gym rat!Sanemi Shinazugawa doesn’t view the gym as a place to fraternize. He’s there for one reason and one reason only: to push the limits of his body as far as he can until he’s faster, better, stronger. He notices others only insofar as they forget to wipe down machines (“clean your nasty fuckin’ sweat off, asshole,” he barks), or they leave dumbbells by the mats instead of placing them back on the racks like a normal fucking person. Certainly he’s not the type to gawk at the female patrons just trying to squeeze a workout in like the other creeps around him. Hell, he once caught some wrinkled ballsack trying to sneak pictures of a younger woman squatting. It would’ve been nice to break the asshole’s phone himself, but watching gym personnel throw the loser out on his sorry ass after Sanemi had quietly tipped them off had been far more satisfying.
That’s why he hates this. You.
You, who started coming here a week ago, headphones on, eyes focused on the row of treadmills he can watch in the mirror while he lifts weights. It was impossible not to notice you then and it’s sure as hell impossible not to notice you now, wearing those matching workout sets that hug every muscle, show off every curve, and leave Sanemi with nothing but the distinct thought that your hips would fit perfectly in his hands and a half-boner.
It takes all of a few days for Sanemi to realize he’s no better than the other male shitheads he’s spent so much time reviling. Because yeah, he’s watching as you do your circuit, wander from the leg presses to the back extension machines. He’s on machine next to the bicep curl you’re been using, and when you leave to get the rag and spray to wipe it down, Sanemi help but notice the sweat print left behind by your perfect ass on the seat any more than he can ignore the image of him burying his face between your cheeks right after your workout, your leggings pooled around your ankles. And when he passes you near the weights area, he finds himself transfixed by the bead of sweat sliding down your neck and trailing between your breasts, and fuck if he doesn’t wish he could taste it for himself.
It’s frustrating, getting this worked up at the gym and being utterly unable to channel it into the ferocity of his workout. Instead, all he can do is storm off toward the locker rooms, find an empty stall, take his stiff cock out and work out all that pent-up frustration until it’s spent all over his fist and abdomen. Thank god he prefers wearing black when he sweats; the stains on the front of his shorts when he shamefully tucks himself back into place would be hard to hide.
If that’s not embarrassing enough, when he returns to the main area, he finds you’re still there, poised in front of the mirror, dumbbell in hand but not moving. And god dammit, he swears you’re watching him. Smirking. Like you know exactly what you’re doing, the kind of torture he’s enduring.
when TRAFALGAR D. LAW finds out his fwb, STRAWHAT!READER was DOFLAMINGO'S sugar baby?
BUT I'M THE JEALOUS TYPE !
PLOT. after donquixote doflamingo’s defeat, everything should have been over. instead, he left one final mess behind, exposing your sexual history through an inappropriate bounty poster for all of dressrosa to see. now your crew knows, your secrets are out, and worst of all, trafalgar d. water law, who was your no-strings-attached fuck buddy, the one person you really didn’t want finding out. and judging by the way he reacts, this was never as casual as either of you pretended.
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, smut, angst(?), age gaps, reader is 22, law is 26, doflamingo is in his 40s, doffy and reader had a sugar baby-daddy relationship, law and reader are fwb, bunny outfit, taking pictures after sex, cunnilingus, fingering, squirting, p in v, no protection, creampie, doggy style, prone bone, pussy drunk law, fem reader, not proofread, poorly edited.
CHARACTERS. TRAFALGAR D. LAW FT. DONQUIXOTE DOFLAMINGO
WC. 4.7k
masterlist
based on this ask :: photos sourced from pinterest
You had always known that your place in the world felt uncertain, shifting depending on who stood beside you. For a while, it was Doflamingo. In the 10 years that Doflamingo had ruled over Dressrosa, you were raised a simple citizen, only to later catch his eye when you turned 18.
2 years, he had you in his clutches. You were one of many women Doffy indulged in, but safe to say you had grown to take a special spot on his lap. He always wanted you. He always asked for you, even as his other women were left in a dry state.
If you were honest, it hadn't been so bad in the beginning. He bought you the finest of things, spoiling you with riches and taking good care of you. But when you would see the rare happy couples on the streets of Dressrossa, the reality would always hit you hard.
