Archive of Our Own

Tomioka Giyuu stands at his engawa, blank face and stupid blue eyes staring at him.

Heart stubbornly beating faster, Sanemi narrows his eyes and wonders which god did he piss off to deserve this torment. He’s aware that he’s a dick and not the best person in the world, but having Tomioka fucking Giyuu be the one to cash out his karma is a little too much.

It’s been several weeks since the incident Sanemi took to calling his ‘temple fuck up’, and like the mature adult he is, he has been avoiding Tomioka ever since. Not that avoiding him is a hard feat, to begin with. Sanemi simply prioritized longer and further missions to escape being called for support while too close to Tomioka’s patrol area.

While avoiding the physical version of Tomioka was easy enough, avoiding the one who plagued his mind was another thing entirely. Sanemi naively believed that the memories from that day would leave him alone, fade away like the poison in his body. But Tomioka Giyuu’s fucked out face kept resurfacing on his brain like a curse, an itch Sanemi could never fully scratch, try as he might.

And, oh, did he try.

At first, Sanemi pretended he didn’t see Tomioka gasping his name every time he closed his eyes. Eventually, he resigned to the fact that his dick had now a Pavlovian response to those memories and that his boner would never go away unless dealt with. He’d lay down on his futon after some grueling mission, close his eyes, and there he was: Tomioka Giyuu all hot and bothered underneath him, writhing on his cock, asking him for more. Sanemi hadn’t masturbated this much since he was 14.

When the daydreaming and avid masturbation evolved into wet dreams and the humiliation of come stained pants, Sanemi had enough. This couldn’t possibly be normal, it had to be some lingering effects of the poison. He didn’t even like Tomioka to begin with, he just happened to be the pretty boy he lost his virginity to. They only fucked once for fucks sake.

Deciding it had to be some sort of imprinting of his dick, Sanemi started looking for other bodies to bury himself into, and hopefully exorcise the curse that is Tomioka Giyuu off his system. He tried a few women, but it didn’t feel right. Then he went after random men in shady Isakayas near dawn. Not even a particularly pale one with long black hair managed to scratch the festering itch on his body.

Assuming nothing would ever fucking work, he resigned to the fact that he was cursed to see Tomioka moaning in his dreams for the rest of his life. Left without better options, all Sanemi could do was hope for him to drop dead on some mission before he ever saw Tomioka’s face again.

Which brings Sanemi back to the present, with the very bane of his existence standing at the door of the Wind Estate, staring at him with his pretty face and doe blue eyes. Like Sanemi, he’s probably just back from a mission, posture a little more relaxed than usual due to fatigue. He blocks his mind off the fact that the last they were together, they ended up fucking like animals on the dirty floor of an old temple.

Sanemi tries not to stare, but it’s almost inconceivable that the man standing before him, with his impassive face and ugly ass haori, is the same person haunting his dreams. Tomioka Giyuu on his average day barely even looks human, with his general apathy and morose mood. Nowhere near the stunning picture he painted on that wooden floor, crying Samemi’s name.

It makes him want to fuck the stoicism off his face all over again.

With his mind derailing way too fast for his liking, Sanemi wills himself to open his mouth.

“What the fuck do you want, Tomioka?” he barks, fueling his frustration into anger - something he truly mastered over the years.

“I heard you arrived from a mission,” he replies, completely unfazed by Sanemi’s outburst. Tomioka looks him dead in the eyes and Sanemi has no time to shield himself from that piercing gaze. No matter how empty they look, the deep blue still cuts right through him. “I’ve been meaning to return this to you.”

There’s a parcel being extended towards him and Sanemi frowns, taking it while avoiding Tomioka’s hand like he has the plague. Neatly folded inside lies Sanemi’s shirt and uniform top. The shirt he gave Tomioka to clean himself with. The one Tomioka used specifically to clean Sanemi’s come off his ass. The uniform top Sanemi lent him to cover the indecent amount of marks he left on Tomioka’s skin - those clothes.

Sanemi closes the parcel like it personally offended him.

“Why the fuck do you think I want these back?” Sanemi snarls at him, willing himself to stay angry so he doesn’t die from embarrassment. “We have several uniforms. Throw this shit away.”

And he truly fucking means it. He has no idea how Tomioka’s brain works, but he’s also a Hashira, he knows they can have as many uniforms as they want. Why would Sanemi ever want those clothes back?

“There’s a box of Sencha there as well,” Tomioka deadpans at him like Sanemi is missing the point of whatever the hell he means by returning his clothes.

“Then keep the fucking Sencha and throw the clothes away. I don’t care!” He says extending the parcel back to the idiot in front of him - who doesn’t move an inch to take it.

“I bought it for you,” he adds and Sanemi’s mind stops short.

“You did what?”

“I bought you Sencha. I heard you like green tea,” he answers like that’s something absurdly normal between them.

Tomioka fucking Giyuu. His shitty coworker with a superiority complex. The man he fucked once for real and countless times in his mind. That Tomioka Giyuu got his cum-stained clothes washed and bought him the tea he likes.

What the hell?

“The fuck are you doing Tomioka?” Sanemi asks, crossing his arms while still holding that fucking parcel in his hand. He feels defensive for no reason, telling himself he can never be careful enough.

“Thanking you, I suppose,” his head tilts like he’s confused as to why Sanemi even asked. He blinks those big blue eyes at him expectantly, face unreadable. Sanemi still has no clue what the hell he’s talking about.

“Thanking me for fucking what?”

“Well, I…” Tomioka trails off, averting his gaze from Sanemi’s eyes for the first time since he arrived. There’s a sliver of emotion passing through the cracks of his stoicism, like he feels unsure now that Sanemi confronted him. He starts fidgeting with the hilt of his katana before speaking again. “I’ve been meaning to properly thank you… for saving me that day.”

That day. Sanemi doesn’t want to talk about that day, not now, not ever. Much less with Tomioka himself. He’s already plagued enough by his mind providing flashbacks in vivid detail every single day of his life.

He should interrupt him, cut this conversation short and tell Tomioka to scram, but Sanemi is thrown off by how insecure he looks all of a sudden. A soft frown settles on his features, scrunching his small nose as he thinks. Sanemi can only watch his mouth open again the same way he’d watch a blade coming too close to his neck.

“I know it must have been- hard for you to do that,” Tomioka continues, voice low as a whisper now. “So thank you for being so… gentle about it.”

“W- what?” Sanemi stutters, completely thrown off by the words. He loses the fight with his embarrassment and flushes so hard his entire face burns. “What the hell are you talking about?” He adds, trying to save a sliver of his dignity. He doesn’t think he was particularly gentle, he was desperate and running a fever, and the only distinct thought he had was to try to make it pleasurable for Tomioka too. In the end, Sanemi still snapped and nearly fucked him through the floor anyway.

“You were gentle, even with the poison messing with your head,” Tomioka adds, still looking fixedly at the floor, a blush starting to spread on his cheeks. “You made it feel good… for me.”

Sanemi wants to die. Maybe jump from the nearest cliff so he doesn’t have to keep listening to Tomioka fucking Giyuu calling him gentle and thanking him for fucking him within an inch of his consciousness.

This conversation needs to be put to an end. Sanemi wants Tomioka to leave him alone until he rides out whatever curse he put on him. So he does what he does best: makes himself angry over his shortcomings and lashes out at the nearest victim.

“Did you fucking expect me to do what? Assault you?” He sneers, watching Tomioka’s eyebrows shoot up.

“No! Not at all, I-” Tomioka is quick to reply, but Sanemi isn’t having it.

“The only reason that bullshit happened was because otherwise we’d both die. It didn’t mean shit, it was weeks ago, and I barely remember it,” he cuts him, tongue sharp in his mouth to keep Tomioka away. “So whatever you have to say, I don’t wanna hear it. You said your thanks. We’re done here.”

Sanemi ignores the unsettling feeling he gets when Tomioka schools his features back into his mask, empty eyes staring at him before he nods his assent and leaves without another word.

The minute Tomioka is out of sight Sanemi runs a hand through his face, noticing he’s still holding the damn parcel.

That night, Tomioka comes to him in his dreams again, beautiful as ever, asking him to be gentle.

Sanemi is finally over him.

There’s nothing that some months, back to back missions, and a few warm bodies can’t fix. No matter that on some nights he still dreams of hazy blue eyes and red lips calling his name. It doesn’t matter that he sometimes gets lost in thoughts of alabaster skin marked by his hands. If it’s no longer a daily issue, Sanemi is over him.

That’s what he tells himself when the Oyakata-sama sends Tomioka to meet him on a mission in the middle of nowhere. Sanemi tells himself that he feels nothing but annoyance. That he’s finally free from the grasp Tomioka Giyuu has had on him and his mind for fucking months. If his heart beats a little faster at the thought of what happened the last time they were on a mission together, it’s because he’s exhausted. Nothing else.

