ZAFILL

IMPORTANT : i will not do nsfw fanfics for anonymous people or people who doesnt have age in their bio. (i will do fluff for the minors and anonymous people. but if you get caught reading my fanfics as a minor, its not my fault.)

please also remember to be specific when u ask for a fanfic. like, if the characters are seprate or poly, a specific scene you want or how the y/n looks etc

hi! my name is zafill. idk how to make a cutesy acc, soooo sorry :d yes ill write: fluff, sfw, death, fighting, gore(to a degree) Oc x character, Y/n x character, female y/n, male Y/n, Gn Y/n. - No ill not write: Heavy Nsfw (i write mentions, not the sex part) r@pe, minor x adult, sadism/Masochism, piss, scat (all the underage characters i mention is meant for brother/sister x reader or Child!Character x Parent reader) -

characters i write for

mouthwashing Curly, jimmy, swansea, daisuke, Anya

rdr1-2: Arthur Morgan, John Marston, Dutch van der Linde, Hosea Matthews, Charles Smith, Javier Escuella, Bill Williamson, Micah Bell, Lenny Summers, Sean MacGuire, Sadie Adler, Karen Jones, Tilly Jackson, Mary-Beth Gaskill, Molly O’Shea, Susan Grimshaw, Leopold Strauss, Reverend Orville Swanson, Simon Pearson, Kieran Duffy, Uncle, Josiah Trelawny

tlou1-2: Joel Miller, Ellie Williams, Tommy Miller, Tess, Marlene, Bill, Frank, Henry, Sam, David, James, Dina, Jesse, Abby Anderson, Owen Moore, Mel, Manny Alvarez, Nora Harris,

Mha: Izuku Midoriya, Katsuki Bakugo, Shoto Todoroki, Ochaco Uraraka, Tenya Iida, Momo Yaoyorozu, Fumikage Tokoyami, Eijiro Kirishima, Denki Kaminari, Kyoka Jiro, Mina Ashido, Tsuyu Asui, Mezo Shoji, Mashirao Ojiro, Yuga Aoyama, Hanta Sero, Rikido Sato, Koji Koda, Toru Hagakure, Neito Monoma, Mirio Togata, Tamaki Amajiki, Nejire Hado, Shota Aizawa, Hizashi Yamada, Nemuri Kayama, Toshinori Yagi, Enji Todoroki, Keigo Takami, Tomura Shigaraki, Dabi Todoroki, Himiko Toga

Demon slayer: Tanjiro Kamado, Nezuko Kamado, Zenitsu Agatsuma, Inosuke Hashibira, Kanao Tsuyuri, Genya Shinazugawa, Giyu Tomioka, Shinobu Kocho, Kyojuro Rengoku, Tengen Uzui, Muichiro Tokito, Mitsuri Kanroji, Obanai Iguro, Sanemi Shinazugawa, Gyomei Himejima, Kagaya Ubuyashiki, Muzan Kibutsuji, Kokushibo, Doma, Akaza, Hantengu, Gyokko, Daki, Gyutaro, Kaigaku, Enmu, Rui.

Beastars: Legoshi, Haru, Louis, Juno, Jack, Gohin, Ibuki, Bill, Riz, Pina, Dom, Kai, Collot, Durham, Miguno, Voss, Sagwan, Tao, Free, Kibi, Agata, Seven, Sheila, Rokume, Melon, Yahya, Gouhin.

Avatar - Atla: Aang, Katara, Sokka, Toph Beifong, Zuko, Azula, Iroh, Ozai, Ursa, Ty Lee, Mai, Kuei, Long Feng, Jet, Hakoda, Kya, Pakku, Bumi, Jeong Jeong, Zhao, Piandao, Hama, Roku, Kyoshi, Kuruk, Yangchen.

avatar - the way of water: Jake Sully, Neytiri, Neteyam Sully, Lo’ak Sully, Kiri Sully, Tuk Sully, Tsu’tey, Mo’at, Eytukan, Ronal, Tonowari, Tsireya, Aonung, Rotxo, Miles(spider)

detroit: become human: Connor, Markus, Kara, Hank Anderson, Luther, Alice, Amanda, North, Josh, Simon, Gavin Reed, Elijah Kamski, Rose Chapman, Carl Manfred, Leo Manfred, Chloe, Todd Williams, Daniel

until dawn: Sam Giddings, Josh Washington, Mike Munroe, Jessica Riley, Emily Davis, Matt Taylor, Ashley Brown, Chris Hartley, Beth Washington, Hannah Washington, Dr. Hill, The Stranger (flamethrower guy)

Spider-man: Miles gonzalo morales, peter b. parker, peni parker, peter porker, normal spider man, spiderman noir, gwen stacy, dr. liv, kingping, e42! miles gonzalo morales

Twdg: Lee Everett, Clementine, Kenny, Kenny Jr. (Duck), Lilly, Carley, Doug, Larry, Mark, Ben Paul, Chuck, Glenn Rhee, Omid, Christa, Katjaa, Hershel Greene, Shawn Greene, Andre, Chet, Sandra, Ed, Diana, Bud Everett, Mr. Everett, Mrs. Everett, Beatrice, Irene, Travis, David, Vince, Wyatt, Russell, Bonnie, Shel, Russell, Boyd, Leland, Abigail, Annie, Becca, Bennett, Tiny Carlos, Clive, Clyde, Danny Mendoza, Dee, Donna Clarke, Eddie, Jean, Jerry, Johnny, Joyce, Justin, Luke, Pete, Nick, Sarah, Alvin, Aj, Rebecca, Carlos, Sarita, Mike, Randy, Arvo, Louis, Violet, Brody, Omar, Ruby, Mitch, Tennessee, Aasim, Willy, James, Minerva, Sophie

hello you lovely people, i will be taking a break since i fround out a bit ago that i got accepted to my dream school, so for now i will see if i will be able to finish the requests i already have. lova ya lots (‾◡◝)

Josiah Trelawny x GN reader

A Gentleman’s Gamble

(slow burn, fluff, light action)

The first time Y/n met Josiah Trelawny, they both tried to cheat each other at poker.

It was a smoky night in Valentine, the kind where every glass clinked too loud and every laugh came with a price. Y/n was sitting at the end of the table, boots propped on a chair, a half-empty whiskey glass in hand. Across from them sat a man dressed like he’d wandered in from another world—crisp waistcoat, slicked-back hair, and a smile so smooth it could sell snow to a trapper.

Y/n didn’t trust that smile for a second.

They noticed the way his fingers moved over the deck, practiced and precise. He noticed the flicker of Y/n’s eyes toward the mirror behind the barkeep. When the final hand came, both of them laid down their cards at the same time: Y/n’s hidden ace and Trelawny’s mirrored queen.

“Well,” he said, with a sparkle of mischief in his tone. “It appears we’ve both been a touch dishonest.”

Y/n leaned back, unbothered. “I’d say we’re just even.”

“Fair point,” he conceded, giving a small bow of his head. “Josiah Trelawny, at your service.”

“Y/n,” they replied.

“Pleasure,” he said, voice lilting with amusement. “Though I can’t decide if I want to play cards with you again or avoid the humiliation.”

Y/n smiled faintly. “Try me.”

They both walked away a few dollars lighter that night, but neither could quite shake the other from their thoughts.

Over time, their paths crossed again—first by chance, then by something that started to feel like intention. Sometimes they worked the same town, scamming marks from opposite sides of the same table. Other times, they found themselves forced into partnership, running from bounty hunters or lying their way out of trouble.

Y/n admired how Trelawny could talk himself out of almost anything. He admired how Y/n could shoot, ride, and stay calm when everyone else was losing their heads. They were opposites, but it worked somehow. Like two cards in the same hand, perfectly balanced between luck and skill.

At camp, Trelawny always found a way to hover nearby. He’d lounge by the fire with a book in hand, every word that left his mouth smooth and infuriatingly confident.

“Tell me, Y/n,” he said one evening as the firelight danced between them, “is there anything you don’t do well?”

“Poker,” Y/n said without looking up from their knife.

He laughed, that rich, genuine sound that rarely escaped him. “Ah, yes. Our fateful introduction. You cheated beautifully, by the way.”

“So did you.”

He smiled over the rim of his glass. “That’s why we get along so splendidly.”

Y/n only hummed, but they couldn’t quite stop the small grin tugging at their lips.

The next time they saw each other, things weren’t so lighthearted. Word traveled fast that the law had caught Trelawny near Rhodes. Y/n pretended they didn’t care at first, but by nightfall they were already saddling their horse.

The jailhouse was quiet when they arrived. Two deputies, half-asleep and careless. Y/n caused a distraction out back—a lantern tipped, a horse spooked—and slipped through the shadows like smoke. Trelawny looked up from his cell, surprise flashing across his face.

“Y/n? What are you doing here?”

“Getting you out. Don’t make me regret it.”

His grin was quick and utterly unhelpful. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The lock gave way under Y/n’s knife, and before long they were racing through the night on horseback, the sound of gunfire fading behind them. When they finally stopped at camp, Trelawny was still breathless and laughing.

“You risked your neck for me,” he said, voice softer now.

“You’d have done the same,” Y/n answered, brushing dust from their coat.

He tilted his head. “Perhaps. Though I daresay you make it look far better.”

Y/n rolled their eyes, but their heart was beating faster than it should have been.

A few days later, Trelawny found them by the riverbank, sitting on a rock with the evening light in their hair. He stood there for a moment before speaking.

“You know,” he began quietly, “I’ve spent my life fooling people. Tricks, illusions, fancy words—it’s all I’ve ever been good at.”

Y/n looked up. “And?”

“And you see through it,” he said simply. “And for once, I don’t mind.”

Y/n stood, wiping their hands on their trousers. “You always talk this much when you’re nervous?”

He smiled faintly. “Only when it matters.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Y/n stepped closer, just enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne—something floral and sharp.

“You’re trouble, Trelawny.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And I’m a fool for liking that.”

He blinked, then grinned, the usual showman’s charm replaced with something quieter. “Then allow me to return the sentiment.”

When he reached for their hand, there was no trick in it—no act, no disguise. Just warmth.

Weeks later, when Trelawny once again found himself in trouble, Y/n didn’t even wait for him to ask. They were already ready to ride.

As they took off into the horizon, Trelawny laughed. “You know, my daring savior, we must stop meeting like this.”

“Then stop getting caught,” Y/n shot back.

He placed a hand over his heart, grinning. “Impossible. How else would I get you to come rescue me?”

Y/n shook their head, but there was laughter in their voice. “You’re hopeless.”

“And you,” he replied softly, “are entirely too good to me.”

The sound of their laughter carried through the night as they rode together, con artist and outlaw, each knowing they’d finally met their match.

The nights that followed were quieter. The gang was settled near the Heartlands again, the air crisp and still except for the hum of cicadas. Y/n had gotten used to the sound of Trelawny’s voice in the evenings—soft, practiced, and a little smug as he told stories that no one quite believed.