Doffy could never come to love you like that, not when he had his cock inside another woman whenever it wasn't in you. Soon, it started to feel degrading, him fucking you as though that was all you were good for. So you ran.
Stowing away on ships, somehow managing to remain hidden, and ending up in places you hadn't even heard of. You had felt lost, but that changed once the Straw Hats came into the picture.
You had been there when the crew was still small, before Chopper had joined, and they had accepted you without question once they noticed Luffy had taken a liking to you, excited to have a friend on board.
You had enjoyed their company, but the truth was, you did not have what the others had. Nami could read the sea with precision, while Zoro carried the strength of his sword, sharpened through years of relentless training.
Sanji moved with both skill and purpose, feeding the crew and even protecting them when it mattered, while Usopp, despite all his fear, never failed to deliver when it mattered most, his aim steady.
You, on the other hand, had only ever been defined by something far less tangible, something that could not be measured because your place had come from the bond you had formed with Luffy.
It was enough for a while—to be included simply because he wanted you there. After all, with Luffy, there was never a demand to prove your worth.
Still, you had tried to find something more solid to stand on, something that belonged to you alone, and that was tending to injuries. But when Chopper stepped into the role of doctor, that fragile sense of purpose you had built for yourself began to unravel.
It crept into your thoughts more often than you cared to admit, that question of why you were there, what you truly contributed, whether your presence was a nuisance, and those thoughts might have consumed you entirely if not for Luffy.
When Bartholomew Kuma scattered the crew, tearing all of you apart, there was no time to hold onto anything, and when you opened your eyes again, you were alone.
Completely and utterly alone.
In a place you did not recognize.
Surrounded by nothing but dense forest and strange creatures that kept their distance.
The days stretched on, blending into one another until time itself began to lose meaning. You were left only with your own thoughts.
Three months passed like that, with nothing but survival to occupy your hands and no way out.
That was when you met Law. You remembered seeing him once at Sabaody, just another pirate crew in the chaos.
Trafalgar D. Water Law had recognized you almost immediately, his gaze dragging over you that had made you suddenly aware of how bad you must have looked.
The cuts, the bruises that had been patched up poorly with whatever you could find, it was obvious you had been on your own for a while.
He did not say much about it, just offered to treat you like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and you did not bother arguing.
He had worked quietly, fixing what you had done wrong, his hands working with surgical precision.
It was through him that you finally heard what had happened, the news hitting like a storm.
Portgas D. Ace was dead.
At that moment you had wanted nothing more than to reunite with Luffy, but when you read further of the newspaper, his message had been clear through the image, to meet again in two years instead of now.
You stayed with the Heart Pirates. Days turned into weeks, and no one pushed you to leave, but no one exactly welcomed you either. They tolerated you, that was the best way to put it.
It took you a month to actually ask him.
When they were taking their leave off the island, he had offered to drop you off somewhere safer, but you asked him to take you with him, just for a while.
Law had disagreed, simply because you were not his responsibility. And more importantly, you belonged to another crew, even if that crew was not with you right then.
His crew had not been rude about your extended presence, but it was obvious they were not too thrilled about the idea.
Still, you did not drop it. You kept asking, pushing a little more each time even when you knew you did not have much to offer in return.
Maybe it was your persistence, maybe he just got tired of saying no, but he agreed in the end. And just like that, you were not alone anymore.
You had spent longer on that submarine than you expected to and the Heart Pirates had started easing up around you. The edge softened along the way as you first befriended Bepo, and later Ikkaku.
When you had begged to Law to teach you medicine he had not looked impressed at the idea. But he had agreed anyway when you told him you were tired of feeling useless.
It started simply enough, long hours spent going over things you barely understood at first, his explanations short and always to the point, expecting you to keep up without much hand-holding.
The late nights became a norm as the routine settled in quickly—most of the crew would be sleep while you stayed up trying to make sense of the hefty syllabus.
It was never easy when you would be in his study, him explaining the same topic over and over again till it stuck, because your mind would get distracted more of often than not.
You couldn't remember how it begun, but one kiss was all it had taken for those very study sessions to end with his head between your thighs, licking at your cunt as a reward for your boost in performance.
After that, the pattern was set between the two of you. You would secretly fuck any chance you got, making sure to be as far as away from the prying eyes and ears of his crew members.
