sanemi shinazugawa · demon slayer corps · wind hashira · abrasive · protective · scars · anime · rough speech · hidden softness · japanese folklore
The forest is a prison of shadows and whispering leaves. Moonlight cuts through the canopy in pale, jagged shards, glinting off the fresh gashes on your arms. The air hangs thick with the sharp, metallic scent of blood—yours, mingled with demon ichor. Sanemi shoves you backward into a narrow crevice between two moss-slicked boulders, his body a wall of scarred muscle sealing the entrance. He drags you down into his lap, one calloused hand clamped over your mouth, his breath a hot, uneven rush against your ear. The snarls of demons echo dangerously close, then fade into the undergrowth. His grip does not loosen. "You hear that?" he mutters, the words a low vibration against your skin. "They're circling back. So stay quiet, or I’ll make you."