He was sitting near the campfire one night, coat draped over his shoulders, gesturing with a half-empty glass as he recounted one of his “harrowing adventures.” Arthur rolled his eyes, Hosea chuckled, and Y/n simply listened from the shadows, sharpening their knife with slow, steady strokes.

Trelawny caught their gaze mid-story, and for a moment, his usual flourish faded. His smile softened just slightly, and Y/n found themselves staring longer than they meant to. When his tale ended, he made his way over, boots crunching softly against the dirt.

“You seem unconvinced,” he said, stopping beside them.

“Because I am,” Y/n replied without looking up. “You didn’t outrun three bounty hunters on foot. Not in those shoes.”

He laughed quietly. “You wound me, Y/n. I’ll have you know I’m remarkably spry when properly motivated.”

“Sure,” they murmured, the corner of their mouth twitching.

Trelawny leaned down, lowering his voice so only they could hear. “You’d know, wouldn’t you? You’ve seen me run before.”

Y/n looked up at him, eyes glinting in the firelight. “Yeah. Away from the law, usually.”

He grinned, pleased with himself. “And always into your capable hands. I’m beginning to think it’s fate.”

Y/n scoffed but couldn’t help smiling. “If it’s fate, it’s got a cruel sense of humor.”

“Ah,” he said, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “So you admit there’s something between us, even if it’s cosmic mischief.”

“Don’t push your luck, Trelawny.”

He straightened, laughing softly to himself as he wandered back toward the fire. Y/n watched him go, pretending they weren’t.

A few weeks later, they ended up in Saint Denis—Trelawny’s kind of city, full of masks, money, and men who thought they were clever. He’d convinced Y/n to help with a scheme that, in his words, was “entirely foolproof.” Y/n had heard that before.

The plan was simple enough: a wealthy merchant, an “investment opportunity,” and Trelawny playing the part of a refined foreign gentleman. Y/n stood nearby, blending in as muscle. It went smoothly until the merchant’s associate recognized Trelawny’s face from another con.

By the time the shouting started, Y/n already had his arm and was dragging him toward the nearest alley. “So much for foolproof.”

“Minor oversight,” he said breathlessly as they ducked behind a wagon. “I underestimated my own reputation.”

“You mean overestimated your charm.”

He laughed, breathless and bright. “Perhaps. Though I must say, it’s comforting knowing you’ll always be there to pull me out of the fire.”

“Keep testing that theory and see how long it lasts,” Y/n muttered, though the way their hand lingered on his arm said otherwise.

They didn’t stop running until they were well outside the city limits. When they finally dismounted, the moon hung low and gold above the trees. Trelawny slid off his horse, still laughing quietly, adrenaline buzzing in his veins.

“You know,” he said, turning toward Y/n, “for someone who pretends not to care, you ride halfway across the country for me an awful lot.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I just hate unfinished business.”

He stepped closer, eyes catching the moonlight, his voice dipping low. “And what exactly are we, Y/n? Business?”

Y/n hesitated. The air between them felt different now—charged, heavy, and too still. “Complicated,” they said finally.

Trelawny smiled, but there was something honest in it this time, something stripped of all the usual showmanship. “Then I hope it stays that way. Simple things tend to bore me.”

“Of course they do,” Y/n said, but the smile that came with it was small and real.

He reached for their hand again, a habit he was starting to form, his thumb brushing lightly against their knuckles. The silence stretched, comfortable and dangerous all at once.

“You know,” he murmured, “I think we make quite the pair.”

“God help us if that’s true.”

He laughed quietly, then leaned forward, close enough that his breath brushed their cheek. “Oh, I don’t think we need divine intervention, my dear. We seem to manage just fine on our own.”

For once, Y/n didn’t have a quick comeback. They just looked at him—this ridiculous, charming, impossible man—and let themselves smile.

“Yeah,” they said softly. “We do.”

They stayed like that for a while, the world around them fading into the hum of crickets and the quiet creak of saddle leather. Whatever waited for them tomorrow—another scheme, another escape—it could wait. Tonight was theirs.

Title: Something Like Home Pairing: Hank Anderson x Reader Setting: Kitchen, late morning, Detroit. Genre: Fluff, slice-of-life, comfort. Warnings: None!

The kitchen smelled like sizzling bacon, coffee, and dog fur—an odd but comforting blend that somehow just worked.

You stood by the stove, flipping pancakes with one hand and shooing Sumo away with the other. The massive Saint Bernard had developed a sudden fascination with your ankles, possibly mistaking them for food. Or maybe he just wanted attention. Hard to say with that dog.

“Sumo, buddy,” Hank called from behind you, voice still rough with sleep, “if you trip Y/N and ruin breakfast, I swear to God I’ll feed you tofu for a week.”

You laughed, glancing over your shoulder at him. Hank was leaning against the counter in his pajama pants and one of those old band tees he never seemed to wash, hair wild and sticking out in every direction. The morning sunlight through the window made the grays in his beard glow faintly gold.

“Pretty sure he’d still eat it,” you said, plating another pancake.

Hank made a grumbling noise in agreement and stepped forward to pour himself a cup of coffee. Sumo finally gave up on you and padded over to flop against Hank’s leg, earning a slow, lazy scratch behind the ears.

“See?” Hank said, lifting his mug in your direction. “Loyal. Unlike certain people who keep trying to sneak vegetables into my meals.”

You gave him a playful glare. “I made one—one—omelette with spinach, and you’ve been acting like I committed a crime ever since.”

“You did,” he deadpanned, sipping his coffee. “Against humanity.”

Sumo gave a single bark of support, or maybe hunger. Probably hunger.

Before you could throw a witty comeback at Hank, a sudden knock echoed from the front door.

Sumo’s ears perked up, and he was already halfway across the kitchen before the second knock landed, claws scrabbling slightly on the tile. You turned off the burner and wiped your hands on a dish towel, exchanging a look with Hank, who just gave a lazy shrug.

“Got it,” you said, making your way toward the door.

When you opened it, there he was—Connor. Neatly dressed as always, but his expression was softer now. Less mechanical, more human. There was something in the way he smiled—small, tentative, but real—that made your heart warm.

“Hey,” you said gently, stepping forward to wrap your arms around him.

Connor stiffened just for a second, then melted into the hug like he’d been waiting for it all week. He let out a soft breath, as if being in this space—this home—meant something. When you pulled back, he looked visibly lighter.

“Welcome home, Connor.”

“Hello, Y/N,” he replied, voice low but warm. “It’s good to be back.”

“Damn right it is,” Hank called from the kitchen. “Get your android ass in here before the pancakes get cold.”

Connor’s lips twitched into a grin. You stepped aside to let him in, and he immediately crouched to greet Sumo, who was practically vibrating with joy, tail thumping against the floor like a drumroll.

Sumo gave him a few enthusiastic licks, and Connor just let it happen, scratching behind the dog’s ears with practiced affection.

Hank met him halfway with a clap on the back that was half hug, half “I’m not a hugger but this is close enough.”

“You bring anything weird this time?” Hank asked, narrowing his eyes.

“No,” Connor replied, straight-faced. “Although I did pass a man downtown dressed as a hotdog who appeared to be aggressively protesting the existence of ketchup.”

You snorted into your hand.

“He had some good points,” Connor added thoughtfully, before turning his attention to the food. “Is that bacon?”

Hank handed him a plate. “God help me, he’s turning more human by the day.”

You took your place back at the stove, heart warm. It was strange, sure. Domestic in the weirdest, most unlikely way. But somehow, it worked.

Three misfits, a giant dog, and way too much coffee.

The three of you gathered around the small kitchen table—well, two of you sat and ate while Connor occupied the third chair, plate empty, posture relaxed. He didn’t need food, of course, but he insisted on being present, part of the routine, like he was learning through proximity. Through moments like this.

You and Hank dug in while Sumo sprawled on the floor, his massive head resting on Connor’s feet.

“So,” Hank began through a mouthful of pancake, “remember the Eden Club?”

You choked a little on your coffee, already laughing. “How could I forget?”

Connor tilted his head slightly, blinking like a confused puppy. “Which part?”

“The part where you made me spend five hundred dollars in less than ten minutes,” Hank said, pointing his fork accusingly at Connor. “You said we needed to ‘investigate all possibilities.’ I was this close to getting banned from the place.”

“I stand by that decision,” Connor replied smoothly. “We gathered valuable intel.”

“You stared at two androids pole-dancing for three minutes and then said, ‘I’ve learned something important.’ I was ready to throw you out the window.”

You snorted so hard you nearly inhaled a piece of bacon.

“I believe I did say that,” Connor mused. “But you should also recall that it led us to the deviant we were searching for. Efficient use of department funds.”

“You bought both of them!” Hank barked.

“They had useful information,” Connor said innocently.

You wiped your eyes, nearly wheezing from laughter. “That’s the most expensive interrogation I’ve ever heard of.”

Connor allowed himself a small smile. “I’m glad I can provide entertainment.”

After the meal, Connor moved to the living room where he and Sumo started some kind of gentle wrestling match that mostly involved Sumo rolling onto his back like a beached whale while Connor tried to “boop” his nose with a toy.

You stayed in the kitchen with Hank, both of you moving slowly through the rhythm of cleaning up—stacking plates, wiping counters, stealing glances.

As you rinsed the last plate, you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Hank’s cheek. He paused mid-dry, towel still in hand, like someone had just hit the mute button on his whole world.

A beat passed.

Then he set the plate down with exaggerated care, turned toward you, and slipped an arm around your waist, pulling you gently closer.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice low. “You keep doin’ stuff like that, and I might start thinkin’ I’m lucky.”

You rested your hands on his chest, warm beneath the fabric of his shirt. “That’s because you are.”

He chuckled, quiet and genuine, and kissed your forehead—rough beard, soft lips.

From the living room, Connor shouted, “Sumo is not following the rules of engagement!”

You both laughed into each other, and for that moment, nothing in the world outside those walls mattered.

School hours

this is so cute oh em geee!!!!!!!

-----------------------------------

The dream was sweet, warm, slow—the kind of sleep you melt into without realizing it. In it, his hands were around her waist again, his voice low and reverent in her ear as he murmured her name like a prayer. Gyomei always said her name like that, like he didn’t know how something so chaotic and sharp-tongued could be so precious to him. His broad fingers trailed her skin in memory, in worship. Her breath hitched in the dream, his lips trailing down her collarbone as his—

BEEP BEEP BEEP.

The shriek of the alarm sawed through the intimacy like a buzzsaw, and Y/N groaned—deep, ragged, annoyed—and slapped at her phone blindly, knocking it off the nightstand with a thud.

“God—what time is it?” she muttered, still half-wrapped in sheets that definitely weren’t her own. Her eyes flicked to the clock display on the wall, and instantly her heart dropped into her stomach.