They don’t talk much - Tomioka’s stick back to being deeply lodged up his ass -, and make quick work of the swarm of demons Sanemi was initially sent alone to deal with. Surprisingly enough, Tomioka’s defensive fighting style matches his Wind Breathing’s offensiveness perfectly, providing a solid back-up to Sanemi’s attacks. It goes smoothly until he gets distracted for a second and some trash with a slicing blood demon art comes up his back. Tomioka is fast enough to catch the bulk of the attack with his katana, but it still tears a slash between Sanemi’s shoulder blades.

Pissed beyond belief, Sanemi doesn’t even wait for his blood to slow the demon down before charging at him, his first form slicing through his neck like butter.

They separate to make sure none of the demons got away, meeting again at a Wisteria House to eat and rest for the remainder of the night. Tomioka looks deeply uncomfortable with the house’s batchan fussing over them, which is deeply amusing. He has been a Hashira way longer than Sanemi has, and apparently, never got used to the fuss the Wisteria hosts make every time a Hashira stays over. Sanemi admits it can be a lot, but since his name precedes him, he’s mostly left to his own devices.

Sanemi refuses help with his cut - it will heal on its own anyway - but the bath is welcomed. He takes his time to wash the blood and grime off his body, doing his best to properly clean the wound on his back before soaking in the hot water. He’s been on this mission for a few days now, and for once, he’s grateful for the backup even if it’s Tomioka. No matter how many demons Sanemi killed, on the next night even more would sprout out of fucking nowhere. It was getting exhausting.

Despite his initial animosity when Sorai told him the Water Hashira was coming to his aid, things have turned out better than expected. Tomioka is back to his aloof self, barely speaking a word to him, which is fine by Sanemi. That’s how it always was and how it should be between them. Even with his air of arrogant superiority and the dismissive silence, Tomioka is still a pretty damn good slayer. He fights with a grace Sanemi has never seen before, his steps light and movements firm, so different from Sanemi’s destructive fighting style. It almost looks like he’s dancing, or swaying with the waves of an ocean. Not that Sanemi was watching.

When the water starts getting cold he leaves the bath and dresses himself with the yukata provided for him. He keeps it loose enough to hang open on his chest, light silk feeling like a balm after so many days wearing his dirty uniform. Sanemi goes out looking for food and finds Tomioka in a small room, already parked in front of a chabudai, bowl nearly overflowing.

“You gonna eat all the food in the house?” Sanemi jabs, sitting on the zabudon across him.

Tomioka throws him an annoyed look and keeps eating, not bothering to rise to his taunt. Deciding he’s too tired to pick up a fight anyway, Sanemi just huffs at him. Tomioka’s eyes are fixed on his food, and Sanemi isn’t sure if he’s ignoring him or just starving. Probably both. He’s also bathed, hair damp and tied into his trademark ponytail, wearing a light blue yukata wrapped around him like an envelope. The color suits him a lot better than that ugly ass thing he wears every day, contrasting against the dark blue of his eyes. Sanemi can’t help but notice how he always shields himself with his clothing. The pristine uniform, the oversized haori, the yukata covering him up to his neck. When he comes to think of it, the only time he ever saw anything beyond Tomioka’s face and hands was that day at the temple.

Which is now forbidden territory in Sanemi’s brain.

He’s about to stand up and give Tomioka the space he clearly wants when the batchan comes through the door with another bowl of food, also parking a sake bottle and two masu cups in front of them.

“Uh,” Tomioka starts, staring at the bottle and then at the batchan smiling at him. “Thank you, but there’s no need for the sake.”

“Oh nonsense!” She says, waving her hand at him. “It’s our best sake! We serve a bottle every time a Hashira stays with us. Housing the Hashira is a great honor, and having two at the same time is a huge privilege.”

“Don’t be rude Tomioka,” Sanemi mumbles at him. It’s so much easier to just take the damn bottle than argue with the old lady. “Thank you for your kindness, batchan,” he adds and she bows deeply at him before leaving the room and closing the shoji door behind her.

“I’m not drinking,” Tomioka is quick to add when he sees Sanemi uncorking the bottle.

“Didn’t fucking ask you to,” he mumbles back, filling his masu cup and taking a small sip. It goes smooth on the tongue, a nice sake indeed. Tomioka watches him as he savors the drink, azure eyes unreadable. “Are you that much of a lightweight that you can’t even sip at it?”

Sanemi asks to make conversation, nothing else. He’s tired, his body is sore, and there’s a gash in his back bleeding through his yukata. He deserves a break while he eats good food and drinks nice sake. Tomioka doesn’t bother with an answer, only watching him with narrowed eyes and Sanemi shrugs, deciding to eat in silence. That’s fine by him.

When Sanemi is halfway through his meal and on his second cup of sake, Tomioka decides to speak again, laying his hashi at the top of his now empty bowl.

“I’m not a lightweight, I simply don’t make a habit of drinking on the job,” he says plainly, watching as Sanemi takes another sip.

“You’re not working anymore,” Sanemi rebuts, digging into his bowl. “But of course, you’re so superior you can’t even take a sip of sake on your time off,” he adds, just because he’ll take any opportunity to jab at Tomioka and his giant ego.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, that’s what I fucking heard anyway,” he lifts an eyebrow at him. “The words of a coward.”

“What are you, a child?” Tomioka hisses at him and Sanemi has to hold back an amused huff.

“Scared to drink around me Tomioka?” Sanemi smirks. “Afraid you’ll do something stupid?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow and only realizing his fuck up a little too late. Tomioka’s eyes flash with something, curiosity, amusement - something Sanemi can’t properly name, but sure as hell means that Tomioka picked up on how Sanemi just accidentally flirted with him.

Those eyes - with their ever-changing shade of blue - study him for a few seconds. Whatever he sees in Sanemi makes his entire demeanor change. Tomioka’s shoulders relax and his face opens like a tide drawing back from the shore. It’s mesmerizing to watch how the mask of indifference slides off his features.

Tomioka throws a small smirk at him and Sanemi needs to remind himself to breathe.

“Should I be scared to drink around you, Shinazugawa?” He asks cheekily, raising a thin eyebrow in challenge and shocking Sanemi to his core.

There’s a small voice yelling at him to cut this short. To get up and leave, run away from Tomioka and his pretty face before it’s too late. But Sanemi isn’t known for being careful. He’s impulsive. Stubborn. A whirlwind of a man, he once heard. More importantly, he’s no coward.

Alcohol and Tomioka together seem like a horrible idea, but Sanemi was never a wise man.

“Only if you can’t handle it,” he grins at him, pouring Tomioka a cup full to the brim. “I won’t hold your hair if you throw up.”

“I’ll have one cup and you’ll leave me alone,” Tomioka warns him, taking the cup and sipping at it. He doesn’t grimace, much to Sanemi’s surprise.

“One cup and you can crawl back to your bedroom and sulk the night away.”

They drink way too fucking much.

It starts as all horrible ideas regarding alcohol do: as a healthy competition. Tomioka, for reasons beyond his comprehension, decides to go from ‘one cup only’ to trying to keep up with Sanemi and his notorious tolerance, leading Sanemi to drink even more than he usually does. They end up finishing the bottle way too fast for their liking, so Sanemi has the brilliant idea to ask for a second one. And then a third.

Much to his surprise - and immense amusement - Tomioka is a chatty drunk. Sanemi is so entertained that he doesn’t even mind him talking nonstop about that fucking Kamado kid, and how, last he heard, Uzui had dragged him to some mission at the Red Light District.

Sanemi watches Tomioka talk a mile a minute about his old-ass crow and how worried he gets over him. That no matter how many messages he delivers wrong, Tomioka refuses to retire the bird. Edges dulled by the warmth of alcohol, he tries not to stare at the flush on Tomioka’s cheeks, the pink tongue wetting his lower lip, or at the blue eyes looking at him - no more a frozen lake, but a sunlit ocean.

Sanemi knew he was screwed the moment Tomioka agreed to drink with him - being too close to the apparition of his dreams was bound to be a horrible decision - but he only realizes the danger he got himself into when the other stops talking and frowns. Those eyes study him for a few seconds before he leans over the small table, grabbing Sanemi by the wrist to try and pull him over the chabudai.

“The hell you doing?” he asks, nowhere near as drunk as an average person would be, but he’s fuzzy around the edges and the touch on his wrist feels like a burn on his skin.

“Turn around.”

“What the hell for?”

“Shut up and turn around.”

“What the-,” Sanemi mumbles but complies, turning his back towards Tomioka. He only understands what he wants when nimble fingers touch the wet patch on his yukata, between his shoulder blades and right over his cut.

“You’re still bleeding,” he frowns when Sanemi turns back to face him. “Why didn’t you let them patch you up?”

“It will heal either way,” Sanemi shrugs. He hates bothering people, so he stitches himself and patches up what he can. What he can’t, he just waits it out and hopes for the best.

“You’re so stupid,” Tomioka hisses at him like he just offended his entire family, getting up and leaving the room before Sanemi can even snap at him for the offense.

He comes back with a small first-aid kit - which is fine by him, but then Sanemi sees the needle and thread in his hand.

“You are not giving me stitches.”

“Are you afraid of needles?” Tomioka asks, tilting his head like a confused puppy. “Is that why you have so many scars?”

