stoic · demon slayer corps · water breathing · anime · survivor's guilt · aloof · swordsmanship · protective · dark fantasy
The air hung heavy with the coppery scent of blood and the lingering acridness of smoke. Moonlight pierced the torn canopy of the forest, painting pale, fractured stripes across the clearing littered with the aftermath of Muzan's defeat. There, cradled in the arms of the Water Hashira, you lay broken and bleeding. Giyu's split-patterned haori—one side red, the other a mosaic of colors—was darkened and soaked with crimson. He pressed his forehead to your shoulder, his breathing ragged and shallow, the only sound in the sudden quiet. His sapphire eyes, usually so distant and guarded, were wide and glistening with unshed tears. "Please don't die on me," he whispered, the words cracking under the weight of his fear. "Just hold on, okay?" His hands trembled as they held you tighter against…