8:42 a.m.

“Shit,” she barked, shooting upright. “Shit, shit, shit—I'm so dead.”

Gyomei's class started at 9:00.

She scrambled out of bed, almost tripping over the hem of Gyomei’s sweatshirt she had clearly tugged on sometime during the night, the scent of him still clinging to the fabric—clean, woodsy, a little like incense. As comforting as it was, it wasn’t going to help her get her ass to class on time. She dashed to the mirror, catching sight of her post-wild-night hair and grimaced.

“Jesus, you look like you wrestled a bear,” she muttered to herself, tugging a brush through the worst of the tangles and hastily pinning up the rest with a clip that was more optimism than engineering. Concealer under the eyes, tinted balm on the lips, and a spritz of perfume to cover up “I-just-had-sex-four-times-with-my-professor”—and she was good to go. Probably.

She didn’t even sit down to eat—she just grabbed the last surviving handful of raspberries from the fridge and shoved them in her mouth as she crammed her feet into mismatched shoes. One of them was a sneaker. The other might have been a slipper. Too bad.

By the time she slammed open the apartment door, she was already trying to decide if she could lie about a family emergency. Not that Gyomei would believe her. He could read her sarcasm like Braille at this point.

The hallway was quiet except for her thundering footsteps, until—

THUD.

She smacked face-first into what felt like a damn tree trunk.

“Watch where you’re—Oh.” She blinked up and groaned internally. “Of course.”

Officer Sanemi Shinazugawa. Her very grumpy, very judgmental neighbor, standing in full uniform with a coffee and a stare like she’d just knocked over a baby stroller.

“You again?” he grunted, narrowing his eyes at her.

“Morning to you too, sunshine,” she said, barely slowing down as she skirted around him. “Nice cologne, smells like aggression and unresolved trauma.”

“I will ticket your car,” he called after her.

“I’d rather you just arrest me,” she yelled back, skidding down the front steps two at a time. “At least that’d be a better excuse than overslept after absolutely wrecking my professor’s night.”

Her car beeped open just as she reached it, breathless, heart pounding. As she slid into the driver’s seat, fingers trembling around the keys, she caught her reflection in the rearview mirror. Flushed cheeks. Lips a little too bitten. A hickey threatening to peek out from her collar.

Yeah, this was going to be the longest lecture of her life.

She threw herself into the black Tata Harrier, slamming the door harder than necessary as if the car was to blame for her morning chaos. The leather was still warm from the sun, and somewhere in the cupholder was Gyomei’s favorite carved wooden prayer bead bracelet—left behind after one of their late-night drives to nowhere.

She didn’t bother adjusting the seat; they had a system. She handled the speed, he handled the calm. Right now, she was firmly in the speed department.

The engine roared to life with a satisfying growl, and she peeled out of the lot like she was auditioning for Fast and Furious: Academic Edition. Her phone lit up on the dash—no messages from Gyomei, but she imagined he’d already be on campus, sipping tea in that quiet, composed way of his, probably reading over her latest essay and wondering how someone with so much mouth could also have such a sharp brain.

She smirked for half a second… then groaned as she hit the main road and was immediately greeted by a wall of taillights. Traffic. This early. Why? Was there a fire drill? A parade? A collective conspiracy by the gods of punctuality to personally screw her over?

She drummed her fingers on the wheel, muttering curses under her breath as the car inched forward like an arthritic turtle. Her hair clip was already starting to lose the battle against gravity, and she could feel one raspberry seed stuck in the back of her teeth.

Perfect. Just perfect.

As she finally rounded the curve toward campus, maybe two minutes from the east parking structure, some absolute jackass in a beat-up black Mazda came flying out of nowhere, swerving so close to her that she had to slam the brakes, the Harrier’s tires squealing in protest.

“HEY—!”

She didn’t even get the rest of the sentence out before she saw the driver flick her off through the tinted window, a smirk plastered across his face like he enjoyed nearly T-boning people before breakfast.

Kaigaku.

Of course it was Kaigaku. Always driving like the road was a racetrack, always walking around campus like he owned it because he was technically a year ahead—though barely passing, if the rumors were true. She rolled her eyes so hard they practically did a cartwheel.

“Enjoy peaking in college, jackass,” she hissed, giving her own version of the middle finger in spirit alone as she gunned the car back into motion.

She finally pulled into the east parking structure, cutting a tight turn into the first half-decent spot she could find, barely bothering to park straight. The moment the Harrier’s engine was off, she was out the door and sprinting across the lot like her GPA depended on it. Which, honestly, it kind of did.

The air was thick with early morning heat and the distant hum of stressed-out undergrads, but none of that mattered as she barreled into the main humanities building. Her bag bounced on her shoulder, makeup probably half-melted, heart in her throat.

“Move, move, move—!”

She took the stairs two at a time, then zigzagged down one hallway, across another—smack.

“OW—what the hell?” Genya Shinazugawa, looking like he hadn’t slept in three days, scowled up from the pile of textbooks he’d dropped.

“Sorry, sorry—your brother already threatened to ticket me today, it’s genetic karma!” she called behind her, not slowing down.

Another corner, another near-collision—this time with Tanjiro and Inosuke. Tanjiro managed to stay upright, bless him, but Inosuke let out a loud “OI!” as he nearly dropped his protein shaker.

“Can’t talk! Failing as we speak!”

Zenitsu squealed like he’d just seen a ghost as she skidded past, nearly knocking over his iced coffee, which probably cost him half his rent. “At least warn me next time you try to murder me with speed!”

“Buy stronger legs!”

She finally reached the last stairwell, launching herself upward and barely missing Muichiro, who gave her a deadpan look as she brushed past.

“Is she always like this?” he asked no one in particular.

“Only on the days ending in Y,” Tanjiro wheezed from down the hall.

Her classroom door came into view just as the final second ticked past 9:00. She stopped only long enough to flatten her hair, catch her breath, and curse softly. Then, like a spy infiltrating enemy lines, she cracked the door open just an inch and slipped inside.

Most of the seats were full, heads already bent over notes or pretending to be interested in their laptops. Her seat—third row from the front, left side—was mercifully still open. She ducked low, using the heads of her classmates as cover as she snuck into it and quietly dropped her bag to the floor.

The moment she sat, thinking—Maybe I got away with it—

“You’re late.”

The words were soft, steady, but they cut through the air like a bell toll. Gyomei Himejima didn’t even turn from the whiteboard where he was writing in chalk, but his voice carried clear across the room, deep and unmistakable.

A few heads turned. Someone snorted.

She sank into her chair, cheeks burning, eyes wide. How the hell did he know? He hadn’t even looked at her. She hadn’t made a sound. The man had the peripheral awareness of a damn monk-spy.

“…Sorry, Professor,” she muttered, keeping her voice low and her head down. Her heart was still racing, and not just from the cardio.

From the front of the room, Gyomei paused for half a beat.

“See me after class.”

He still didn’t look at her.

Her stomach dropped, but not in fear. No, that tone—quiet, unreadable, with the faintest edge—wasn’t angry. It was something else.

And judging by the heat rising in her neck again, she definitely wasn’t ready to sit through the next 50 minutes pretending she hadn’t moaned his name into his pillow the night before.

She kept her head down and pulled out her laptop with hands that still felt slightly shaky. He’d posted the classwork on Teams that morning—something about comparative ethical theory through the lens of modern case studies—but her brain was still half-fried, and every time she tried to focus on the reading, her thoughts wandered.

“See me after class.”

Gyomei never raised his voice. Never needed to. That quiet tone of his had a way of cutting right through her defenses and curling up inside her chest. It was the same tone he used last night—right before he’d kissed the breath out of her and said her name like a secret prayer.

She shook her head quickly and forced herself back into the document, eyes scanning lines of philosophical jargon that blurred together as the seconds crawled by. Once or twice she glanced up, watching his silhouette at the front of the classroom. He moved calmly, chalk gliding in firm, steady arcs as he annotated key points, never turning toward her again, but she knew—he knew exactly where she was.

She crossed and uncrossed her legs under the desk. Drummed her pen on the table. Bit her lip once and realized quickly that was a bad idea.

The minutes dragged. Her cheeks stayed hot.

And then—finally—the bell rang.

Chairs scraped against the floor. Bags zipped. The rustle of movement filled the room like a swarm of locusts, and just as quickly, the students began to file out, murmuring about exams, lunch, someone’s party that weekend. No one paid attention to her still sitting frozen in her seat like she was awaiting trial.

She closed her laptop, slowly, and exhaled a long breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

Her legs moved before her brain caught up. The walk from her seat to the front of the room felt longer than it should’ve. Her heart thudded somewhere between her ribs and her throat.

Gyomei had set down the chalk. His arms were folded calmly, his broad shoulders relaxed, but his expression unreadable—until his eyes met hers.

And then… he smiled.

The smallest one at first, but warm. Soft.

Then he laughed—quiet, deep, and low in his chest, the sound of it sending a ripple through her.

“You were almost on time,” he said.

Her lips twitched. “I was on ‘Y/N Standard Time.’ You know it runs about fifteen minutes behind.”

He stepped forward, arms unfolding, and before she could even get another sarcastic line out, he pulled her into a hug.

Not a fleeting, polite one. Not some stiff professor-student side-pat.

A real one. His arms around her waist, her cheek pressed briefly to the fabric of his soft linen shirt, the same scent of him from this morning flooding her senses—warm, woodsy, calm.

“You drove too fast,” he murmured near her ear.

“You heard me coming?”

“I heard you hit something on the third floor stairwell.”

“…Fair.”

She didn’t pull back. Neither did he. The door clicked shut behind the last student, and for a second, the whole world was just the two of them and the sound of her heartbeat trying to match the pace of his.

“Next time,” he said, pulling back slightly to look at her with the faintest twinkle in his eye, “you should just stay in bed. I’ll write you a note.”

Her brow arched. “That feels like… academic misconduct.”

He smiled again—wider this time. “Then I suppose I’ll have to be discreet.”

“Mm. Discreet doesn’t usually leave marks on my neck, Professor.”

His hands were still on her waist. She watched his cheeks darken slightly, not from embarrassment, but amusement. Gyomei’s version of flustered was the quiet kind—the sort that made her stomach flip because it was so rare to see.

“I’ll be more careful next time,” he said gently.

Perhaps after the final battle with Sanemi and the reader starting a family, I dunno I’m just craving smth domestic

Title: "After the Storm" Pairing: Sanemi Shinazugawa x Reader (You/Reader-Insert, Gender Neutral) Genre: Fluff, Domestic, Post-Canon, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Found Family Length: Really long and really soft (i just wanna say im trying a new way of writing btw)

-----------------------------------------

🌸 AFTER THE STORM 🌸

The war was over.