“No, shithead, I’m just not letting you stick a needle in me while you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk, see?” He says, showing Sanemi his hands. They’re as steady as swordsmen’s hands have to be. He’s probably in the same state of fogginess as Sanemi is - not drunk but not exactly sober either. “I can stitch you just fine. Unless you prefer I cauterize it?” He offers and Sanemi fights back a flinch.

If this was any other day, any other scenario where Sanemi wasn’t blissfully tipsy, with his sharp edges dulled and his defenses lowered, he would have told Tomioka to shove that needle up his ass and leave. But that isn’t the case.

“I’ll stick to the fucking stitches, thank you very much,” he groans, foolishly cementing his fate. Having Tomioka so close is a dumb, dangerous thing.

Tomioka sits behind him on the tatami and politely waits for Sanemi to slide down the top part of his yukata, letting it pool around his waist. He hears Tomioka shift behind him, warm fingers gently touching his damaged skin.

“The cut is deep,” he mumbles, more to himself than anything. But then he speaks loud and clear, “You really are stupid.”

“Call me stupid one more fucking time and see how that goes,” Sanemi rasps, more to keep his dignity than to actually threaten him.

“Stupid,” Tomioka says and giggles. The sound is so foreign that Sanemi has to turn and see for himself.

He’s not ready for the sight of Tomioka Giyu laughing. He looks so much younger without the weariness he carries around him at all times. Sanemi finds himself mesmerized by that laugh, by Tomioka’s happy little smile. By his blue eyes shining brighter than he has ever seen. Eventually, his giggling dies down, but the little smile stays on his lips.

“Turn around,” he says, a small blush on his face as he pushes Sanemi unceremoniously by the shoulder.

Sanemi obeys, frowning at the tightness in his chest. Maybe he’s not as over Tomioka as he thought he was. Even with the alcohol buzzing in his veins, making everything softer, he knows he’s treading dangerous waters. Tomioka will drown him again as soon as he gets the chance, and Sanemi can’t let him.

The thought that Tomioka has enough power over him to bend Sanemi to his very will - without meaning to, without even wanting to, makes him terrified. Tomioka on an average day is pretty harmless. The stoic face and arrogant demeanor make it easy for Sanemi to keep his distance. That Tomioka is easy to hate, to be angry with, to avoid. But Tomioka without his glacial walls around him is the most dangerous man Sanemi has ever met. He crumbles all and every one of Sanemi’s defenses, flooding his system with the softness in his eyes, his angelic face, and the curve of his cherry lips.

Sanemi barely feels the sting of his cut being cleaned, only being reminded that he has a wound being tended to when he feels the first stab of the needle.

“Just a little stab,” Tomioka belatedly says, and Sanemi huffs.

“You’re supposed to say that before starting, dumbass,” he grumbles, voice coming out so soft that he sounds foreign to himself.

“Oh, sorry,” Tomioka adds and then stays quiet, focused on the task of sewing Sanemi’s skin closed.

Sanemi can feel the steadiness of his hand as he works, his movements swift and experienced. He’s used to getting stitches, used to so much more than just a deep cut, so it’s not the pain that gets him. What makes him flinch is the hot breath suddenly hitting his skin and the warm fingers touching his back to push him forward - Tomioka getting closer to properly see what he’s doing. Sanemi takes a deep breath and focuses on the pain to keep his mind grounded. He counts 20 stitches - maybe the cut was a little bigger than he thought - before Tomioka distances himself again and cleans the closed wound.

He’s about to turn and thank him when he feels Tomioka’s light fingers tracing something on his back. A scar. Then another one. Sanemi’s breath freezes inside his lungs as those fingers travel through his back, tracing the marks that tell Sanemi’s story. Scars he wears proudly, but that don’t deserve such tender touch.

Alarms blare inside Sanemi’s head, a last warning for him to get away, but he deliberately ignores all danger signs. Anything to bask under that touch a little longer.

“You have so many,” Tomioka murmurs, voice soft in the empty room. Sanemi pictures him frowning, nose scrunched at the amount of scars marring his skin.

“Yeah,” he mumbles back, feeling self-conscious about them for the first time in his life. “They’re not nice to look at.”

“No,” Tomioka breathes, and Sanemi thinks he’s about to agree. But then he utters the words that pull the thread of his undoing. “They’re beautiful… like a map on your skin. Unique like Kintsugi.”

It feels like his heart stops before it starts beating frantically. Sanemi doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to feel at Tomioka’s words and his soft touch. All he can do is stay frozen, sitting on the zabudon as his heart runs away from him.

He needs to leave. Put a considerable distance between him and Tomioka before the eagerness in his heart wins him over. He can’t afford to listen to the voice in his head telling him to wait and see because he knows that, if he gives even an inch to Tomioka, he’ll manage to consume him.

Before Sanemi can put his body into motion, Tomioka appears in front of him. He’s sat down by his side, facing him and way too close for Sanemi’s comfort. He watches him with tenderness in those beautiful blue eyes, and Sanemi - despite knowing better - looks right into them, lets himself be swept away by Tomioka’s high tide.

A tentative hand raises towards his face, slow enough for Sanemi to stop it - and he should, he really should - but adrift in ocean eyes and still like easy prey, he can only watch as Tomioka takes his lack of reaction for the answer it is. A lithe finger starts slowly tracing the scar that starts close to his left ear, up to his cheekbone, and across his nose. Then another hand caresses his forehead to gently comb Sanemi’s fringe back, allowing Tomioka to start tracing the scars there as well.

Sanemi isn’t used to being touched, much less like this, with care and tenderness. He made himself into someone people tend to avoid, to fear long ago, and it’s been that way since. The last time he was touched by someone with careful hands was probably when he still had Masachika to patch him up, years ago. Even now that he has what remotely resembles a sex life, it’s nothing like this. It’s not warm and affectionate, it doesn’t make his heart feel like it’s about to beat out of his chest.

He watches Tomioka watch him, feeling like a rabbit pinned under a predator, helpless and vulnerable. His cerulean eyes look curious, like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle on Sanemi’s skin. His hands are calloused but still delicate, elegant fingers tracing the only scars Sanemi loathes. The ones his mother gave him right before he had to kill her. The scars that mark how Sanemi was too late to save her. How he was too late to save his siblings. The same scars Genya has because he couldn’t protect him.

Sanemi hates them.

But for the first time, under Tomioka’s delicate touch, Sanemi doesn’t feel their weight. If anything, he feels like he’s floating. Before he can think any better, he sighs and leans into the touch. Tomioka, like the unforgiving siren he is, seems pleased by the surrender, the hand that was in Sanemi’s hair coming down to cup his cheek, thumb caressing hot skin.

“They shine golden like Kintsugi too,” Tomioka adds, small smile curving his lips. “You're very handsome, Shinazugawa,” he whispers at him like it’s nothing, like he isn’t drowning Sanemi in an abyss he can never return from. Sanemi watches those beautiful eyes study his face, dipping down to fixedly stare at his parted lips. He isn’t prepared for the wave of want that engulfs him, much less to see that want reflected in deep blue when Tomioka’s eyes meet his again.

“You're drunk, Tomioka,” Sanemi whispers in what should be a warning, but comes out too soft, rendered useless when he brings his hand to gently hold Tomioka’s wrist. Terrified, he realizes he isn’t strong enough to pull away. He feels weak, so weak. Like water held inside Tomioka’s cupped hands.

“Am I?” Wanting eyes narrow as they burn through Sanemi like wildfire. Tomioka’s wandering fingers slide from his cheek, to his jaw and down his neck. They travel down the slope of a collarbone until they meet jagged skin crisscrossing in the middle of Sanemi’s chest. Ember eyes and nimble fingers follow the scar that crosses his left pec, meeting another one that starts on his ribs. Sanemi feels like he’s burning alive, skin igniting under Tomioka’s scrutiny. Once he starts following the scar down Sanemi’s abdomen his touch gets heavier, following it lower, lower, and deviating from its path to slide down muscled abs, stopping only when he touches the obi keeping his yukata closed, hooking his finger in. The wanton look Tomioka fixes him then stuns Sanemi into submission. An insect tacked prone for Tomioka to inspect. Dissect. Bend to his will. “I don’t think I am.”

Sanemi is a weak, weak man. He is also a fool for believing himself capable of ever being over Tomioka Giyuu. After all, there’s no running from a siren’s spell.

Heart in his throat, Sanemi can’t stop himself from falling victim to honey lips.

Tomioka’s mouth lands tentatively on his, a light press as the hand on Sanemi’s face pulls him softly, the hand on his obi sliding to his hip underneath the fabric. A sigh breaks, out of his mouth and into the forbidden fruit within his reach, dangling cruelly in front of him.

He can't help but take a bite.

In a heartbeat, Sanemi lunges into Tomioka and a pretty mouth opens for him, tongue kissing him welcome. He tastes like sake and sweetness, inebriating Sanemi faster than any drink ever would. He sinks his hands into raven hair, pulling that damn tie loose so he can properly thread his fingers into silky locks and angle those lips to kiss them deeper. Tomioka smiles against him, biting and gently pulling his lower lip to then lick at it, saccharine in his cruelty.

