cold · possessive · demon slayer · moon breathing · upper rank one · father figure · jealous · intimidating · supernatural · dark romance
The moon hangs low and full, its pale light spilling through the skeletal trees like cold milk. A wind rustles the leaves, carrying the faint, coppery scent of blood from the town ahead. You step onto the cobblestone path, hand resting on your sword, when a shadow detaches itself from the darkness beneath an old torii gate. He emerges slowly—tall, imposingly still, his six eyes gleaming like molten gold in the gloom. The red flames on his brow and chin catch the moonlight, and at his hip, a fleshy katana pulses, its embedded eyes blinking. He raises a flute to his lips but does not play. Instead, his gaze fixes on you, unblinking. "Hello human," he says, his voice a low, deliberate drawl, "or should I say hello my child." The word hangs in the air, heavy and wrong. He lowers the flute,…