It felt surreal. After so many years, so much bloodshed, so many funerals and bitter goodbyes, the silence of peace settled over the land like a blanket — unfamiliar and too soft at first. You weren’t sure what to do with yourself in a world where you weren’t waking up to the stench of blood or the sound of your name being screamed in desperation.

Sanemi wasn’t sure either.

After Muzan fell, after the chaos of that final battle, the survivors were scattered. Some stayed close, some disappeared to distant corners of the country to build new lives. But you stayed close to Sanemi. And he — perhaps to his own surprise — never asked you to leave.

He didn’t say it aloud, of course. He never did. But the way he lingered when you sat by his side, the way his eyes softened when he thought you weren’t looking, the way he didn’t flinch when you reached for his hand — that was enough.

Sanemi Shinazugawa had spent so long in battle that he didn’t know what peace looked like on him. It didn’t fit at first. He walked like a soldier, slept like a man waiting for the next attack. But with you, he started to soften. He started to breathe.

🏠 The Cottage

You found a little place just outside a quiet village — nestled at the edge of a forest, close enough to town to visit, far enough to be left alone. The cottage was old but sturdy, with ivy creeping along its stone walls and sunlight that spilled through the kitchen window like a promise.

Sanemi grumbled about how much fixing it would need, how the porch creaked and the roof sagged. But you saw the way he kept coming back after every errand in town with supplies — wood, nails, even paint. You saw how he carved small things: a hook for your coat, a stool for your feet, a hand-carved fox figurine that mysteriously appeared on your windowsill one morning with no explanation.

He built that house into a home. Rough hands, tender heart.

One morning, you found him outside, shirtless and sweating under the sun as he chopped wood. His scars caught the light, silvery streaks against muscle and toil. You leaned on the doorframe, watching him.

He paused when he caught your eye. “What?” he grunted.

“Nothing,” you smiled. “Just admiring the view.”

Sanemi rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Later, he brought in extra firewood — and a wildflower tucked behind his ear.

🍼 The Baby

It wasn’t something either of you had planned.

When you first told Sanemi you were expecting, he froze. You’d never seen him so still. Not even in battle.

His hands trembled when he reached for you, resting on your stomach like he was afraid it would vanish if he touched it wrong. “A kid?” he asked, voice hoarse. “I... I don’t know how to—”

You placed your hand over his. “We’ll learn together.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled you into his arms, held you so tightly you felt the old pain in him crack and bleed out — and something new take its place. Hope.

And he did learn. Gods, he tried. You’d never seen Sanemi read so much. Piles of parenting scrolls and birth advice, half of which he angrily declared “utter garbage” but read anyway. He built the crib himself — even carved wind-themed patterns into the wood. He lined the nursery walls with little wooden animals.

When the baby came — a stormy night, wind howling against the windows — Sanemi never left your side. He held your hand so tight it left marks, but he didn’t flinch. And when the cries filled the air, and he saw the tiny, squirming bundle placed into your arms, his face broke.

Tears streamed down his cheeks.

He tried to hide them, of course. Turned away like he always did when his feelings surged too hard. But you saw. You always saw him.

“Sanemi,” you whispered, holding your newborn close. “Come meet your daughter.”

His knees nearly gave out.

🐣 Family Life

If you’d told Sanemi a few years ago that he’d be raising a daughter in a cozy cottage with someone who kissed his scars and held him during thunderstorms, he would’ve laughed in your face.

But now, he couldn’t imagine anything else.

The baby — your daughter — was everything. She had your eyes and his temper, tiny fists and wild little grunts when she didn’t get her way. Sanemi swore up and down he wouldn’t spoil her, but she had him wrapped around her chubby little fingers by the time she could crawl.

He carried her everywhere. On his shoulders, against his chest in a sling he pretended to hate but wore every day. He told her stories — of wind and strength and the people who came before. He taught her to hold a wooden spoon like a sword and scolded her gently when she smacked the dog with it.

Your home was always full of life. Laughter, squeals, soft singing. On rainy days, you all curled up by the fire. On sunny ones, you picnicked under the trees. Sanemi built her a swing on the big oak out back. She giggled so hard the first time he pushed her that you nearly cried.

And sometimes, at night, you’d wake to find him standing by her crib, arms folded, just watching her sleep. As if trying to protect her from nightmares with nothing but his presence.

“She’s safe,” you’d whisper.

“I know,” he’d say. “Just... makin’ sure.”

💌 The Love

Sanemi never said “I love you” easily. Words weren’t his strong suit. But he showed it every day — in a hundred tiny ways.

In the way he always took the left side of the bed — the one closest to the door, so he could protect you. In the way he cooked your favorite breakfast every time you looked tired, grumbling about “keeping your strength up.” In the way he reached for your hand when he thought you were asleep. In the way he looked at you — like you were his whole world.

Eventually, he did say it. Late one night, stars bleeding across the sky, your daughter curled between you in bed.

He looked at you, eyes tired but soft, and said it like a promise.

“I love you, y/n. More than I ever thought I could love anything. You gave me... everything.”

You smiled, tears warm on your cheeks. “You deserved everything, Sanemi. You just didn’t know it yet.”

He kissed you then — long, slow, grateful. The kind of kiss that tasted like forever.

🌾 Epilogue: The Wind at Your Back

Years passed.

Your daughter grew — wild and bright, with wind in her hair and fire in her heart. Sanemi aged gracefully, hair grayer at the temples, lines softening his face, but his spirit never dulled. He still grumbled. Still protected. Still loved fiercely.

Sometimes, on quiet evenings, you’d sit together on the porch, his arm around your waist, your child chasing fireflies in the yard.

The wind would whisper through the trees.

And for once — after everything — Sanemi Shinazugawa was at peace.

With you.

With your family.

With the life he never thought he’d live long enough to see.

I wanted to ask if u could do streamer giyuu, reader and giyuu have been dating in secret so no one know about them,, but one day reader accidentally walks infront of the camera not knowing that he was streaming! How will it play out? What will giyuu do? What are his fans reaction?

Thank youu!! :3

''Wait… Who Was That?!"

THSISISI SO CUTIEEE ----------

The stream had been live for almost two hours.

The soft clack of mechanical keys filled the background as Giyuu focused intently on his game, lit by the soft, moody hues of his custom LED setup—deep ocean blues and muted purples that mirrored his calm vibe. His camera was propped at a slight angle, framing just his sharp features, dark tousled hair, and the familiar serious expression his fans adored.

He wore a simple black hoodie and a headset, mic tilted just close enough to pick up his low voice.

"Rotate left," he said to his team, eyes narrowing slightly as he scanned the map. "Don’t push mid alone. You’ll get picked off."

His tone was flat but assertive, cool under pressure. Exactly the way his viewers liked it.

Chat: CuddlemyNUGGETS: he sounds like a sexy librarian rn ToesForFree: bro’s voice makes my spine do jazz hands Goonerboner: i’d let him call me a liability ANY day MoistRavioli69: how is this man real TomiokaDILF: the “rotate left” made me feel things 😳

A small smirk flickered across Giyuu’s face. Barely there. He didn’t say anything, but he saw the comments.

"You’re overextending," he said in a quieter tone, then tilted his head slightly. "Fall back. Let them peek first."

He wasn’t one for constant chatter, but his community had learned to read his moods through the smallest expressions—a twitch of his lip, a faint eyebrow raise, the subtle sigh he made when chat got out of pocket.

WaterPillarDaddy: sir please breathe into the mic again JuicySocks97: blink twice if you’re single ILickBentoBoxes: is he always this calm or does he scream into a pillow after stream?

Then came a break between matches, and he leaned back in his chair, reaching off-camera for a bottle of water. Chat immediately flooded with commentary:

ThirstyForTomioka: ARM VEIN ARM VEIN Goonerboner: he’s drinking water. i’m screaming. Tomioka4Eva: hydrate me next pls BeanStalker: if he ever does a gym stream i’ll combust

He glanced at the comments and exhaled slowly, the closest thing he’d give to a laugh.

“No gym stream,” he said plainly. “You’d behave even worse.”

Chat: CuddlemyNUGGETS: EXCUSE ME NotGiyuusWife: exposed 💀 SoggyMitsuri: HE CALLED US OUT AND I’M OK WITH THAT

He queued up another match. “Alright. One more. Then I’m logging.”

As the game loaded, he reached over to adjust the camera slightly—just a small tilt. His hoodie sleeve slipped a bit, revealing a faint mark on his collarbone before he tugged it back up.

Chat: SniffHisSleeves: WHAT WAS THAT ILive4TheLore: was that a hickey?? DetectiveWeirdcore: enhancing. enhancing. zooming. Goonerboner: i swear if he has a girlfriend imma eat drywall

He ignored it—mostly because he couldn’t explain it without opening the floodgates. And besides, you had asked to keep things private. For now.

But that’s when it happened.

Mid-match, mid-concentration, mid-killing-streak… the door opened.

You had no idea he was still live.

Wearing his hoodie (which looked massive on you) and nothing else but a pair of fluffy socks, you stepped in, holding your phone, completely unaware of the camera pointed right past Giyuu’s shoulder.

“Hey, babe,” you mumbled, voice still thick with sleep, “have you seen—oh.”

You froze.

He froze.

Chat EXPLODED.

SoggyMitsuri: WHO. IS. SHE. WetCerealSlaps: THE HOODIE!!! BaldingZenitsu: OH MY GOD SHE CALLED HIM BABE MoistRavioli69: HOUSTON WE HAVE A CANON GIRLFRIEND ToesForNezuko: she’s adorable i’m gonna cry Goonerboner: i want to jump into traffic. respectfully.

You looked like a deer caught in headlights, realizing what you just walked into. “You’re still streaming?”

Giyuu cleared his throat, scrambling to mute his mic and hit the “BRB” screen. His movement was calm, but his ears were bright red.

“I—yeah. I forgot to lock the door,” he said softly.

You buried your face in the sleeves of his hoodie. “I just walked in front of your whole chat. Wearing this. Looking like this.”

"You look fine." He brushed a piece of hair behind your ear. "Are you okay?"

“I just ruined your secret streamer aesthetic,” you muttered.

He shook his head. “They were already suspicious. You didn’t ruin anything.”

You glanced toward the monitor, where the chat was still flying even though the stream was paused.

"You wanna just tell them?" you asked quietly.

His eyes searched yours for a moment. "Only if you’re okay with that."

You nodded, heart racing—but honestly, it felt like a relief. Hiding had been fun at first, thrilling even, but exhausting. And now it was out. Might as well own it.

He unmuted. Switched the camera back on.

And then, with zero drama and full Giyuu energy, he said:

“That was my girlfriend.”

Chat: CuddlemyNUGGETS: dead silence followed by that. iconic. ToesForNezuko: the casualness????? SimpyMcCry: he said that like he was announcing a patch note WetCerealSlaps: THE DROP. THE MIC DROP. Goonerboner: i have lost my will to live but also i support you king

Giyuu’s gaze stayed on the camera, his tone calm but serious.