Rendered breathless, Sanemi burns. He burns for Tomioka Giyuu and his fatal lips. Burns to be under the gaze of vivid sapphire, to touch soft porcelain skin. He pulls him in, accepting his fate - reveling in the ruin Tomioka is about to lay upon him. If he’s meant to be plagued by his siren’s song, to be caught in every one of his spells for the rest of his life, then so be it.

Tomioka licks into him and, placing both hands on Sanemi’s shoulder, he breaks the kiss to swiftly straddle his hips. He looks Sanemi in the eyes before forcing himself down into his groin, the thin fabric of their yukatas barely a barrier between them. Mouths gasping into each other, Sanemi places his hands on warm thighs, squeezing them as Tomioka angles his hips just right and grinds down again and again. The pleasure that sparks through Sanemi’s body is like electricity under his skin - so dissonant of the dull bliss he feels with other people, a fever only Tomioka can ignite.

Sanemi’s heart thunders in his chest, beating so fast he feels he might die at any moment. He can’t believe this isn’t another dream, that the angelic creature plaguing his mind is now seated on his hips, rutting into him, hands on his hair and feeding him sweet delusion straight from cherry lips. The thought that Tomioka - tipsy as he may be - chose this, chose him, drives Sanemi a little insane. He buries a moan into a lithe neck and bites at the soft skin, hands flying to his hips to pull Tomioka down harder. A grind that makes Sanemi feel like he’s poisoned on a rundown temple, dying on a dirty floor all over again. Tomioka’s skin still smells like the ocean, his lips still taste like ambrosia, and his eyes- his eyes still wield the power to undo him.

Sanemi lets go of his neck to lick at a mouth that now hangs open in small gasps, each grind rubbing a hardness against his abdomen. He feels like he’ll die if he doesn’t feel more - more of Tomioka’s skin, of the supple meat in his thighs, more of the cock he barely got to touch last time. In a haze of need, he slides his hands down luscious thighs, getting a satisfied moan in encouragement when he starts lifting the soft silk of Tomioka’s yukata. He pulls at it until he feels hot skin under his palms, gripping those thighs hard before moving up to get two handfuls of Tomioka’s surprisingly meaty ass.

“Didn’t get the chance to do this the last time,” he mumbles into red lips, using his grip to pull Tomioka more fiercely against him. His fingerprints will probably be bruises on white skin by morning. A nice little souvenir for Tomioka to keep. “It was haunting me.”

“My ass was haunting you?” Tomioka asks, an amused whisper, a kitten's lick against Sanemi’s lower lip as he threads his fingers through white hair.

“Your ass and everything else,” he can’t help but confess, a sinner asking for absolution. “Like a curse on my mind.”

“Hm,” Tomioka’s assent is pressed into a filthy kiss, rewarding Sanemi’s honesty with angelic taste. “Sounds like you should seize the opportunity to curse me back, then,” he bites into Sanemi’s lip, pulling at it before pinning him with his eyes. “If you can.”

The challenge burns through Sanemi’s smitten haze like wildfire. A wave of arousal so big he has to hold himself back from throwing Tomioka on the floor and fucking him raw and dry.

Tomioka is playing dirty. And dirty is a game Sanemi can play to win.

“Want me to break you open on my cock, pretty boy?” He fixes Tomioka with a smug look, smirking as he rucks up the yukata further, exposing Tomioka’s dick trapped against his fundoshi. Sanemi grabs him over the fabric, a grip hard enough to pull a whimper from open lips, blue eyes clouded by lust. He buries his smirk into a loose jaw, then presses it into Tomioka’s blushed ear with a whisper. “If you ask nicely I might,” he squeezes Tomioka’s dick again and gets a gasp in reply.

“Fuck, god-”

“There’s no god here Tomioka,” Sanemi smiles into his ear, releasing his cock to slide his fundoshi to the side until it pops free from its confines. He runs the back of his fingers up the length, a cruel caress that makes Tomioka gasp and squeeze at his shoulders. “You play with fire, you get burned.”

“Please-” he whispers, so quick to beg, to ensnare Sanemi further into his bewitchment. When Sanemi gives in - because he’ll always give in to Tomioka’s pleas - and wraps his hand around his cock to slowly jerk at it, he buries that beautiful face on his shoulder and shivers. “Call me by my name. When we’re like this.”

With his free hand Sanemi grabs him by the hair and pulls Giyuu’s face from his shoulder, watching those azure eyes open to him, pupils so big they’re almost black. He can’t help but pull him into a filthy kiss, licking the honey off his tongue. He thumbs at the head of Giyuu’s cock, swallowing the gasp from his mouth as he gathers the wetness of precum and uses it to make the glide smoother. Those hips start grinding into him again, whether to rub at Sanemi’s dick or to fuck into his hand he doesn’t know, doesn’t care, humming his approval into open lips.

“Tell me what you want, Giyuu,” Sanemi asks, breaking the kiss and using his grip on Giyuu’s hair to angle his face at him. He looks so lost in pleasure that Sanemi can’t help but twist his wrist cruelly, just to hear him gasp over and over again.

“I want you,” he murmurs between moans, hands going back to pull at Sanemi’s hair, trying to ground himself. “Whatever you give me.”

“You might regret that come morning,” Sanemi warns, a whisper into swollen lips.

“I don’t care,” comes a desperate reply, smoldering Sanemi with its need. “Just fuck me, please-”

Sanemi feels powerful. He knows it’s an illusion - Giyuu begging for his cock while he jerks him stupid, thrusts going out of rhythm as Sanemi twists his wrist and hardens his grip is something that can only ruin him further. But much like the siren writhing atop him - he doesn’t care. Let them dig their graves while lost in the blurred lines of alcohol and lust. They can lie in it tomorrow and spend the rest of their lives there for all he cares.

He picks up the rhythm, eager to have Giyuu coming on his hand before coming on his cock, and kisses the angel before him. It’s barely coordinated enough to be called a kiss - with the small moans and gasps keeping Giyuu’s mouth open - but Sanemi licks into him all the same, pulls at his lower lip until it’s swollen and red. The color makes him think of a forbidden pomegranate, one he’s willing to eat no matter how long he might be trapped in the underworld of Giyuu’s spell.

When their pace gets too much and the kiss becomes unsustainable, Sanemi distances himself to watch. The engorged flushed cock spasming in his hand, weeping pearly beads of precum, Giyuu’s fucked out face, so sensitive even without the poison affecting him. The mess of his ebony hair, bangs out of place, length falling around his shoulders and down his chest. His yukata now loose from being displaced, one side falling to reveal a toned shoulder. A sight Sanemi is utterly undeserving of, and that he knows he’s lucky to be blessed with. Vaguely, he wonders just how many people have seen him like this - the stoic Tomioka Giyuu writhing in pleasure, moaning small gasps, eyes burning with need and begging for more.

“Sanemi I’m-” his name on those lips makes Sanemi come back to him, moving his hand faster and licking at the pillar of Giyuu’s neck, up to his jaw. “If you keep going I’m-”

“You’ll come on my fist,” he mumbles into ivory skin. “And then I’ll let you come on my cock.”

Giyuu’s thighs start shivering against his hips, small thrusts going out of pace as his gasps turn into low moans. He’s close. Sanemi distances himself again to drink the sight of Giyuu close to orgasm - coming because of him, of his touch. No poison spoiling his judgment, just the faint embrace of alcohol making them dangerously reckless.

“Do the masters need anything el- Oh!” Sanemi startles so badly that he almost throws Giyuu off his lap. Thankfully, Tomioka is smarter than him because instead of jumping away with his dick out, he buries himself into Sanemi, turning his back to the door and shielding the poor woman from the sight. The batchan is sitting in dogeza, head firmly pressed against the floor, shoji door opened just enough for her to see really damn well what the fuck they’re doing. “I’m so sorry for interrupting the masters, I humbly apologize,” she adds and closes the door again.

“What the actual fuck,” Sanemi murmurs, and as soon as the door clicks shut, Tomioka is off of him, hastily closing his yukata. Sanemi is practiced enough to keep the frustration off his face. The longing in his chest, however, there’s not much he can do about it but deny it even exists.

“I’m sorry, I’m-” Tomioka starts, adjusting his clothes and looking for his hair tie on the tatami floor. “I really should leave,” he finds it under the chabudai, quickly pulling his sex-mussed hair into a neat ponytail.

He won’t meet Sanemi‘s eyes, and Sanemi lies to himself that he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care whether Tomioka is embarrassed of him, of being caught with another man, or of the entire situation in itself.

He watches as Tomioka gets up and finishes putting himself together, looking pristine as ever. Despite his best efforts, he still can’t erase Sanemi’s touch. His lips are swollen, a deep strawberry red, eyes still hazy and his neck is full of the marks Sanemi put there. Even under his clothes, Sanemi knows his touch will linger - maybe bruises on his thighs, his ass, hickeys on his neck. Tomioka is still obviously hard, and Sanemi finds a small satisfaction in the fact that he’ll have to get to his room and jerk his frustration off as well.

“Yeah, you really should,” is what Sanemi replies, running a hand through his hair and watching Tomioka disappear like foam in water, not a single glance thrown back at him.

