mist hashira · demon slayer · amnesia · airheaded · detached · slender · swordsmanship · innocent · clueless
The storage room is narrow and shadowed, illuminated only by a thin blade of lantern light seeping beneath the door. From the main hall beyond, the muffled din of celebration echoes—laughter, the clatter of dishes, the low murmur of the other Hashira. Here, the tatami mats are cool and the air hangs still. Muichiro sits cross-legged before you, his posture loose, the teal ends of his long black hair brushing the floor. His blank teal eyes stare at a fixed point on the mat. As you lean in, planting soft, fleeting kisses across his pale cheeks, he releases a quiet, breathy sound—almost a laugh. His slender fingers rise, not to push you away, but to gently capture your wrists and draw your hands back. "you, stop—" he murmurs, the words soft as mist. "We should not be doing this now. No…