“We’ve been together for a while. We kept it private because… it’s ours. But I don’t want people speculating or harassing her, so now you know.”

You peeked into frame, cheeks hot, but smiled and gave a little wave.

Chat: Tomioka4Eva: SHE’S SO CUTE WHAT THE HELL SniffHisSleeves: they look like a Studio Ghibli couple JuicySocks97: i ship it. hard. SoggyMitsuri: she better come back for couple Q&A MoistRavioli69: protect her at all costs Goonerboner: i am now a fan of HER. sorry giyuu

Giyuu gave your hand a light squeeze, then looked back at chat.

"Behave," he warned gently. “She reads comments.”

And just like that, the vibes shifted from chaos to full-on adoration. Fan art popped up within hours. Clips of the moment flooded TikTok with captions like "Giyuu caught in 1080p being soft" and "This is how stoic men love". People started calling you “stream mom” in chat. Someone even made a mod for the game he played where the main character wore your hoodie.

Chat: PickledOnigiri: this feels illegal but like... in a cute way SniffHisSleeves: he SQUEEZED HER HAND i am going to ascend CuddlemyNUGGETS: so we just… know now? this is canon? BeanStalker: giyuu soft era unlocked ToesForNezuko: will there be a lore drop??? we need lore

He blinked at the chat, then tilted his head slightly, as if debating something.

Then, totally deadpan—voice as casual as if he were reading patch notes again—he added:

“Oh. And we’re getting married in July.”

You turned sharply toward him, mouth slightly open.

“Giyuu.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What? They wanted lore.”

Chat: WetCerealSlaps: EXCUSE ME???????? MoistRavioli69: I JUST CHOKED ON MY NOODLES ILickBentoBoxes: WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘IN JULY’ Goonerboner: BRO. Tomioka4Eva: THIS MAN JUST CASUALLY DROPPED THE WEDDING DATE SimpyMcCry: i’m not crying you are JuicySocks97: HE SAID IT LIKE HE’S ANNOUNCING A SERVER MAINTENANCE

You covered your face with both hands, groaning. “You’re ridiculous.”

But he was smiling now—subtly, softly—as he glanced at you.

“Ridiculous,” he echoed, “but honest.”

Chat: SniffHisSleeves: ok but the way he looked at her just now?? i’m sobbing Goonerboner: giyuu: emotionally unavailable?? FALSE. MAN IS WIFED UP SoggyMitsuri: JULY WEDDING STREAM??? 👀 PickledOnigiri: i wanna be invited pls MoistRavioli69: stream mom and dad confirmed

He leaned back slightly, hands still laced with yours under the desk. "That's all you're getting for now," he said, voice low, calm. “Thanks for watching. Be nice.”

Then, just before he ended stream, he looked over at you, barely a breath of amusement in his eyes.

“...You’re not mad, are you?”

You shook your head, trying not to laugh. “No. Just—warn me next time before you drop a whole engagement bomb on chat.”

He shrugged. “They asked.”

Stream ended.

Basically reader has hanahaki disease (its a disease where someone coughs/vomits flower petals when they experience unrequited love)

How would they react? Will they find out theyre the reason on why she has the disease?

Thankss <3

HI THIS IS SO CUTE SO I JUST HAD TO DO IT!! just a side note, i made muichiro readers sibling, since he is a minor, :D

Giyuu Tomioka x f!Reader

When you first met Giyuu, he was just “Tomioka-san” — a pillar of ice and water, still and unreadable. You’d been a new recruit under Urokodaki’s watchful eye, clumsy with a blade but steady in your determination. Giyuu had already become a Hashira by then, but he returned often to the mountain where he trained — sometimes to visit, sometimes just to be alone.

He never spoke much.

You never expected him to.

But over time, silence became comfort. His presence was reassuring, solid. When Urokodaki wasn’t looking, Giyuu would adjust your stance, wordlessly. After missions, he'd leave rice balls near your satchel if you forgot to eat. He was kind in a way no one else seemed to notice — not loud or expressive, but constant. Like a river that never stopped flowing.

You admired him. Then respected him.

And eventually… somewhere between the quiet glances and the way his gaze softened when you spoke about your dreams, you began to feel something else.

It wasn’t a lightning bolt. It was slow. Creeping. Blooming in secret places inside your chest.

You fell in love with Giyuu Tomioka the way flowers bloom in winter — against all odds, and far too quietly.

But you buried it.

Because Giyuu didn’t see you like that. He never had.

Even when he’d walk beside you during missions without speaking. Even when he gave you his scarf on a snowy night without a word. Even when he took the blow meant for you and stared at you too long as you screamed his name.

You mistook kindness for hope.

You should have known better.

He never gave you an inch more than he gave anyone else — and when you, just once, tried to lean into him, to say something just a little too warm, he gently stepped back.

"Don't," he had said. Not cruel. Just tired. Just closed off.

That was the first crack in your chest.

You told yourself you’d move on.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

The First Petal

It started after a mission.

You were returning from the Butterfly Mansion after patching up a nasty slash across your ribs. Shinobu had offered a smile too soft to be comforting.

“You should rest,” she said. “Stress will slow your healing.”

You didn’t tell her your chest already ached in a way bandages couldn’t fix.

That night, you woke up choking — a dry cough tearing from your throat, something soft and wet spilling past your lips. You rushed to the basin, confusion and fear bubbling as you spat out crushed petals — soft, pale pink, with edges tinged in crimson.

You knew the signs.

Hanahaki.

You laughed, bitterly. Of course.

Of course your body would betray you like this.

You kept it secret, even as the petals came more frequently — a slow suffocation blooming inside you. You distanced yourself. Refused missions with Giyuu. Avoided his gaze. Every time he looked at you with that same unreadable expression, your throat clenched and petals tickled the back of your tongue.

But you weren’t dying fast enough to stop loving him.

And that was the cruelest part.

-----

You didn’t mean for him to find out.

You thought you had more time — time to figure out if you wanted the petals surgically removed and lose your feelings forever… or let them choke you quietly.

But he came to check on you after three weeks of avoidance.

“I heard you were injured,” he said from the doorway.

You tried to smile. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

He stepped closer. “Then why have you been avoiding me?”

You froze.

You could feel the petals in your throat, panic swelling in your lungs.

“I haven’t.”

“You have,” he said, gaze narrowing.

Your chest began to shake. The pain flared suddenly, sharply — like your body knew it couldn’t keep the secret anymore.

Then, you coughed. Hard. A wet, choking sound that startled even him.

And with it, you spat out a spray of petals. They spilled down your chin, across your hand. Blood followed.

Giyuu stood frozen, horror dawning on his face.

“…Hanahaki.”

You didn’t meet his eyes.

He stepped forward. “Who?”

Your shoulders trembled. “Does it matter?”

He knelt beside you. “Tell me.”

“…You already know,” you whispered.

Silence. Like a blade drawn in the dark.

“I never wanted you to find out,” you said, voice breaking. “I was trying to forget. I know you don’t feel the same. You made that clear.”

His expression was unreadable — not cold, but cracked. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you and didn’t know if he was allowed.

“I didn’t know,” he said, quietly. “I didn’t realize…”

“You weren’t supposed to,” you said, trying to stand. “Please just go. I don’t want your pity.”

“I don’t pity you.”

You laughed, sharp and broken. “Then what is it? Guilt? Regret? You told me not to fall for you. I should’ve listened.”

He caught your wrist gently before you could walk past him. His hand was warm. Steady.

“I didn’t say that because I didn’t care,” he murmured. “I said it because I didn’t think I deserved someone like you.”

Your breath hitched.

“I thought… if I kept my distance, you’d forget me,” he said. “But I kept watching you. Listening to you laugh with others. I told myself I didn’t care. But when I stopped seeing you… it hurt more than I expected.”

You looked up, shocked. He met your eyes, and for the first time, there was no wall there. Just a flood of something raw. Painful. Real.

“Maybe I was wrong,” he whispered. “Maybe I do feel something. I just… realized too late.”

Your vision blurred.

“But if there’s still time,” he said, voice shaking, “let me stay. Don’t go through this alone.”

And you — broken, aching, and still in love — let him hold you as petals fell between you.

----

Obanai Iguro x f!Reader

You knew Obanai long before you understood him.

He was difficult — sharp-tongued, secretive, constantly glaring through that bandaged mouth like the world owed him something. Others feared him, or at least avoided him. But not you.

You saw past the bitterness. Past the fangs.

You saw the man who fed Kaburamaru with gentle fingers. Who always sat with his back to a wall and never let anyone walk behind him. Who carried more shame than one person should, tucked between the stripes of his haori.

You didn’t know exactly why, or when, but you fell in love with him.

It was quiet. Private. You didn’t expect anything from it — just being near him was enough. You followed him on missions when you could, patched up his wounds in silence, listened to his gruff complaints with a small smile.

And he let you stay.

That meant something. He didn’t let anyone stay.

But you weren’t blind. You saw the way his eyes softened when Mitsuri Kanroji was around — like someone had let sunlight into his dark little world. You’d catch him watching her with an expression you never received, even in your quietest moments together.

It gutted you. But you smiled anyway.

Because if loving him meant just being there, you’d take it.

Until one night, you coughed into your hand — and watched a trail of crimson-edged petals fall between your fingers.

You didn’t tell anyone.

Hanahaki was an embarrassing disease — not because of the petals, or the slow, excruciating death, but because it meant you had loved someone who did not, could not, love you back.

And in your case, that truth hurt more than the blood in your throat.

You kept it hidden well. Even as the flowers grew. Even as it became harder to breathe during training, harder to walk without your chest pulling tight with pain. You’d excuse yourself when the coughing got worse. Wash away the petals. Pretend you were just tired.

But Obanai wasn’t stupid. He noticed.

“You’re paler than usual,” he muttered one afternoon after you nearly collapsed during sword drills. “Stop pushing yourself.”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly.

“You’re not.” He stepped closer. “Are you injured?”

You looked up at him — his mismatched eyes narrowed, concern barely veiled beneath that constant irritation — and your chest clenched with the pain of another petal pressing against your ribs.

“No,” you said. “Not in the way you think.”

He frowned but didn’t press. He never did. He respected boundaries — maybe because he had so many of his own.

You wanted to scream at him. Tell me to stop. Tell me you love me back. Tell me anything.

But he never did.

And when you saw him the next day with Mitsuri, his smile hidden beneath his scarf, his voice low and soft — something in you cracked completely.

It was Kaburamaru who found you.

You’d collapsed on a mossy trail outside the estate, clutching your chest, blood pooling between petals that had fallen like snow around you. The snake slithered from Obanai’s shoulder, sensing something wrong, and raced to where you lay gasping.

By the time Obanai found you, petals clung to your lips, your eyes glassy with pain and fading light.