Sanemi waits until he can no longer hear Tomioka’s light footsteps before he leaves for his bedroom and sits on his futon to sulk. He’s frustrated beyond belief, disappointed in himself for being so powerless against Tomioka’s spell. For giving in to his desires like an inconsequential fool. He’s not a teenager anymore, not some villager who has the time to get tangled in something as mundane as want. He doesn’t have the time or the will to be involved with something this frivolous. He’s a Hashira, a soldier in a thousand-year war who should have known better than this.

Tomioka is dangerous. He’s fickle and capricious - mood swinging like the sea under changing winds -, and Sanemi should have known fucking better.

Regardless of his current misery, his boner refuses to give him peace. Offended at the issue between his legs, he violently jerks off his grievances to the unshakable image of sapphire eyes, rose lips, and milky skin ingrained in his mind. He gives himself to an underwhelming orgasm that does nothing to ease how pent-up Sanemi feels, but at least helps him relax enough to fall into a light sleep. Which, of course, doesn’t last long because the gods clearly hate him tonight.

Barely an hour later, he’s awakened by the faint sound of his shoji door sliding open. He doesn’t stir - it might be one of the attendants leaving him water - but then he hears light footsteps. Light enough that they can only belong to one person, who welcomes themselves in before closing the shoji door behind them.

He opens his eyes to Tomioka’s silhouette beside his closed door. It’s still dark, the only light in the room comes from the moon outside, barely slipping through the papers on the shoji panels and the windows. Still, Sanemi wouldn’t miss Tomioka’s eyes finding his even in a pitch-black room. Their shine cut through the darkness, drawing him in like a moth to a flame.

Sanemi narrows his eyes at the vision before him. He wonders if this isn’t another one of his dreams. Maybe his longing and the alcohol decided to play a new, vicious trick on his mind. After months under his spell, he mustn’t be that far from conjuring his own version of Tomioka to keep him company.

The image in front of him doesn’t say anything, only fixes him with an apprehensive gaze under the thick silence enveloping the house. Then a small footstep, another one, until he stops right beside his futon, looking down at him with those shifting blue eyes. Sanemi is lost between questioning his sanity and the weight of the stare pinning him down. He can only watch as the hesitation in those eyes turns obstinate, and Tomioka - in his mind or his room, he still isn’t sure - bends down and suddenly straddles his hips.

The warmth that seeps into Sanemi’s body is all-encompassing. The softness of the thighs spreading around him is real, palpable. Tomioka Giyuu is truly in his room, sitting on his lap, and staring him down with want in his eyes.

“What the fu-” Sanemi starts with the only thing his poor brain can muster, but Tomioka doesn’t let him finish. He dives down and closes the distance between their mouths, plush lips pushing against his, and Sanemi is gone. His mouth parts in surrender, letting Giyuu’s tongue taste him, a siren devouring his victim. He still tastes faintly of sake, but behind it, there’s a sweetness that’s inherent to him, something that only Giyuu has. The equivalent of Sanemi’s Marechi blood, a taste, smell, and feeling that renders him defenseless, utterly useless under its influence. Inebriated by longing and desire, Sanemi places his hands on Giyuu’s thighs, squeezing them lightly before pulling him in.

Giyuu bears down on him, a hand firmly placed beside Sanemi’s head on the futon and the other threading into white locks to deepen the kiss into something desperate. Sanemi has no idea what’s happening inside Giyuu’s head, if he was awake and pent-up, or if he simply woke up and chose to ruin Sanemi’s life a little further. He also doesn’t care. Giyuu is here now, no matter how undeserving, how unfit Sanemi is for him - for this, he still came to his room in the dead of night, at a Wisteria House where everyone knows exactly who they are.

They have already proven how stupid and reckless it is to try to fuck in a place like this, but if Giyuu doesn’t mind, then neither does he. They started digging their graves long ago anyway, they might as well finish it. Sanemi kisses him passionately, answering his need in kind, before bringing a hand to Giyuu’s hair and breaking the kiss with a small bite.

“Thought pretty boy had to leave,” he smirks at him, hand squeezing a soft thigh. Those blue eyes narrow, like he’s inspecting Sanemi’s reactions to gauge his mood. He’s still wearing the same yukata from dinner, albeit tied much looser than it previously was. His hair is slightly mussed, bangs falling out of place. Whatever he sees in Sanemi’s face makes him lift an eyebrow, a small smile on his lips, head tilting to the side before he replies in a low voice.

“I changed my mind.”

Giyuu keeps looking at him with that smile in his mouth and Sanemi wants to be mad. He wants to throw him off and tell him that he had his fucking chance. Tell him to fuck off back to his bedroom and never pull this shit again. But he already made peace with the fact that - when it comes to Giyuu - he’s a helpless fool. Nothing more than a beggar for scraps of those lips and cerulean gaze that haunts him. He wishes he could be angry, but his heart - as battered and bruised as it is - beats with want and a yearning so big that he can barely stand it.

Ever since he tasted Giyuu for the first time, Sanemi was doomed to end up like this. The feared Wind Hashira rendered defenseless over soft skin and honey lips. Utterly defeated by the thighs pressing against him and the gaze pinning him down, flayed open and begging for another caressing cruelty from those hands.

“What the fuck makes you think you’re welcome here?” Sanemi asks, more for the sake of his declining dignity than anything else. Still, like the fool he is, he takes his hand from Giyuu’s hair and puts it back on his thigh, holding the gaze that’s burning him.

“You haven’t thrown me off yet,” Tomioka whispers, a reminder for Sanemi to keep his voice low - they already traumatized enough people in this house. “And you look quite happy to see me,” the menace above him adds, proving his point by rutting his hips down on Sanemi’s groin, making his entire body burn.

“You’re so fucking full of yourself,” his jab comes out as a huff, helpless against this version of Tomioka Giyuu, with his open face, his molten eyes, and endless warm skin. Not a trace of the cold husk of a man Sanemi gets to see so often. “Are you still drunk?” He asks when he already knows the answer - that none of them were that drunk to begin with.

He’s graced with an amused little smile - Giyuu perfectly reading between his lines, aware of the meaning behind his question. Sanemi willingly took the bait - hook, line, and sinker - and is asking for more. He lowers himself, so close that his murmur dies on Sanemi’s lips.

“Just enough to make poor decisions.”

Sanemi can’t help but scoff at him, his hands climbing from Giyuu’s thighs to his hips and pulling the yukata with them until there’s nothing but warm skin under his fingertips.

“You can just say you’re horny out of your mind,” Sanemi taunts him, fingers pressing in to pull Giyuu against his hips. He wants to hear him say it, wants to drown himself in the illusion that he’s not alone in whatever this is - this pull that Giyuu has on him, like a moon messing up Sanemi’s tides, a star pulling him out of orbit.

“I’m horny out of my mind,” Giyuu murmurs back, lips grazing against Sanemi’s mouth. The double blow of Giyuu’s lips and words ignite a fire in him, so big that Sanemi feels like he might combust. “And if you don’t fuck me in the next five minutes I’ll leave,” Giyuu adds, thin eyebrow going up in a fatal hit. He might not be drunk but the alcohol sure as hell makes him bold. With a smirk, Sanemi decides to rise to his level.

“If you’re so desperate, you can make yourself useful and ride my cock,” Sanemi murmurs back in a challenge, planting his feet and thrusting up, hardness digging against Giyuu’s ass. He gets a small gasp in response and watches with amusement as a deep flush blooms on Giyuu’s pretty face. Inebriated audacity or not, he’s still defenseless against Sanemi’s sharp tongue.

“You’re so generous-” Tomioka starts, in a clear attempt to sass at him, but Sanemi’s patience wears thin. He pulls him down and kisses those tantalizing lips, that open to him like Sanemi’s tongue belongs there, like he’s worthy of being fed sweet ambrosia straight from the mouth of an angel. His hands travel to the back of Giyuu’s hips to hook on his obi, pulling at the knot until it loosens and his yukata falls open, soft silk dancing against Sanemi’s clothed chest. His haste is met with greed, the siren atop him kissing him deeper as nimble fingers pull Samemi’s robe open and dig themselves into his pecs, his shoulders, to then clumsily try to pull Sanemi’s yukata off of him.

When it doesn’t work - with Giyuu too desperate to be coordinated and the fabric pinned down by their combined weights - Sanemi sits up, kissing Giyuu deeply as he strips and tries to get rid of the yukata trapped underneath him. He does his best to pull it without damaging the delicate fabric. Still, it’s hard to focus when Giyuu is kissing him like he’s starved - deep, desperate kisses as he pulls Sanemi in by his hair, thrusting his hips in tantalizing waves, drowning him in need.

Once he’s free from the yukata, Sanemi bites at Giyuu’s lower lip, hands climbing a warm body to bury in ebony hair and pull it loose. If Sanemi has to undo that damn hair tie a thousand times, he will. He’ll take every opportunity to bask in the heavenly sight that is Giyuu surrounded by his wild, dark hair - a halo of black that frames his stunning face and makes his eyes shine like gems. The other man smiles against him, amused by Sanemi’s clear preference, more ammunition to his arsenal for rendering Sanemi breathless. Once he’s done with the locks, he breaks the kiss to hook his thumbs underneath the collar of Giyuu’s yukata and push the fabric away. It slides off alabaster skin like a silken rivulet to pool on his lap, revealing a pink blush that goes down his chest.

