He arrived at Akazuki just as the final light was fading. The new door looked magnificent in the twilight—thick cedar with iron bands that looked like they could withstand a siege. He reached out and touched the wood, feeling the strength of it. He pushed it open, the bell chiming a soft, welcoming note.

The restaurant was quiet. The chairs were already turned over on the tables, and the smell of the day's spices had settled into a warm, comforting hum. He saw you near the back, at the bar where he'd sat just days before.

He stopped. His heart stopped.

You weren't wearing your chef's trousers or your black tunic. You were wearing a kimono the color of a summer twilight—a deep, dusty blue with small, pale flowers scattered across the hem. Your hair wasn't bound up in a practical wrap; it was styled softly, pinned back with a single lacquer hairpin that caught the light. You'd done your makeup, just a touch of color on your lips and a glow to your skin that made you look ethereal.

You looked so beautiful it hurt.

You looked up and saw him, and the smile that broke across your face was brighter than any lantern. "Shinazugawa-san! You're here."

Sanemi stood there like a statue, the flowers gripped in his hand. He felt like he was vibrating. He couldn't speak. He couldn't even grunt. He just stared at you, his mind a chaotic mess of too beautiful and how is she real?

"Are those... for me?" You gestured to his hand, your voice tilting with a hint of a tease.

Sanemi looked down at the flowers as if he'd forgotten they existed. He stepped forward, his boots clicking on the floor, and thrust them toward you. "They were... by the path," he growled. "Thought they looked... not terrible."

You took them, your fingers brushing his, and he felt that jolt again—the one that made his blood sing. You brought the flowers to your nose, closing your eyes. "They're lovely, Sanemi. Truly. Thank you."

You placed them in a small jar of water you had ready on the counter. "I've been looking forward to this all day. Sit. Please. I have the ohagi ready."

He sat on the stool, but he felt too big for the space. He felt like he was encroaching on something sacred. You sat across from him, the wood of the bar the only thing between you. The intimacy was different tonight. Last night had been about survival, about blood and terror. Tonight was about this—the quiet, the glow of the lanterns, and the way you were looking at him as if he were the most important thing in the world.

"How's the arm?" he asked, his voice low.

You moved your right arm, which was still wrapped in a clean bandage under your sleeve. "It's stiff. A bit sore. But Kocho-san is a miracle worker. The bruising is already going down. And the door..." You looked over your shoulder at the new entrance. "It's incredible. Uzui-san’s people were so fast. I feel like I'm living in a fortress now."

"It's what you deserve," Sanemi said. The words came out before he could stop them. He looked away, his jaw tightening. "You shouldn't have to worry about... things like him. Not ever again."

You reached out, your hand hovering over his on the counter. You didn't touch him yet, but he could feel the heat of you. "I know he's gone, Sanemi. I can feel it. The way you handled him... I've never felt so protected in my life. It changed things. For me."

He looked back at you. Your golden eyes were steady. "What things?"

"Everything," you whispered. "I've spent so long being the one who has to be strong. The one who has to run the kitchen, handle the staff, deal with the world. I forgot what it felt like to have someone stand in front of me. To have someone say not her. It made me realize that I don't want to be alone anymore."

Sanemi felt a lump in his throat. He wanted to tell you that he’d never leave you alone. He wanted to tell you that he’d burn the whole world down if it meant you could keep smiling. But the words were stuck. He was a man of action, not of speeches.

"I'm not good at this," he managed to say. "The talking. The... soft stuff. I'm a mess. I've got a temper that could level a forest and enough scars to cover three men. I'm not... I'm not what a woman like you should want."

You didn't hesitate. You slid your hand over his, your fingers interlocking with his scarred ones. Your touch was firm. "You're exactly what I want, Shinazugawa Sanemi. Scars and all. Especially the scars. They just show me how much you've endured. They show me that you're a man who knows the value of what he's protecting."

The chemistry between you was a physical force. It was the weight in the air, the electricity that crackled every time your skin touched. He found himself mesmerized by the way your lips moved as you spoke—the way they curved, the way the light hit the split that was already healing. He wanted to kiss you again so badly his teeth ached. He wanted to pull you across the counter and never let you go.

But then you smiled and reached for a small, lacquer tray. "But first, a show of gratitude from me. The real one."