“No,” he breathed, kneeling beside you. “No. No—what happened?”

You tried to smile.

“Figured… you'd come.”

“Don’t talk.” His hands hovered helplessly over your bloodied clothes. “Don’t move. We’ll get Shinobu. We’ll fix this.”

You coughed again, violently, more flowers spilling from your mouth. Kaburamaru curled around your neck, gentle and protective, as if sensing you were leaving.

“It’s Hanahaki,” you whispered, barely audible.

He froze.

You laughed, wet and broken. “Don’t look so surprised.”

“Who—” His voice cracked. “Who did this to you?”

You looked up at him. “You.”

Silence. He flinched like you’d stabbed him.

“I didn’t… mean for you to find out,” you said. “You were always kind… even when you didn’t have to be. I knew you loved her. You never tried to hide it.”

“I—” He shook his head. “No. I didn’t know. I didn’t see…”

Your breath hitched. “That’s the worst part. You didn’t see me. Even when I was right in front of you.”

Kaburamaru let out a soft hiss, coiling closer to you, nuzzling beneath your chin as if he, too, was mourning.

Obanai looked at you — really looked — and something in his face shattered.

“You should’ve told me,” he said, his voice breaking. “I was so blinded by a love I thought I deserved… I didn’t see the one I needed was beside me the whole time.”

You blinked slowly, your body growing cold. “Don’t say that now… it’s too late.”

“No,” he whispered. “No, don’t say that.”

He pulled you into his arms, clutching you like he could stitch you back together with sheer will. His scarf unraveled, falling to your lap. His cheek pressed to your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he said, again and again, like a prayer. “I’m sorry. Please stay.”

You didn’t answer.

The petals stopped falling.

And in the stillness of that forest trail, Obanai Iguro held your lifeless body, surrounded by the flowers you had choked on in silence. His only companion the snake that curled around your throat like a necklace of grief.

He had loved the wrong person.

And by the time he realized the truth…

You were already gone.

----

Muichiro Tokito & Older Sister Reader

You remembered the day Yuuichirou died like it was still living behind your eyes.

You had watched your twin brothers — both just children — hold each other in the ruin of your home. Muichiro, bloody and broken. Yuuichirou, dying and stubborn. You had tried to cradle them both, screaming for help that never came in time.

He was your younger brother, but after that, Muichiro stopped being a child.

He stopped being anything, really.

There was a hole in him after Yuuichirou died — a blank, shifting space where memory should have lived. You watched your sweet, gentle brother become empty-eyed, calm in a way that scared you. Detached. Dangerous.

But he remembered you.

Even as he forgot the name of your parents, forgot the seasons, forgot his own birthday — he remembered your voice. Your scent. The way you’d pull him into your arms on cold nights like you were still trying to protect him from the world.

He didn't always say your name. Sometimes he just called you "Nee-san," in a voice so soft it made your chest ache.

You joined the Demon Slayer Corps with him, even though you weren’t as fast or strong. You just… couldn’t leave him alone in this world.

He was all you had.

You knew that his emotions were frayed. That he didn’t laugh anymore. But sometimes, when he’d look at you — just for a second — you saw the boy he used to be.

That was enough.

Until you met Genya.

It was right after Final Selection. Genya Shinazugawa was angry — at life, at demons, at his brother, at himself. He lashed out at everyone. You included.

The first time you met, he insulted you for being “weak.” Said people like you wouldn’t last. That you were just dragging your “dead-eyed brat” of a brother around.

You didn’t fight back. You never did.

But the words lodged in your chest. Not because they hurt you — but because Muichiro had heard them.

He didn’t react. Not at first.

He just stood there, staring at Genya, face unreadable.

And that night, you coughed up your first petal.

It was small. Pale. Delicate.

You blinked at it in your palm for a long time before crushing it in your fist and telling yourself it wasn’t what you thought it was.

But you knew.

You had fallen in love with someone who would never look at you as anything other than another weak link in his chain of resentment.

You, who had never once asked for anything in return.

You, who only wanted to feel something again — to be loved by someone in a way Muichiro could no longer offer.

And so it began.

Muichiro noticed your coughing first. The way you hesitated on missions. How your haori began to look too big for your shrinking frame.

“Are you sick?” he asked one morning, frowning at the trail of crimson on your sleeve.

“No,” you said, lying with a practiced smile. “Just tired.”

He didn’t push. He never did.

But you saw the crack of worry in his gaze. He’d always been blunt, forgetful — but when it came to you, he watched. He remembered.

He was trying so hard to hold on to you.

And you were slipping through his fingers, one petal at a time.

You collapsed during a mission. Blood and blossoms soaked your uniform. Your blade lay forgotten in the dirt, petals scattered around you like snow.

Genya was the one who carried you back to the Estate, eyes wide with horror. You were unconscious, but the flowers never stopped coming.

When Muichiro arrived, he didn’t ask what happened.

He just stood at your bedside, watching the rise and fall of your chest, eerily calm.

“Why?” he asked no one. Or maybe he was asking Yuuichirou.

You woke up only once.

Your lungs were shredded. You couldn’t speak properly. Your fingers twitched toward him.

“Muichiro,” you rasped, blood trailing down your chin.

He sat beside you, blinking slowly. “Nee-san.”

Your breath shook.

“I… I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer,” you whispered. “I’m glad… you remembered me.”

He didn’t speak.

Kaburamaru — no, that was Obanai’s snake — wasn’t here. That was a memory.

Genya stood at the door, fists clenched, eyes red.

“I didn’t know,” he choked. “I didn’t mean—if I hadn’t said those things—”

You looked at him. Smiled, gently.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Muichiro was still holding your hand.

Even as your chest rose slower. Even as the blood thickened.

Even as the petals finally stopped.

When your heart stilled, he didn’t cry.

He just stared.

Blankly.

Quietly.

And somewhere, inside his mind, your name began to unravel. The edges of your voice, your face, your warmth — all began to blur like smoke.

He stood.

“She’s gone,” Genya said, barely holding it together.

Muichiro looked down at you. Then away.

“…Who was she again?”

Genya broke.

Muichiro walked out into the sunlight, the petals still clinging to his sleeves.

Could you do obanai × new fem hashira, he finds her intriguing because she's another person who has heterochromia. Her eyes are blue on the right and red on the left. Her breathing technique is smoke breathing. You could easily tell her breathing by the way her hair is grey, white and black.

But if you don't mind, the character grew up from a black market and Obanai learns that her motivation to keep going is that she does it out of spite from her abusers.

Idk what else to put and what I think I wrote is vague but yeah, have a nice day!!

weak? yeah right.

this is so sigma, trust (this is so short bro, dont get me wrong, i love the idea, but i just couldnt get myself to write more or go into detail </3)

-----

It was a quiet morning at the Demon Slayer Corps headquarters, the kind where the air felt thick with anticipation but nothing stirred on the surface. Obanai Iguro, the Serpent Hashira, was meditating by the courtyard, his eyes closed, the feeling of the cool breeze brushing against his skin.

But something—or rather, someone—disrupted the calm. He noticed her immediately.

She stood just outside the gates, her silver-white hair catching the sunlight, the streaks of grey and black giving her an ethereal, smoky appearance. She had her back to him, as if she was waiting for something, or perhaps someone. He could sense the air around her, thick with the faintest trace of smoke—a unique, subtle aroma. It reminded him of the dense fog that rolled in from the mountains during early mornings.

Her breathing.

It was so distinct, yet unfamiliar in a way that intrigued him. Obanai’s sharp eyes locked onto the back of her head, trying to process everything in an instant. She was not like the others. Her presence was strange, a mystery he was compelled to solve.

He noticed her eyes first—strikingly unusual, not just because of their color, but the way they seemed to carry a story in their depths. Her left eye was a dark crimson, glowing with a deep intensity, while the right one was an unsettling blue, as vivid as the summer sky. Heterochromia. Another one like him.

He didn’t know why, but he felt drawn to her, perhaps because of the resemblance between their eyes, or maybe it was the quiet yet powerful aura she emanated. It was a strange connection, something unspoken, but undeniably present.

The woman turned around, and for a split second, their eyes met—Obanai’s sharp, cold stare locking with hers. There was something unreadable in her expression, a mix of caution and curiosity.

Obanai took a step toward her, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword.

“You’re the new Hashira, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice low but steady.

The woman nodded slightly, not speaking at first. She didn’t seem intimidated, nor did she offer a word of welcome. Instead, she tilted her head just a fraction, as if she was studying him, trying to read him as much as he was reading her.

“Yes,” she replied finally, her voice just as soft, but there was a sharpness to it, like the edge of a blade. “I’m the Smoke Hashira.”

Obanai couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. Smoke breathing. He had never heard of such a technique. He was intrigued, more so than he’d care to admit. He could already see it in the way she stood, how her hair swayed as if it were drifting in the wind, an extension of the smoke that she commanded.

He studied her in silence for a moment, taking in her form, her stance. There was strength in her, but it was laced with something else—something raw.

“You’re... different,” he said, narrowing his eyes, his attention fixed on the intricate details of her being. "Your hair. The way you breathe. It’s all... strange."

She looked up at him then, her expression still unreadable. “I was always told that I was strange.”

He hesitated. There was something about her, something that both bothered and fascinated him. Her gaze flickered to the side, and for a brief moment, Obanai saw something else behind her eyes—something that lingered beneath her cool demeanor. He knew that look all too well: a sort of quiet defiance.

“Where did you come from?” Obanai asked, his tone shifting slightly. There was genuine curiosity now, the harshness in his voice replaced by something more human.

Her expression tightened, and her lips thinned into a tight line. She wasn’t willing to reveal much, but he could see the weight behind her words when she spoke again.

“A place where people like me don’t survive long.” She paused, looking away for a moment, as though the memories were too painful to relive. “I did, though. Not because of any skill or strength. I survived because of spite. Spite for the ones who thought they could break me. Spite for the ones who thought I was weak.”

Obanai’s eyes narrowed as he processed her words. Spite, huh? He understood that feeling. It was what had driven him all these years. The rage that burned inside of him, the need to prove himself against those who had written him off.

“So, you keep going,” Obanai said softly, his eyes never leaving hers, “because you want to prove them wrong.”

The woman looked at him for a long moment, a flicker of understanding passing between them. She nodded slowly. “Yes. And because the world is full of people like them. And they need to be reminded that they were wrong.”

Obanai’s expression softened slightly, though his posture remained tense. He understood her more than he wanted to admit. There was a darkness inside her, but it was one that had kept her going, had shaped her into the warrior standing before him now.

"You’re not alone in that," he said quietly, his voice softening ever so slightly. "I understand that feeling."

She studied him for a moment, her red and blue eyes flickering with something that might have been the beginning of understanding, or perhaps the start of something more.