Faced with heavenly sight and the offer of time - no threat of imminent death or the risk of getting interrupted - Sanemi lets himself linger. He brings both hands to cup Giyuu’s face and gently kisses his lips. He parks his mouth under a slack jaw and sucks a bruise where no uniform can cover. His lips and tongue travel to the column of his neck, sucking and biting to then travel down sharp collarbones. Giyuu’s skin feels like the silk of their yukatas - soft, shiny, luscious. Sanemi distances himself to touch the small scars that peck porcelain - neatly healed shiny lines, perfect and smooth. Nothing like Sanemi’s damaged body, with barely healed scars. Giyuu had called them beautiful, compared them to something as noble as Kintsugi. In Giyuu’s inebriated mind, every time Sanemi gets cut - either by an enemy or himself - he opens a spot to be filled with gold. Broken, but still able to be made into a new piece, into something rare and beautiful.

He kisses a scar on Giyuu’s chest and, sliding both hands up his back between his shoulder blades, Sanemi pulls him closer, wrapping his lips around a hardened nipple. The gasp Giyuu lets out rings like a melody in Sanemi’s ear. He smirks into Giyuu’s chest - always so sensitive to his touch - and slowly licks at the pebble, circling his tongue to then suck it into his mouth. With a gasped-out moan, delicate fingers thread into his hair, pulling him in, pinning Sanemi there. He laves at the dusty nipple, tasting salty, silken skin as Giyuu starts rutting against him with purpose. Sanemi moves to the other side, works it with the same care, teeth grazing at a soft pebble before biting, and when Giyuu pulls him up by his hair, he dives back into red lips, threading his fingers into raven locks and kissing him deeply.

Sanemi has half a mind to finish what they started, bringing a hand underneath the fabric pooling in Giyuu’s lap to pull at his fundoshi, but what he gets instead is a handful of hot skin. Eyes shooting open, Sanemi breaks the kiss to pull the fabric away and reveal a pretty cock, hard and flushed, curving against Giyuu’s toned abs, beads of precum glimmering against his skin.

He didn’t bother with underwear.

Tomioka Giyuu got up in the middle of the night and came to sit on Sanemi’s lap, completely naked underneath a loose yukata.

Sanemi’s brain short-circuits at the sight, eyes working overtime to catalog every single detail, engrave it in his brain to fuel his tormenting dreams. Giyuu’s skin shines silver in the moonlight, cerulean eyes watching him, hazy with want. Needy hands touch Sanemi’s shoulders, climbing up to cup his face and angle it until his eyes are driven away from Giyuu’s body, pinned under sapphire gems.

“Do you plan on fucking me anytime soon?” Giyuu whispers, probably intending to sound bossy, but what Sanemi hears is a bratty whimper.

Breath frozen in his lungs at the apparition that is Giyuu, naked in his lap, shining like an ethereal being, Sanemi tries to gather his wits and not embarrass himself too much.

“I told you to ride my cock, didn’t I?” Sanemi murmurs, voice thick as he throws him a crooked smile. His hands go to Giyuu’s ass to pull him down as he thrusts up, watching as Giyuu’s small mouth drops open in a gasp again. “Were you smart enough to bring oil or do I have to fuck you on my spit?”

Giyuu’s eyes darken at the jab, a dangerous little smirk twisting his lips as he gets closer, a feline stalking its prey, mouth close enough to make Sanemi’s lips itch.

“Oil or not, you can fuck me in any way you like,” he whispers, tantalizing voice bending Sanemi to his very will. Giyuu’s newfound boldness is alluring, a song that pulls him in only to lay him into ruin.

And Sanemi is a weak, weak man.

Whatever thread that was holding him together snaps. He surges into those lips with so much force he topples them on the futon. Giyuu falls into the bedding with a gasp that Sanemi promptly swallows, thighs falling open in undeniable enticement. Sanemi kisses him like Giyuu is the last drop of water in a desert, as if he’ll die without the taste of his tongue. Giyuu’s fingers dig into his back, blunt nails scratching him as Sanemi pulls him by the thighs to rut into his groin, their dicks sliding together, making both of them gasp.

Parting from honey lips, Sanemi grinds down one last time before kissing a lithe neck.

“‘M gonna ask again,” he mouths into soft skin. “Did you bring any oil?” Sanemi asks, and just because he can, he brings his hand down to wrap around both their cocks, squeezing them tightly before slowly jerking. Giyuu’s cock pressed against his feels like heaven, and Sanemi indulges himself in it, thrusting into his tight fist and the heat held against him.

The tight grip makes Giyuu malfunction underneath him, narrow hips stuttering to fall into Sanemi’s rhythm. Instead of answering, his hands slide up to Sanemi’s hair to try and bring him back to his lips. Sanemi lifts his head to look at him - but doesn’t budge when he tries to pull him in for a kiss, jerking them faster, tighter, instead.

“Answer me, or I’ll stop,” Sanemi bluffs, because truly, he wouldn’t be able to stop even if the heavens splits open and the gods come down waging war upon them.

“I have oil, but I-ah! I already-”

Eyes widening, Sanemi stops short, feeling like he was hit by a train. He lets their dicks go and slides his fingers down Giyuu’s taint, finding his hole already slippery. All the blood that remains in his head rushes south, making him lightheaded with lust. Tomioka Giyuu is out for murder tonight, and Sanemi- Sanemi is his volunteering victim. He blinks the haze out of his eyes and, without warning, thrusts two fingers in to test its give. Giyuu’s wide eyes and shocked gasp only entice him further, and scissoring his fingers he finds that yes, Giyuu was definitely busy before coming to him. He adds a third finger to little resistance, thrusting slowly and watching him start to writhe, a pale hand flying up to cover Giyuu’s mouth and muffle his soft moans.

“Having fun with your fingers, weren’t you?” he whispers with a smug smile, supporting himself on his knees so he can use his free hand to uncover Giyuu’s mouth. He thrusts in slowly, scissoring his fingers as he pulls out, going back in to rub inside, looking for that sweet spot of his. “Trying to scratch the itch of almost coming on my fist?”

“I- Yeah,” comes the gasped-out reply and Sanemi has to hold himself together before his brain melts and leaks out through his ear. The idea of Giyuu lying on his futon, moaning into a pillow as he fucks himself on his fingers, thinking of him- it’s almost too much.

“Couldn’t get it right so you came to me again, huh,” he can’t help but feel smug over the fact that he managed to mess with Giyuu’s head, even if just a little. “Those pretty fingers don’t feel the same do they?”

“No, ah, they don’t,” hands come to rest on Sanemi’s shoulders as Giyuu starts to ride his fingers, tilting his hips until his eyes shoot open “Fuck.”

“There it is,” Sanemi smiles at him, rubbing mercilessly against that spot and drinking the sight of Giyuu unraveling on his fingers. Sanemi’s brain is barely functional, all his blood currently residing in his painfully hard dick. The fact that Giyuu was fucking himself just a hallway away, combined with the vision of his siren writhing on his fingers, hazy blue eyes begging for more, drives him a little insane. Sanemi thrusts hard into him, rubbing ruthlessly at his prostate and Giyuu’s mouth falls open in a tantalizing moan - beautiful as ever, but way too loud in the silent room. He lowers himself again, keeping his aim but filling Giyuu’s mouth with his tongue, kissing him greedily as those thighs wrap around him for purchase, hips undulating against Sanemi’s fingers. It’s too much and not enough, never enough. He feels lightheaded, inebriated by a sweet tongue and the hot tightness around his digits - like he’s about to pass out and ascend into a different plane altogether.

Fucking Giyuu on his fingers blinds Sanemi with greed. He wants to see those blue eyes fill with overwhelmed tears, those red lips bitten bloody to stop screams from tumbling out. Holding the pleasure of a nymph in his hands drowns him in hunger. Makes him possessive. Giyuu couldn’t satisfy himself with his own touch, and now it’s up to Sanemi to break him apart with his hands. Dazed with want, he needs to be the only one to make Giyuu come apart like this, sweet gasps and eyes rolling back, cock leaking miserably against milky skin. Sanemi’s so out of it that he barely notices when he shoves his face into a soft neck, fingers circling that sweet spot ruthlessly. His mouth runs away from him, brain going back to the question plaguing his mind.

“How many people have you fucked since the last time I had you, hm?” He asks, crooking his fingers up in tortuous pressure, watching a small mouth open in a silent moan. Sanemi’s brain-to-mouth filter is all but gone, a dent in a dam capable of drowning them both with its flooding.

Giyuu only whimpers, chest heaving as the pent-up pleasure starts reaching its peak. A hand comes to thread on Sanemi’s hair, grabbing at it to desperately press his face further into his neck. Sanemi laves at the salty skin, leaves another bruise, and lifts his head to drink in a fucked out face that has no right to be so attractive. He thrusts in hard and up again watching as Giyuu’s back bows in a beautiful arch.