On the tray were two plates of ohagi. They were perfect—sweet rice balls coated in a rich, dark red bean paste. They looked simple, traditional, and exactly like the ones his mother used to make on the rare days when they had enough money for sugar.

"I made these myself," you said, your voice softening. "I know you like them. I wanted them to be perfect."

Sanemi picked one up. His hand was steady now. He took a bite.

The world vanished.

It wasn't just the taste, it was the texture, the perfect balance of the salt in the rice and the deep, earthy sweetness of the beans. But more than that, it was the feeling. It was a rush of memory so potent it nearly knocked the wind out of him. He saw his mother’s kitchen. He felt the warmth of the fire. He remembered a time before the demons, before the blood, when the only thing that mattered was the sweetness on his tongue and the sound of his mother’s humming.

He thought he’d gone to heaven. A single, hot tear pricked the corner of his eye, and he quickly blinked it away, but he couldn't hide the look on his face.

You were watching him, your own ohagi forgotten. You saw the shift in his eyes—the way the hardness melted away, leaving something younger, something vulnerable behind. You saw the nostalgia, the raw, pure emotion of a man who’d finally found a piece of home.

"Is it... okay?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.

Sanemi swallowed, his throat tight. He looked at the ohagi, then at you. He looked like a different person. The lines of his face were relaxed, his eyes wide and clear. He looked like the boy he should have been allowed to be.

"It's..." he started, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and tried again. "It's the best I've ever had. It tastes like... it tastes like I'm safe."

You felt your own heart swell with a joy so intense it was almost painful. You’d wanted to feed him, but you hadn't realized you were feeding his soul. You reached out and wiped a stray crumb from the corner of his mouth, your thumb lingering on his lip.

Sanemi couldn't find the words. There weren't any words in the Japanese language—or any other—that could describe what he was feeling right now. He looked at you, at your beautiful face, at the way the lantern light made your eyes sparkle, and he knew. He knew with a certainty that was more solid than his Nichirin blade.

He was in love with you. He was falling, and for the first time in his life, he didn't want to catch himself.

He didn't say a word. Instead, he reached across the counter. His movement was quick but not aggressive. He grabbed the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in the soft hair at your nape, holding you in place with a firm, possessive grip.

He pulled you toward him, and this time, he was the one who initiated it.

The kiss wasn't like the one from the night before. That had been a desperate thank you. This was a declaration. It was passionate, hungry, and full of a heat that had been building for days. His lips were firm against yours, tasting of sweet beans and longing. He kissed you as if he were trying to memorize the very soul of you, as if he could pull the breath right out of your lungs and keep it for himself.

You responded instantly, your hands coming up to grip his forearms, your body leaning into the counter as you tried to get closer to him. The world around you dissolved—the restaurant, the district, the war, all of it gone. There was only the taste of him, the scent of the wind and wild flowers, and the incredible, grounding weight of his hand on your neck.

He was firm, but he wasn't hurting you. He was holding you like you were the only thing keeping him on the earth. He was holding you like a treasure he’d just discovered in the middle of a wasteland.

When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far. His forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing in the same charged air. His eyes were closed, his chest heaving.

"I’m not going to let you go," he whispered, the words a promise, a threat, and a prayer all at once. "You hear me? You’re stuck with me now."

You laughed, a soft, breathless sound, and kissed him again, a light, lingering touch on his lips. "I think I can keep up with that."

He opened his eyes then, and for the first time, they weren't searching for an enemy. They were just looking at you. And in the quiet of the Akazuki, under the light of the Red Moon, the Wind Hashira finally found his peace.

He reached for another ohagi with his free hand, his other still anchored to your neck. "Good," he grunted, a hint of his old self returning, though the edge was gone. "Because I’m going to need a lot more of these."

You smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder. The night was still young, and the future was a dark, dangerous path, but as you sat there together in the wreckage of a broken door and the sweetness of a new beginning, you knew you’d never walk it alone again.

Sanemi took another bite of the ohagi, his eyes closing in bliss. It really was heaven. But as he felt the warmth of your body against his, he realized that the food was just the beginning. The real miracle was the woman who had made it. The woman who had seen the monster and decided to love the man instead.

He tightened his grip on your neck, just a little, a silent reminder that you were his. And you, in turn, squeezed his hand, a silent promise that he was yours.