For the first time, the distance between them seemed to shrink, and Obanai found himself feeling... intrigued. More than just by her breathing technique, or her unusual eyes. He was intrigued by her story, her resilience, her fire.

Giyuu and 14 yo sister! Ok sooo his sister has Mitsuri's Personality! She is a kinoe rank like Tanjiro and others!

SISTER!?!?

oh em gee i love this, i had the story in draft for so long, i forgot to post it, :d -----

The tension in the Demon Slayer Corps headquarters was thick enough to be cut with Nichirin steel. Tanjiro knelt on the stone floor, restrained by the Hashira, his face marred with dirt and worry. His sister, Nezuko, was locked inside her box, her very existence as a demon putting her at risk of immediate execution. The Hashira surrounded him like a council of judgment, their powerful presences bearing down on him.

Obanai Iguro sneered. “A Demon Slayer traveling with a demon? You must think us fools.”

Sanemi Shinazugawa scoffed, gripping the hilt of his sword. “You’re lucky we haven’t killed you already.”

Before anyone could say another word, the door to the courtyard suddenly burst open.

“OI! GIYUU! YOU FORGOT YOUR LUNCH!”

A girl barreled into the tense scene, waving a carefully wrapped bento box over her head. She had a bright, sunny aura—completely out of place among the brooding warriors. Her wide grin was enough to throw even the most serious Hashira off guard.

“Geez, you’re hopeless sometimes,” she huffed, stomping over to Giyuu, completely oblivious to the gravity of the situation. “I swear, if I don’t keep an eye on you, you’ll forget to eat and just drop dead one day.”

Silence.

The Hashira collectively blinked, stunned by the abrupt intrusion. Even Tanjiro looked up in shock.

“M-Mitsuri…?” he murmured in confusion before quickly realizing his mistake. No, this wasn’t the Love Hashira. The girl certainly had the same bubbly energy, but her uniform bore no Hashira markings. She was young—probably around his age—but there was something sharp in her eyes despite her bright demeanor.

Giyuu, still impassive as ever, sighed. “Y/N. Not now.”

Y/N pouted. “What do you mean ‘not now’?! You always forget your lunch. Do you know how long I spent making this? I even made your favorite! Look, I cut the rice into little bunny shapes—”

Her voice trailed off as she finally took in the scene around her.

The Hashira. The boy on the ground. The tension so thick it could choke her.

“…Oh.”

Rengoku’s hearty laugh suddenly broke the silence. “Ahaha! What an energetic young lady! And who might you be?”

Y/N straightened her posture, beaming. “I’m Y/N Tomioka! Kinoe-rank Demon Slayer, at your service!”

Several of the Hashira raised their eyebrows. A Kinoe? Despite her playful attitude, she was at the highest rank before Hashira. That was no small feat.

Tanjiro’s eyes widened. “Y/N?! I remember you! You helped us during the Spider Demon incident on Mount Natagumo!”

Y/N turned to him, tilting her head. A beat passed before recognition lit up her face. “Ohhh, you’re that guy with the forehead of steel! Yeah, I remember now! I thought you were pretty cool back then! But, uh…” She leaned forward, lowering her voice into a dramatic whisper. “You’re kinda in a lot of trouble, huh?”

Tanjiro gave a nervous chuckle. “Yeah… You could say that.”

Shinazugawa groaned, rubbing his temples. “Enough with this nonsense! You’re telling me this idiot is your brother?”

Y/N froze for a moment before slowly turning to Sanemi, her once playful demeanor shifting into something much sharper. Her hands curled into fists at her sides as her eyes narrowed.

“What did you just call my brother?” she asked, her voice unnaturally sweet—but her aura was anything but.

Sanemi met her glare with equal intensity, cracking his knuckles. “You deaf, brat? I called him an idiot.”

Y/N’s smile twitched. “Ohhh, okay.” She let out a small laugh, but it was anything but friendly. “Cool, cool, cool. So, uh…” Her fingers flexed as she cracked her own knuckles. “You wanna say that again so I can knock your teeth out?”

The tension skyrocketed as the two Slayers locked eyes, both practically radiating the desire to throw hands.

Sanemi’s smirk widened. “Hah! You’ve got a lotta nerve, brat. You really think you can take me?”

“Oh, I know I can take you,” Y/N shot back, rolling her shoulders. “You’re all bark and no bite. Just because you scream the loudest doesn’t mean you’re the strongest.”

Sanemi’s eye twitched. “Oh, that’s it—”

He stepped forward at the same time Y/N did, both ready to swing, when—

WHAM!

A firm hand grabbed the back of Y/N’s uniform and yanked her backward, halting her in place before she could launch herself at Sanemi. Giyuu held her by the collar like an unruly cat, his expression as unreadable as ever.

“Y/N,” he said flatly.

“What?! He started it!” she protested, flailing slightly in his grip.

Sanemi scoffed. “Tch. Figures. You’re just as annoying as your brother.”

Y/N stopped struggling. Her head slowly turned back toward the Wind Hashira, her eye twitching.

“Oh, that’s it—PUT ME DOWN, GIYUU! LET ME AT HIM!”

Giyuu didn’t even blink as he held her firmly in place, ignoring her kicking and squirming. “No.”

Mitsuri giggled behind her hand. “Aww, Y/N-chan is so passionate! But maybe fighting Sanemi here isn’t the best idea…”

“Speak for yourself,” Uzui chuckled. “This might actually be entertaining.”

Muichiro yawned. “I don’t care.”

“Come on, just one punch!” Y/N begged, still trying to wriggle free. “Just one! He deserves it!”

Giyuu sighed, finally setting her down, but kept a firm hand on her shoulder. “We’re not here to fight the Hashira.”

Y/N sighed dramatically as Giyuu finally set her down, but she still looked like she was itching to throw a punch. She crossed her arms, kicking a small rock on the ground as if that would somehow vent her frustration. Her bright eyes flickered over to Tanjiro, and she tilted her head, still clearly toeing down from her near-brawl with Sanemi.

“So,” she huffed, narrowing her gaze at him. “What did you do?”

Tanjiro gulped slightly under her intense stare, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. “W-Well… It’s not really what I did—it’s about Nezuko…”

Y/N blinked, then looked around at the scene again, finally fully piecing everything together. She squatted down to be at eye level with Tanjiro, resting her chin on her hands. “Sooo, lemme get this straight… These guys wanna kill your sister because she’s a demon, but you’re saying she won’t hurt anyone?”

Tanjiro nodded, his face determined. “Exactly! Nezuko hasn’t eaten a single human! She even resisted blood when she was injured. She sees humans as family, not food!”

Y/N’s nose scrunched up. “That’s it?”

“What do you mean that’s it?” Shinazugawa snapped, still annoyed by her presence.

Y/N rolled her eyes. “I mean, that’s the whole reason you guys are acting like he just killed a bunch of people?” She scoffed, throwing her hands up. “Pffft. Wow. And here I thought it was something serious.”

The Hashira collectively twitched.

“IT IS SERIOUS, BRAT!” Sanemi barked, his temper flaring again. “A DEMON IS A DEMON! WE CAN’T JUST—”

Y/N held up a finger. “Ah, ah, ah—tell me, oh wise Wind Hashira, do you have proof that his sister’s dangerous?”

Sanemi grit his teeth. “I—That’s not the point!”

“Ohhh, but it kinda is.” Y/N grinned. “Y’know, Master Kagaya always says we should think before we act, right? So, if you don’t actually know she’s a threat, then you’re just making assumptions.” She poked the side of her head. “That’s not very logical, is it?”

Sanemi’s eye twitched violently.

“Y/N,” Giyuu said in that calm, firm tone of his.

She sighed dramatically again, standing up. “Alright, alright, I’ll shut up. But I still think you guys are making this a bigger deal than it needs to be.” She turned back to Tanjiro, hands on her hips. “Don’t worry, Forehead Boy. If they try anything unfair, I’ll back you up.”

Tanjiro blinked in surprise before offering a small smile. “Thank you, Y/N-san.”

----

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky painted in deep shades of blue and violet. A gentle breeze rolled over the Butterfly Mansion, carrying the scent of blooming flowers and freshly made rice. The once-tense atmosphere from earlier had finally settled, and now, Tanjiro and Y/N sat side by side on the rooftop, quietly munching on their onigiri.

Y/N swung her legs lazily over the edge, her usual energetic demeanor slightly dimmed as she focused on eating. “Man… What a day,” she mumbled through a mouthful of rice.

Tanjiro chuckled softly. “Yeah… I thought for sure they were going to kill me on the spot.”

Y/N scoffed. “Pfft. As if I’d let that happen.” She took another bite before glancing at him. “Seriously, though… you’re crazy for pulling something like that.”

Tanjiro swallowed before replying. “I had to. Nezuko is my family.”

Y/N was quiet for a moment before she smiled, nudging his shoulder with her own. “You’re pretty cool, Forehead Boy. Stupid, but cool.”

Tanjiro laughed. “I could say the same about you.”

She gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “Wow. Rude.”

Tanjiro simply smiled. Despite her teasing, there was something about Y/N’s presence that made him feel at ease. It reminded him of Mitsuri in a way—warm, reassuring, like the feeling of a familiar home.

Y/N leaned back, resting her hands behind her. “Y’know… Giyuu doesn’t talk about people much, but I can tell he doesn’t hate you.”

Tanjiro blinked. “Huh?”

“I mean, he’s always quiet, but he lets you stick around,” she explained, tilting her head toward him. “That means he at least thinks you’re decent. And trust me, that’s a big deal with my brother.”

Tanjiro thought about it for a moment. He had always felt a sense of gratitude toward Giyuu for protecting Nezuko and giving him a chance when no one else would. But hearing this from Y/N made it feel… different. More meaningful.

“I respect him a lot,” Tanjiro admitted. “He saved me and Nezuko. I owe him everything.”

Y/N hummed, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Yeah, he’s like that. He doesn’t say much, but he cares. I just wish more people saw that.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the sound of chirping crickets filling the air.

Then, Y/N suddenly grinned. “Oh, by the way.”

Tanjiro turned to her. “Hmm?”

She held out an extra onigiri, her eyes glinting mischievously. “I totally stole this from Sanemi’s plate earlier.”

Tanjiro nearly choked on his rice. “W-What?! Y/N-san, he’s going to kill you!”

She laughed. “Worth it.”

Tanjiro let out a nervous chuckle as he cautiously accepted the stolen onigiri, glancing around as if Sanemi might suddenly burst onto the rooftop, sword in hand. “You’re really not afraid of him, huh?”

Y/N shrugged, popping the last bit of her rice ball into her mouth. “Nah. He’s just a loud, angry cat pretending to be a lion.”

Tanjiro smiled at that, but after a moment, his expression softened. He glanced at her, his voice quieter this time. “Y/N-san… can I ask you something?”

She turned her head toward him, tilting it slightly. “Sure. What’s up?”