“Answer the question Giyuu,” he murmurs, keeping his thrusts brutal and his aim true, only slowing down when Giyuu starts to shake. “Or I’ll have you come on my fingers and leave.”

Giyuu looks at him with wide blue eyes before whimpering, lips wobbling in an adorable pout before he cracks.

“No one, I-” he gasps, fingers digging into Sanemi’s scalp. “Just you, Sanemi,” Giyuu adds, mouth lax in pleasure as he seals Sanemi’s coffin deep inside the grave they just dug. “Only you.”

Sanemi’s breath freezes in his lungs at the admission.

“Fuck,” is the only thing that his mouth is articulate enough to say. Giyuu taps on his hand and Sanemi is so dazed that he obediently pulls his fingers out. His mind is still swimming in the idea that Giyuu hadn’t been fucked in months, that no one besides Sanemi has ever seen him like this, touched him like this. He comes back to earth when a slippery hand wraps around his cock, Giyuu quickly oiling him before fixing him with a burning gaze.

“Fuck me. Right now.”

It’s an order, and Sanemi is too far gone to do anything but obey. Eyes fixed on hazy blue watching him, Sanemi holds himself by the base, guiding the swollen head of his cock to soft furled skin, sinking into him slowly, carefully. Just when the tip makes its way past the tight ring of muscle, Giyuu shoots him with an obstinate look, thighs pulling Sanemi with so much strength that he topples, thrusting it all in. Giyuu gasps out a pained wince on the verge of too loud, hands shaking on Sanemi’s back.

“Giyuu, fuck-” he tries to breathe through the sparks of pleasure, watching in worry as Giyuu winces in pain. “You’re gonna hurt yourself-”

“I don’t care,” Giyuu cuts him with a sob, hands gripping scarred skin like he’ll die if Sanemi isn’t inside him. “God, Sanemi, I don’t care, I just need you to fuck me,” he mumbles again, like an afterthought leaking out of his lips.

“You'll be the death of me,” Sanemi mumbles, an acceptance of his fate, a lamb offering itself for sacrifice. His hand goes to a supple thigh, leaving indentations on marble skin as he starts to slowly thrust. Giyuu looks like an apparition, something ethereal and unreal, consecrating Sanemi’s undeserving touch with his body. Face contorted between pain and pleasure as Sanemi builds a rhythm - tantalizing lips dropped open, wild, sweaty hair falling all around him like a halo - Tomioka Giyuu is a heavenly sight to behold. Porcelain skin turned silver by the moonlight and beautiful cock weeping into toned abs as Sanemi fucks him.

“Good,” the siren gasps back at him, wet eyes shining vivid blue as his lagging brain processes what Sanemi said. “Because you’re killing me too.”

Sanemi dives into that mouth desperately before it ruins him further, all teeth and tongue that Giyuu takes no time to welcome. He sets a fevered pace, fucking him hard and deep, giving Giyuu all the sordid wants he sobs into Sanemi’s ear. ‘More’, ‘harder’, ‘there’, Sanemi gives him all and Giyuu takes it, takes so much that Sanemi wonders if he didn’t get himself poisoned again. The greed and eagerness that Giyuu meets him with are addictive, it bends Sanemi’s mind into believing that he’s also ensnared in this need - this absurd pull that sparked on the floor of an old temple months ago. Sanemi lets himself be fooled, buries himself in the illusion of belonging inside those arms, of fitting between those thighs.

Giyuu feels like heaven, like coming home to rest after a grueling night. For a while, Sanemi believed that the feeling of Giyuu’s body that day was poison hallucination - he searched high and low for that same feeling in other people, but never found it again. Not until now. The way he wraps his body around Sanemi makes his heart soar. Up, up, until arms and legs pull him under again, a small mouth feeding him sweetness from voice and tongue. Sanemi grabs at a thigh and folds it up - the memory of Giyuu’s flexibility branded in his mind - and fixing his aim, he hits his prostate head-on. A splitting moan pierces the silence in the room and Sanemi slows down, mouth falling into a small ear.

“Keep quiet, moonshine,” he whispers, hips undulating in a filthy roll, rubbing against Giyuu’s spot. “Or I’ll have to shut you up.”

Giyuu whimpers and nods his assent, burying his face into Sanemi’s neck as his nails rake down his back, staccato gasps filling his ears. Sanemi vividly remembers how noisy Giyuu can be once he’s fucked out of his mind, and no matter how gorgeous his moans are, they need to keep it the fuck down.

Folding both of Giyuu’s thighs against his chest, Sanemi rolls his hips to rub mercilessly against his prostate, and even while sobbing in his ear, his siren still asks for more. Helpless to his pleas, Sanemi brings them to a relentless pace again, hard, deep thrusts while he does his best to keep himself together.

He has half the mind to avoid their skin from slapping too loud, to kiss Giyuu’s breathless every time those rose lips drop open. Despite trying his best, Giyuu is still far from quiet, whispering ‘yesses’ and ‘pleases’ into Sanemi’s skin, low nonsensical mumbles that die on Sanemi’s tongue. Try as he might, there’s only so much Sanemi can take, and when his siren whimpers a “you feel so good”, his caution completely evaporates. He bends Giyuu further and fucks him hard, so good it makes his vision blur and Giyuu wail into the silent room.

Not willing to take his chances, Sanemi pulls out and flips Giyuu on his stomach. He presses his torso on the futon with one hand while the other pulls his hips up. Giyuu is quick to get with the program, folding his knees underneath him and bringing his arms up to grab at the futon, looking to the side to fix Sanemi with a fevered look. Those eyes shine in the dark, something mythical, sacred. A siren offering himself. An infallible trap for Sanemi to fall victim to - one that he’ll always step into, despite knowing better.

Sanemi watches his hands - rough and full of scars, unfit to touch precious porcelain, but still, they travel from a small waist to soft hips and then a plump ass, thumbs spreading it open. He’s enraptured by the sight of Giyuu’s furled hole twitching at the emptiness, skin glistening with oil and red from all the friction. Mesmerized, he rubs the pad of his thumb and then dips it inside, hooking it in to gently pull.

“Sanemi, please-”

At the murmured plea, Sanemi snaps out of it and maneuvers himself to quickly sheathe his cock back to Giyuu’s heat, a low moan reverberating in his chest. He throws a smirk at the angel watching him and threads a hand through raven hair, winking at Giyuu before shoving his face down on the bedding and fucking him like it’s his last day on earth.

Throwing caution to the wind, he fucks him like he’s trying to split Giyuu open, like they’re somewhere private where they can be as loud as they want. Quick, brutal thrusts so strong that Giyuu has to grip the futon to keep himself in place, shaky hands scratching the sheets. He moans freely into the bedding, the muffled sound driving Sanemi insane. Even pinned down, choking against his pillow, Giyuu has the power to undo him. To pull all and every thread holding him together until he’s completely bare.

Sanemi builds up a rhythm only to break it again and again, falling back into slow thrusts, circling his hips to watch Giyuu tear at the sheets and whimper against the mattress. He doesn’t want this to end, the warmth of Giyuu’s body an anchor tied around his ankle, and Sanemi gladly lets himself sink. When he picks up the pace again, free hand gripping those hips to tilt them up and hit him right, Giyuu starts to shake like a leaf, thin hand sneaking down to jerk himself into completion. Before he can reach his target, Sanemi lets go of his hair to snatch Giyuu’s wandering hand and pin it beside his head, lowering himself so he can whisper inside his ear:

“Can you come on my cock alone, pretty thing?”

“I- I don’t know I-”

Sanemi now knows that the only time Giyuu did this was when he was poisoned out of his mind. He came untouched twice, but it was an extreme situation. It only makes his curiosity spark, wondering how much he can push Giyuu before he breaks.

“I think you can,” he murmurs into his ear, thrusting long and deep. Sweet nectar used against the siren who ensnared him. “You like being good to me, don’t you?”

“Fuck-” he gasps and Sanemi smiles against his ear, keeping note of how the praise makes Giyuu squirm. “Yes- yes, I do.”

Sanemi grips his hair again to turn his face to a filthy kiss, open mouths and tongues sliding against each other. Chest on Giyuu’s back, he goes back to a brutal pace, only slowing down when stars blink in his vision and Giyuu’s a shivering mess underneath him. He bites a toned shoulder and wraps an arm around Giyuu’s chest, pulling him up on his knees, the other hand going to his pretty mouth to keep him quiet and his head pinned against his shoulder. He adjusts himself and starts fucking into him fiercely, hitting Giyuu’s prostate dead-on, and thanking himself for the foresight of shutting his mouth. Giyuu wails against his hand, arms going up to try and grab at anything, landing one hand on Sanemi’s hair and the other on his arm, nails digging in painfully. Sanemi buries his face on that neck and bites, holding the angle to fuck him savagely - hard, deep, and fast until Giyuu’s screams against his hand turn into sobs.

“Fuck, you feel- too fucking good,” Sanemi groans, voice thick as his orgasm starts to creep into him, rapid thrusts making stars spark in his vision. “Fucked so many people trying to get you off my mind. No one felt right,” he babbles into Giyuu’s flushed ear, getting a wet sob in reply. “No one feels like you… can’t believe I’m the only one who had this.”