The lanterns flickered, casting long, dancing shadows against the cedar walls. Outside, the wind was howling through the streets of the district, but inside the Akazuki, everything was still. 

Everything was right.

“What does she see in me?”

Iguro touched his reflection in the mirror, his eyes glossed over with tears. It's almost been three years since the serpent Hashira married his sweetheart, Y/n. Although their marriage was a strategy devised by their families to strengthen the clans, Obanai is grateful that he does not have to suffer an unhappy marriage like most arranged couples do.

It must be for of his good deed in his previous life that he got a wife like Y/n. She is kind, supportive, understanding and loving. She showed him love and affection, something he could only dream of when he was a child. She understood that when he would distance himself when his past weighed him down, she would give him space but if it got out of hand, she would slowly push her way through and embrace Obanai. An embrace so warm that made all his worries go away, be that a physical one or an embrace through words. She knew how to calm him down.

Iguro knew Y/n loved him, she could never betray him, not even in his dreams. But there are days. Days that his mind tells him that he is not deserving of the love he receives from his darling wife. Days where he hates his heterochrome eyes, days when he wishes those vile women had slashed through his cheeks completely so that he would have been dead. Dying is better than being ashamed of his face. If he were to die, he would not need to bandage his face at present.

But, somewhere deep down in his heart, he knows that it would not have been better had he died. Had he died in his childhood, he would have never met Y/n, would have never known how warm her hand feels against his cheek, how affection feels. He would have died without knowing any of that; something he did not want.

His eyes were closed shut, jaw clenched. Fingers closed in a tight fist. What exactly hurt him, he did not know. But it hurt, oh it hurts so much. It is days like this that he wishes for Y/n’s presence. Sure, he can call her right now. Maybe she is in the bath, getting ready for bed and would be by his side in a minute, but he did not have the heart to busy her with such a trivial matter. It's better not to worry her about his mood swings, she tolerates enough of him already.

“I hate my face, I hate the way my eyes look, hate how weak I am,” he said through gritted teeth. He continued on his list of the things that he hates about himself, immersed in his thoughts so deep that he did not hear Y/n entering the room.

Smiling softly, Y/n stood beside him in front of the mirror.

“I love the cute expressions you make when surprised.”

Her sudden voice made Iguro step back in surprise. He quickly composed himself, turning his face to the side to wipe his tears from her view. There’s no way a man should let his wife see him crying.

Y/n gently put her hands on his cheek, making the man look at her eyes. “I love the way your cheeks get flushed red when I compliment you,” she coaxed, her fingers slowly making their way to the back of his head.

“Love the way you look away when you hand me a present.” Her fingers found the beginning of the white cloth; the bandage. Iguro stared at her. He felt the bandage around his mouth loose a bit but he did not want to push her hand away, not when she felt so warm, so comforting.

His wife pecked him on the cheek, his heart skipping a beat when he felt her lips on his cheek. No matter how many times she kissed him, it still felt like a fever dream. She caressed his face lovingly, her touch almost making him forget that the bandage came off his face; his face was bare, bare for her to see.

“And,” She stroked the scars as lightly as a feather. “I adore your scars.”

He could not force the tears from blocking his vision.

“How can you say you hate these when I absolutely love them?’’

“…”

“My love, when will you see yourself the way I do?”

She gently shook his head making him open his eyes to face her. “Your eyes, my love. They hold kindness in them. How can anybody not love this magnificent piece of art?” Her own orbs glossed over with tears.

“I cannot thank you enough for being alive, today,” a choked sob rippled through her chest. “So please, please love yourself.”

Iguro’s arms wrapped around her neck as he pushed his face into the crook of her neck, his tears wetting the skin.

“And if you can’t,” she whispered.

“Let me love you enough for the both of us.”

⚠️: prostitute!reader, suggestive, kidnapping, not fully consensual

A/N: My first non-bsd fanfic !! I'm super happy about it, I read about an oiran and the differences in social classes at 12AM, it was like reviewing for my history class again. It was a lot of late-night reading so if there's misinformation please inform me immediately !!

INSPO: pinejayy

It was a well-lit and busy night, as it always was in the entertainment district. Little did everybody know the demon king—Kibutsuji Muzan was in their midst, walking along the streets, blending in with the loud crowd.

