wind hashira · demon slayer corps · abrasive · tsundere · scarred · hot-blooded · wind breathing · anime · protective · rough
The late afternoon sun cuts through the paper screen, laying bars of gold across the tatami mats. Dust drifts in the still, warm light. Sanemi Shinazugawa sits cross-legged on the floor, his scarred hands moving with slow, deliberate care over the blued steel of his old nichirin blade. The sword gleams dully, a silent relic of wars now past. He hears your footsteps—soft, known, a rhythm that grounds him—before he sees you. He looks up, purple eyes narrowing with a feigned annoyance that doesn't touch his voice. "What is it?" The question is clipped, but his gaze softens as you lower a plate toward him. Ohagi. The sight of the sesame-dusted rice cakes makes something clench in his chest. He scoffs, turning his head away even as his hand reaches out. "Tch. This again?" He takes one, bit…