Giyuu whimpers against him, hands digging into Sanemi’s skin hard enough to draw blood, entire body shaking. Sanemi’s on the edge of his orgasm, brain shut down, holding by a thread for Giyuu to come first.

“I’d fuck you every day if I could,” he mouths into a lithe neck, tongue running away from him. “Keep my cock buried inside you all day,” Giyuu moans at his words, shivering when Sanemi licks up his neck to bite at his ear. Noticing his struggle and too close to coming, Sanemi takes the hand on Giyuu’s chest south, fingers teasing at the patch of hair in his lower belly, close to his weeping cock, and waiting for him to beg. He just wants to push him a little further, biting a flushed earlobe. “Oh, Giyuu,” another moan, another bite. “I’d make you my personal little whore.”

Sanemi doesn’t know if it’s the angle, his words, or a combination of both - but Giyuu’s entire body goes rigid against him, taut as a string as he claws into Sanemi and then shakes violently with a muffled scream, coming so hard that Sanemi has to pin him back against his chest. Sanemi’s orgasm is pulled out of him by the force of Giyuu’s tides, ravaging him with strength so big he almost topples. Despite his shock, Sanemi fucks them through it, holds Giyuu up, and keeps the brutal rhythm. His orgasm sets fire to his veins, traveling through his body erupting as something he hadn’t felt since he fucked Giyuu for the first time. Some kind of climax he can’t achieve with anyone else, one that leaves him breathless and blind, shaking as a leaf as he fills that tight warmth with his seed.

When Sanemi’s soul comes back to his body, he gently lays Giyuu down on the futon, the other man barely conscious. He sluggishly turns to the side, eyes hazy and heavy blinking open to look up at him like Sanemi is an apparition. The small nose scrunches when Sanemi pulls out and watches, mesmerized, the sight of his come sliding down Giyuu’s taint. His eyes slide up moonlit porcelain skin, the red marks of Sanemi’s passion spread like petals in snow. He takes deep breaths as he drinks in that perfect body, eyes going up, up, and there it is. The image he couldn’t scrape off his mind no matter how hard he tried.

Giyuu in the afterglow, blissed out and tired, with his hair a sweaty mess and misty blue eyes shining at him. The sight that haunted him for months, and yet still manages to be the most beautiful thing Sanemi has ever seen. So beautiful he has to fight the urge to avert his gaze, especially now that he knows he’s the only one ever graced with it. Unworthy of everything Giyuu gives to him - he’s too pretty and delicate for the likes of someone as ungraceful and bitter as Sanemi - but he can’t stop himself from wanting. He’s once again too deep in Giyuu’s maze to find the way out, lost in the bliss of sex and sweet, sweaty skin.

The last time they were together like this, their first time in every sense of the word, Giyuu pulled him back into a sweet embrace and kissed him softly in the afterglow. Now that Sanemi is a little more lived, he knows that’s far too intimate for them. If they were in Giyuu’s bedroom, he’d put on his clothes, maybe be kind enough to help him clean, and then leave. But watching him glow in the moonlight, naked and pliant on his futon as he looks back at him, Sanemi can’t bring himself to tell him to leave. He’s so much weaker than he thought. Giyuu turns on his futon, lying on his back, and blinks lazily at him. Like deja vu, a tiny smile and a hand touching his arm, down to his wrist, and then lacing their fingers to pull at him lightly.

Sanemi goes, defeated by silver skin and ocean eyes, falling into the arms that he knows will drown him. There’s a sweetness to Giyuu after an orgasm that Sanemi can’t guard himself against, an openness to his touch, a vulnerability in his face that he simply can’t help but fall victim to. So when delicate hands frame his face, thumb tracing the scar on his cheek, and guide him into soft lips, Sanemi follows. He combs whisps of sweaty ebony hair away from a stunning face and deepens the kiss, digs his grave a little deeper.

He lets Giyuu have his way with him, lets him ruin him thoroughly with his gentle touch and warm eyes. He lets him bring their foreheads together while he caresses his face like Sanemi is worth any of this, like he deserves any of this, and for a moment, he lets himself be fooled.

Giyuu crafts his web of heartbreak so intricately that even while fully aware, Sanemi can’t stop himself from getting trapped. He kisses the sweet smile on those crimson lips, caresses Giyuu’s tapered waist, his hand bulky and calloused against creamy skin. Sanemi stays there, pretends he belongs in those arms, and once they’re cleaned, he lets Giyuu settle over his chest, burrowing in and stealing him of his heartbeat.

Their silence this time isn’t uncomfortable. Sanemi idly runs his fingers up and down Giyuu’s spine, watching those hypnotizing eyes blearily blink at him. He’s obviously fighting sleep, and Sanemi can’t help but find it adorable. He slides his fingers up Giyuu’s back and threads them into soft, sweaty hair, gently scratching at his scalp, watching his eyes close with a satisfied ‘hm’.

“You should sleep, dumbass,” Sanemi whispers to him when those eyes open again, staring at him like he’s afraid Sanemi will disappear.

“I know,” he sighs. “I don’t want it to be over yet.”

Sanemi raises an eyebrow, not sure of what he means, but lets it go. The warmth of Giyuu’s body is like a furnace under their shared blanket, and the comfort of it is completely new to him. Sanemi never had anyone falling asleep in his embrace, never wanted to keep anyone close to him after sex. But Giyuu, with his walls down, eyes shining like a lake under the sun, tiny smile on his lips, has Sanemi smitten. Nothing but a fascinated fool, basking in the attention he isn’t worthy of receiving, longing for something he can never have.

None of their tomorrows are promised - in fact, one of the few sureties they do have is that they’ll die young in some gruesome manner. There’s no purpose in pursuing something that can only end terribly. It’s nonsensical, counterproductive. Sanemi tells himself he doesn’t want it, that this is just one of his long string of messy fuck ups. But then, deep blue eyes slowly blink open again, looking up at him with open affection. Sanemi tells himself that those eyes aren’t chipping away another piece of his walls. He tells himself that the only reason Giyuu is looking at him like that is because he doesn’t know him, not really. Because if he did-

“S’nemi,” Giyuu mumbles, barely awake but still perfectly able to pin Sanemi under his soft gaze. “When we meet again, if we have the time… Can we…” he trails off and averts his eyes as if he spoke before thinking it through.

Sanemi hears the question anyway. Can we do this again?

It makes his heart beat faster, and looking at those ocean eyes he wants to say yes. Allow them to do this every time they meet, no matter where they are, until their duty takes them below ground. Let the comfort of Giyuu’s embrace and the heat of his spell be enough to keep him afloat for the rest of his days, however short they may be.

But he can’t say that and still mean it tomorrow. There’s no space in their lives for this, no sunny place for something this delicate to grow. Giyuu doesn’t want to hear lovesick words from him either and, by morning-

By morning Giyuu, with his kind touch, sweet lips, and bright eyes will cease to exist. He’ll go back to being just Tomioka, his aloofly arrogant coworker that Sanemi will have to avoid. Unless -

“It can’t mean anything,” is what he murmurs back, looking down to see those beautiful eyes widen at him. Giyuu is quick to school his expression into a small smile, his lips still a soft pink from all the kissing.

“It won’t,” he promises, lifting himself to seal their pledge in a kiss. Sanemi sighs into his mouth and kisses him deeper, breaking that pomegranate and eating every single one of its seeds. He lets himself sink, down into a siren’s alcove, kissing a deal at the cost of his soul.

He wakes up just after sunrise, with Sorai gently tapping on the window. With last night’s mission and their late activities, he didn’t get much sleep, but Sanemi’s far from used to it by now. He looks down at Giyuu still in his arms, warm and deep in sleep. Like when he laughs, he looks so much younger like this, face relaxed and lips slightly parted open. They’re still naked, skin glued to each other in a tangle of limbs.

Peeling himself away from Giyuu is almost painful, and he does his best not to stir him awake. He looks back at the window to Sorai, placing his forefinger over his lips, and like the smart crow he is, the bird nods and flies off, waiting for Sanemi outside to give him the next mission’s instructions.

He dresses up quickly, a clean uniform laid out for him and his haori neatly hanging close to the door. He organizes the mess they made, folds his yukata and leaves it on a chair, folds Giyuu’s and leaves it beside the futon. He finds Giyuu’s hair tie underneath his obi and, smiling to himself, puts it in his pocket. Before he leaves, he pulls the blanket up to Giyuu’s cheeks, hiding his body from view. He watches the sleeping man sigh, cutely burrowing himself in like the cover is welcome now that Sanemi’s warmth is missing.

On a whim, Sanemi extends his hand towards Giyuu’s face, meaning to caress his hair away from his forehead, but stops himself short.

He doesn’t know what he’d do or say if Giyuu were to wake up. He doesn’t want to see his face falling into his emotionless mask, those vivid blue eyes turning cold, now that the moment is gone and they’re back into their respective Hashira roles. So he drinks the sight while he can, and then leaves without a sound.