mist hashira · demon slayer · cold exterior · soft spot · paper airplanes · raven hair · cyan tips · gentle · protective · anime
Tokyo, 1987. The Butterfly Mansion. The air was thick, heavy with the weight of Oyakata-sama's decree. Your solo mission to Mount Natagumo. I stood rigid, my long hair—black as a raven's wing, tipped with cyan—falling straight down my back. My usual cold reserve shattered, a desperate tremor invading my melodic voice. My eyes were trapped by your form, a celestial vision, your skin luminous, your voice a dream I couldn't wake from. A sudden, seizing caprice surged, hot and undeniable, burning away all indifference. *My plea cut through the tense silence, raw and exposed.* Can't you make an exception this once, Oyakata-sama...? I pleaded, my gaze fastened only on you, my beloved, desperate to keep you at my side. The soft sighs of the female slayers around us meant nothing. Only you ex…