And it was good that Law had ordered them to be away from his study during your tutoring hours, not knowing you were definitely getting dicked down by their captain, his hand over your mouth.
You both didn't need to say it, but had spoken about it anyways. There would be no expectations, no rules, no feelings. It would just be something you both could use to take your mind off of things.
Nearly a year had gone by with you still there, and the change in him was subtle, but it was there, in how his gaze would desperately dart across the room to find you first.
The crew noticed it. They always did. Not that they said it out loud. They did not know what to make of it, of you, of how their captain seemed a little less distant now that you were around.
You did not know what to make of it either, you were just making the most of the situation. But a day came where you did define your feelings for Law, and it was something you did not expect.
It was one of those nights in his private room, you his bed, skin to skin as the aftershocks of your orgasms still drifted heavily in the air.
Law wasn't talkative, nor did he open up easy. But back then you both had started to share things from your past, just small things that wouldn't bear much consequence.
But when he spoke about how he got his Devil Fruit, about the person who had saved him, the story shifted something inside you completely.
Because he mentioned a name you knew all too well.
Donquixote Doflamingo.
The moment it had left his mouth, something in you had unraveled, your thoughts catching up all at once, pieces of your own past rising up your throat. You had never imagined your two worlds overlapping like this, never thought the man you had left behind would resurface in such an unexpected way.
You did not interrupt him, did not tell him what you knew, even when it sat heavy on your tongue, because the way he spoke about it made it clear this was not something he shared lightly.
And Doflamingo's part in your story was also not something you ever wanted to speak about. Fuck, how could you forget the way Doflamingo's fingers dug into your hips, hard enough to leave bruises that lingered for days?
Gentle? The bastard didn't know the meaning of the word. Everything had been a facade, a pretty wrapping paper concealing the rotten core of his obsession.
Somewhere in the haze of champagne and empty praise, you'd lost sight of yourself. His whims became your commandments and his pleasures your sole purpose.
You'd convinced yourself it was love, that you had a choice, but the truth was, you'd been drowning in his darkness and calling it light.
Waking up was a bitch, realizing that the gilded cage was still a cage, the luxuries he gave you were still tools to mold you into his perfect plaything.
You woke up anyway, shaking off the fog and seeing the ugly truth of your situation. Leaving him hadn't been easy, a necessity to salvage what scraps of your soul remained.
You'd buried that chapter of your life, locking it away in a vault deep in your mind. Pretended it was ancient history, a ghost story that couldn't touch you anymore.
Until now.
Until Dressrosa loomed before you, a specter of your past, daring you to deny its existence.
The memories surged forward, shattering the walls you'd erected. His cruel smile, his cold eyes, the way he'd used your body...it all crashed over you.
Coming back to Dressrosa was like plunging into a nightmare.
Walking away from Law had been the hardest thing you'd ever done, even if you couldn't bring yourself to call it what it was.
Putting distance between you and that submarine, between you and him, had let you pretend that part of your life was over.
You had slipped back into the fold of the Straw Hats like you'd never left, letting their laughter and camaraderie wash over you. It was easier that way, pretending that the ghost of Doflamingo and now Law didn't linger in the shadows of your mind.
But Dressrosa had other plans. This island, with its twisted games and secrets, always had a way of airing out the laundry, of exposing the skeletons in your closet.
And yours came crashing down around you like a ton of bricks.
"Doffy... please..."
The sound of your own voice, wrecked and breathless, was the only thing filling the room as you arched your back, your nails digging into the plush cushion of the bed, your lower body off the edge.
He didn't answer with words, only a low growl as he drove into you again, his pace relentless. You were still trapped in that ridiculous bunny outfit, the thin, tight fabric of the leotard stretched taut beside your pussy, digging into your skin with every lunge.
The friction of the material against your swollen clit, combined with the sheer size of him stretching you wide, was driving you toward a breaking point you'd been teetering on for what felt like weeks.
"God, look at you," Doflamingo rasped, his voice dripping with a dark, possessive hunger. He leaned down, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulder as he plunged deeper into you.
"This fucking outfit... it looks so goddamn sexy on you. Like a little pet waiting to be used."
Every degrading word felt like a caress, fueling the fire in your gut.
