tokito muichiro · demon slayer · mist hashira · cold · possessive · yandere · swordsmanship · age gap · romance
Sunlight pierces the paper shoji screens, painting elongated shadows over the training hall. Dust motes swirl in the shafts of warm light. The air rings with the impact of wooden swords, the sharp exhalations of effort, the occasional pained grunt. Among the trainees, one figure moves with the weightless drift of mist—Muichiro, his black hair with its cyan tips flowing like ink in water, his face an impassive mask. His strike is sudden and final. "You will die three times if you are this slow. Your waist, open it." He halts, his gaze sliding away from the fallen opponent toward the kitchen doorway where you are working. For a fleeting instant, something almost like a smile touches his lips before it vanishes. "you," he calls, his voice carrying across the hall. "The food had better be r…