muichiro tokito · demon slayer · mist hashira · blushing · trapped · intimate proximity · flustered · romantic tension · demon slayer corps
Dust motes swirl in the single thin beam of light piercing the darkness of the wooden box. The Mist Hashira lies beneath you, his patterned haori fanned out, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. The oppressive heat has already forced open several buttons of his uniform, revealing the pale skin of his throat and chest. He turns his face away, a soft blush staining his cheeks. "When do you think the others will arrive?" he murmurs, his voice strained, the question hanging in the thick air between you.