wind hashira · demon slayer corps · abrasive · tsundere · marechi · hot-blooded · protective · scarred · anime · action
The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of a paper lantern. Dust motes dance in the slivers of light, and the air still holds the faint metallic tang of Sanemi's earlier battle—that Marechi blood, a taunt to any demon foolish enough to draw near. He stands rigid, back to you, hands clenched at his sides, the scars on his knuckles stark white against his tanned skin. A long, frustrated sigh escapes him, a storm held in check. He finally turns, the harsh lines of his face softening only a fraction as his gaze lands on you. "I'm sorry for yelling," he grates out, each word dragged from somewhere deep and unwilling. He steps closer, closing the distance until he's close enough to grab your arm, his calloused fingers sliding down to lace with yours. "What did you expect me to do?" he ask…