Tanjiro hesitated before carefully choosing his words. “You’ve talked about Giyuu a lot, but… what about you? I don’t know much about you.”

For a moment, Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the question. She wasn’t used to people asking about her.

“Well, you already know I’m the cooler Tomioka sibling,” she said with a teasing grin, but when Tanjiro remained quiet, she sighed and leaned back on her hands, gazing up at the stars. “…There’s not much to tell, really. I grew up with Giyuu, obviously, but… we had an older sister too.”

Tanjiro’s eyes widened slightly. “You did?”

“Mm-hmm.” Y/N nodded, but her expression turned thoughtful, almost distant. “Her name was Tsutako. She… died a long time ago, when I was just a baby.”

Tanjiro’s heart clenched at her words. He knew the pain of losing family all too well.

“I don’t really remember her,” Y/N admitted, playing with the fabric of her sleeve. “Not her face, not her voice… but I do remember a song.”

“A song?” Tanjiro echoed.

“Yeah.” She smiled softly. “Giyuu told me that before everything happened, Tsutako used to hum it to me whenever I was fussy. I guess it worked, ‘cause whenever I hear it, it makes me feel… safe.”

There was a brief silence, the wind carrying the quiet rustling of leaves through the air. Then, gently, Y/N started humming.

It was a simple tune—soft, slow, almost like a lullaby. It was warm, nostalgic, like something meant to ward off bad dreams and soothe troubled hearts.

Tanjiro closed his eyes for a moment, letting the melody settle around them. He could almost picture it: a young Giyuu, a baby Y/N, and an older sister who loved them both enough to sing them to sleep.

When Y/N stopped humming, she let out a small chuckle, rubbing the back of her neck. “Pretty, right?”

Tanjiro opened his eyes and nodded, his gaze gentle. “Yeah… it is.”

Y/N smiled, a bit more genuinely this time. “Maybe one day, I’ll hum it for Giyuu. I don’t know if he remembers it, but… I think he’d like it.”

Tanjiro smiled warmly at Y/N’s words, imagining how Giyuu might react to hearing that melody again. But before he could say anything, a loud, furious voice shattered the peaceful moment.

“OI, YOU DAMN BRAT!”

Both Y/N and Tanjiro nearly jumped out of their skin as Sanemi’s unmistakable roar echoed through the Butterfly Mansion.

Y/N blinked, then slowly turned her head toward the source of the voice—only to see Sanemi standing below, glaring up at them with pure rage in his eyes. He held an empty plate in his hand, his grip so tight it looked like it might crack.

“DID YOU STEAL MY ONIGIRI?!”

Tanjiro paled, instinctively scooting away from Y/N.

Y/N, on the other hand, had the audacity to smirk. She casually leaned over the edge of the roof, resting her chin in her palm. “Huh? Ohhh, you mean that one I ate like an hour ago?” She gave a dramatic gasp. “Wait, was that yours? Oops.”

Sanemi’s eye twitched violently. “YOU—”

Before he could finish, Y/N immediately shot up to her feet and took off running across the rooftop. “WORTH IT!”

“GET BACK HERE, YOU DAMN GREMLIN—!”

Tanjiro watched in horrified amusement as Y/N cackled, dodging a very real attempt from Sanemi to actually climb onto the roof after her.

From inside the mansion, multiple voices rang out.

“Sanemi! Stop trying to break the building!”

“Y/N-chan, what did you do this time?”

“Tomioka, control your sister.”

Giyuu, who had just walked outside, sighed deeply at the sight before him. “No.”

Stolen.

MY GOSHHH, i love molly, she is such a sweetie, and dutch does NOT... deserve her. in this thing, i made the reader in a rival gang, that i just made up, soooooooo :3 i also made this a m!reader Warnings: none ----

The moon hung low over the Lemoyne swamps, casting a soft glow over the thick night air. Crickets chirped in the distance, and the occasional hoot of an owl broke the silence. You sat atop your sleek gray mustang, Orion, just beyond the Van der Linde camp, hidden in the trees. The Scarface Gang would skin you alive if they knew where you were, but that wasn’t what worried you most. No, it was Dutch Van der Linde—if he found out you’d been sneaking around with his woman, you’d be dead before sunrise.

The snap of a twig made your pulse spike, but then you saw her—Molly O’Shea. Her red hair gleamed under the moonlight, and that mischievous smile of hers made your chest tighten.

“You’re late,” you teased in a hushed whisper.

She huffed, lifting her skirts just enough to step over a patch of mud. “Dutch was going on and on about something,” she muttered. “I had half a mind to slap him just to get away.”

You grinned, reaching out to help her up onto Orion. “One of these nights, someone’s going to catch us.”

“And what? You afraid of a little trouble, love?” Molly leaned into you, her breath warm against your neck as she settled into the saddle.

“I’m afraid of gettin’ a bullet in my head over you,” you murmured, but the truth was—you weren’t. Not really.

Molly let out a quiet laugh, wrapping her arms around your waist as you nudged Orion into a slow walk. The night belonged to you both in these stolen moments, away from the weight of gang politics and Dutch’s possessiveness.

As you rode through the trees, Molly rested her head against your back. “You ever think about running off?” she asked softly.

Your fingers tightened on the reins. You had. More times than you could count.

“With you?” you asked.

She hummed in response. “We could, you know. Just disappear.”

You turned your head slightly, catching her hopeful gaze in the dim light. “And where would we go, Molly O’Shea?”

She smiled, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Anywhere but here.”

You exhaled slowly, staring ahead at the moonlit trail as Orion carried you both through the quiet night. The idea of running off with Molly, leaving all of this behind, was tempting—God, it was tempting. A life without bloodshed, without looking over your shoulder, without Dutch’s shadow hanging over her. A life where it was just the two of you, where you could start fresh, start a family.

But you couldn’t leave. Not yet.

Your grip on the reins tightened. “Molly…” you started, voice barely above a whisper.

She must have heard the hesitation in your tone because she shifted slightly behind you, holding onto you a little tighter. “What is it?”

You swallowed hard before answering. “My sister,” you murmured. “She’s in Scarface. She’s the only family I got left.”

Molly was silent for a moment, her fingers tracing idle patterns against your chest. “I didn’t know you had a sister,” she admitted.

You nodded. “She ain’t like me. She ain’t cut out for this life, but if I leave… I don’t know what happens to her. I can’t just run off and leave her to fend for herself.”

Molly sighed, resting her forehead against your back. “I understand,” she whispered. And you knew she did. She had no family but Dutch, and maybe once upon a time, that had been enough. But now? She wanted more. Just like you did.

You reached down, taking her hand in yours, squeezing it gently. “I love you, Molly,” you admitted, your voice raw with emotion. “More than anything.”

She squeezed back, her breath hitching slightly. “I love you too,” she said, her voice trembling just a little. “I just… I just want a real life with you.”

You closed your eyes, imagining it—Molly in a white dress, a little house somewhere far from all of this, kids running through a field, laughing. Peace. A future. A family.

You pulled gently on Orion’s reins, bringing him to a stop in a quiet clearing surrounded by towering trees. The moonlight filtered through the branches, casting soft silver streaks over the ground. With a deep breath, you swung your leg over the saddle and slid off with practiced ease, turning to help Molly down like the gentleman you always were.

She looked at you with quiet affection as you reached up, hands firm but gentle on her waist as you lifted her down. For a moment, she didn’t move—just stood there, her hands resting on your chest, searching your face as if trying to memorize you in this moment.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” she murmured.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “’Course I am,” you admitted. “Think about it every damn day.”

Molly studied you for a long moment before she reached up, cupping your face in her hands. “I just want a life where I can wake up next to you,” she whispered. “Where I don’t have to worry about bullets, about Dutch, about what tomorrow’s gonna bring. I want us to be free.”

You swallowed hard, emotions clawing at your chest. You wanted that too. But you were torn—torn between love and loyalty, between the future you dreamed of and the past you couldn’t let go of.

And yet…

Before you could stop yourself, you slowly sank down onto one knee, the damp earth pressing against your trousers. Molly gasped softly, her hands flying to her mouth as her wide eyes stared down at you.

“I ain’t got a fancy ring,” you started, voice thick with emotion. “I ain’t even got a plan. But I know one thing for certain, Molly O’Shea—I love you. And if there’s a way, any way, for me to give you the life you want… the life we both want… I swear to you, I’ll find it.”

Molly let out a shaky breath, her eyes glistening in the moonlight. She dropped to her knees in front of you, her hands trembling as she reached for yours.

“You mean it?” she whispered.

“With every damn piece of me,” you said, squeezing her hands tight. “I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but one day… I’ll make you my wife. I’ll give you a home. A family. And I’ll love you every day for the rest of my life.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, but she was smiling—smiling so brightly it made your chest ache.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, my love. Always, yes.”

Molly held your hands so tightly it almost hurt, her breath coming out in little, uneven gasps. You could feel her heartbeat racing through her fingertips, matching your own.

She searched your face, her eyes still wet with tears but shining with something else now—hope.

“You mean it?” she whispered again, as if afraid this moment might vanish.

You nodded, squeezing her hands. “Yeah. I mean it.” Your voice was steadier now, conviction settling in your chest. “We leave. You, me… and my sister. We’ll ride north, cross the border into Canada, and never look back.”

Molly let out a sharp breath, something between a laugh and a sob. “Canada,” she murmured, like she was tasting the word on her lips. “You think we could make it that far?”

“If we’re smart, if we plan it right… yeah, I do,” you said, your voice firm. “We got money saved up between us. We ride out at night, take the long roads, stay off the trails. I know a few fellas up that way—trappers, ranchers. They don’t ask questions.”

Molly sniffled and nodded, determination settling into her features. “And your sister?”

You exhaled slowly. “She comes, no matter what. I won’t leave her behind.”

Molly smiled at that, reaching up to cup your cheek. “That’s why I love you,” she murmured. “You’re a good man.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh. “Not sure about that.”

She tilted her head, smirking. “Well, you’re my man. And that’s good enough for me.”

You leaned into her touch for a moment, savoring the warmth of it, then pulled her close, pressing your forehead against hers.

“We do this, we do it right,” you murmured. “We don’t tell nobody. Not Dutch, not anyone in your camp, not even my own men. We ride out in the dead of night—head west first, then north, throw off any trails.”

Molly nodded quickly. “I’ll pack what I can, keep it light. I’ve got some money hidden away too. Not much, but enough.”

You cupped her face, rubbing your thumbs gently over her cheeks. “It’s gonna be alright, Molly. I swear to you.”

She let out a shaky breath, then nodded. “Alright,” she whispered. “We go to Canada.”

You kissed her—slow, deep, full of every promise you couldn’t put into words. And in that moment, with the moon high above and the whole world sleeping around you, you knew there was no turning back.

You were leaving this life behind.

For her.

For family.