A procession was about to start, all eyes would be on the oiran—dragging her geta on the ground as she walked. The oiran on this particular night was none other than, you. Your scent was immediately picked up by Muzan. It was the same scent he had grown to love, from the person he had lost to time.

His interest was piqued the moment he picked up your scent. His gaze traveled far, trying to find the source of the scent. His gaze then landed on you, he watched you as you walked with such grace, you were as beautiful as the day he lost you.

Muzan lost you through the inevitable disease called time. You weren't willing to become a demon—instead, you promised him that you would find eachother in each lifetime and it will all end the same, with you in his arms.

You were given the name 'Minori' by the oiran who took you in as a child, starving in the unforgiving world of class and power. As an oiran you were known to be quite finicky. Although an oiran did have the right to choose who they would lay with, you were known for having not slept with anyone ever since you rose to your rank. Many men tried wooing you with their "looks" and "charm" but in the end you deem none of the worthy.

You were intelligent, beautiful, and skilled in various languages and arts. You were also a dear friend of Koinatsu, one of the most revered oiran in the Yoshiwara District. Muzan had heard about Minori before, from mundane gossip to papers of advertisement. He just didn't expect it to actually be you.

After seeing you walk, he spoke to Daki. He had released an order to his demons that you weren't allowed to be killed—instead, you had to be protected. Anyone who had protested against Muzan's order was immediately killed, without another word from their lifeless lips.

You had just gone back from the procession, you were quietly fixing up in your room, filling it with your presence. It was neither sweet nor destructive, it was just you. You were sitting in front of the mirror, fixing your hair until you saw a man appear behind you—you immediately stood up and looked back in fear.

Suddenly the room went dark, you couldn't see a thing. You then felt an eerie presence behind you—it was Muzan. He gently grabbed you from behind, by the waist and pulled you closer to him. "You're back.." he whispered in your ear.

It was strange, the man's touch was cold and his breath wasn't even slightly warm. Your body tensed up, "b- back..?." you nervously asked "Y/N.. I thought I'd never see you again.." he mumbled softly while one hand was secured on your waist, preventing further problems and the other hand lifting your chin to one side, granting him access to your neck.

'Y/N? Who was he talking about? I don't even know anyone named Y/N, maybe this was a new thing with men, maybe roleplay is quite popular nowadays, is this just a drunkard that wandered in my room?!' were the thoughts that ran into your head. You were too afraid to move, you didn't know what wrath would be brought down on you if you disobey.

Chomp he bit your neck, his fangs sunk into your neck, blood trickled down your skin, staining your carefully crafted kimono. You felt a sharp pain in your neck, you felt the blood trickling down your skin as well. He removed his teeth from your skin, letting the blood flow down.

Tears rolled down your cheeks as he stopped biting you, he turned you to him and wiped your tears away with his thumbs, a soft smile could be seen on his face. "Oh Y/N.. you used to love my bites.." he spoke with a sweet tone. You reached up for his hands "Who are you.. please stop.." You muttered, your fear was clear, you were trembling slightly as you held the back of his hands tightly. This made him angry, his grasp on you tightened and the soft smile on his face was replaced by an angry scowl.

He wasn't letting you go this time. You were going to live with him forever, he couldn't abide by your wishes. He needed you by his side, he wasn't going to play by the rules set by time and destiny.

You whimpered softly as he tightened his grip. His hands travelled back to your waist, pulling you in. You haven't fully grasped the events of the night. It was all too much.. how could he bite you like that? Who was Y/N? You looked at him through your tear-filled eyes and held onto his chest. "P- please.." you mumbled.

Muzan wasn't going to listen to reason, he let you have some of his blood to ensure that you'd stay with him forever. You were now a demon at his mercy. Although you didn't suffer the same curse the other demons did. Muzan wanted to hear you say his name, after not hearing it for centuries, he needed to hear it now.

You grasped his arms tightly as you felt yourself transform from a human to a demon. You felt your fangs and your desire for blood growing. You were still clearly competent but your body grew weaker due to the high concentration of his blood. Muzan picked you up, making sure you wouldn't be able to escape. "It doesn't matter if you don't remember me, in time you'll learn to love me again." He spoke with a cold tone. He then disappeared into the night sky with you in his arms.