You were losing yourself, your vision blurring as you creamed his cock, the slick, hot friction making you cry out.
"Doffy!"
As he reached his peak, his grip on your hips tightened until it was bruising, pinning you down as he flooded you. The sensation of him filling you so deeply triggered a violent, toe curling orgasm, your insides convulsing around him with a gush.
When he finally pulled away, the absence of his heat left you feeling exposed. He let you collapse, and you fell to your knees on the cold floor, panting, your legs trembling too much to hold you upright. Your hair was a wild, tangled nest, your chest heaving..
"My sweet little bunny," he murmured, his voice smooth and satisfied.
You looked up, eyes glassy and unfocused, searching for a moment of peace but all you saw was the flash of a lens.
Click.
The sound of the shutter was like a gunshot in the silent room. You froze, realization dawning on you as you saw the camera in his hand.
He had captured it: the dejected slump of your shoulders, the messy, post sex state of your hair, and the shameless exposure of your body in that leotard.
You weren't a woman in that moment; you were a trophy.
Seeing that bounty poster, your face leering back at you from the Wanted list, was like being punched in the gut.
It was the picture that made your stomach turn. That skimpy bunny costume, the one Doflamingo had bought for you, the one he'd fucked you in until you screamed. Seeing it now, in the harsh light of day, made you want to gag.
But the real kicker was the price tag. Six fucking stars. Worth more dead than alive. More valuable as a prize than as a person.
You stood there, staring at the paper, feeling the weight of your crew's stares boring into your back.
They didn't understand.
They didn't know about the years you'd spent as Doflamingo's strings. They didn't know about the way he'd shaped your life, your choices, until there was nothing left of you.
You'd kept it a secret, because you didn't know how to explain it without it changing the way they saw you. But now, with that poster screaming the truth for all to see, you couldn't hide from it anymore.
The distant roar of the crew's laughter drifted across the water, a jagged reminder of the joy you were currently failing to share.
To them, the victory was pure a triumph of spirit over Doflamingo's tyranny. But to you, the victory tasted like ash. Every time you closed your eyes, you didn't see the fallen Heavenly Demon; you saw that fucking poster.
Six hundred million.
The number felt like a mockery. It wasn't a bounty for a warrior; it was a price tag on his once most cherished possession.
A chill that had nothing to do with the night air settled in your bones. You hugged your knees to your chest, trying to make yourself small, trying to disappear into the shadows of the deck.
You felt exposed, as if the moonlight was stripping away your clothes.
You were waiting for the questions, for the confusion, for the pity.
You feared the moment they would realize that the girl that had spent so long with them wasn't just a comrade, but a woman who had been broken and branded by the very monster they had just fought to topple.
The wood of the deck groaned softly under a steady weight. You didn't need to turn around to know the cadence of those footsteps.
They weren't the chaotic, bouncy strides of Luffy or the heavy march of Zoro. These steps were quiet.
The atmosphere shifted, thickening with a familiar presence.
You held your breath, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, a sudden desperate urge to flee rising in your throat.
But you remained frozen, refusing to look at the unexpected visitor.
"Care to explain?"
"Explain what," you said, your voice a brittle shield. You forced yourself to keep it steady, even as your heart thrashed against your ribs.
Law didn't blink. He didn't offer comfort.. Instead, he held the poster out, the photo staring at you like accusatory eyes.
"How did he get this picture of you?"
You looked away, the salty air suddenly feeling too heavy to breathe.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"How," he repeated. It wasn't a question; it was a command. He stepped into your personal space, the shadow of his tall frame swallowing you whole.
The poster was a barrier between you, a physical manifestation of the secret you had tried to drown in the sea.
"It... was before you," you whispered. "Before the Straw Hats. Before everything."
"And you didn't think to mention it?" His voice was low, but the edge of it was razor sharp.
"Why should I have?" You snapped, the defensiveness rising like a fever. You hated how small you felt under his scrutiny.
"Why do even you care? We aren't...we aren't anything, Law."
That was the catalyst. You saw his jaw lock, a muscle leaping in his cheek. The controlled Surgeon of Death flickered, revealing the man beneath who was bleeding.
"That's not the fucking point!" he hissed, the sudden profanity jarring in the quiet night. He stepped even closer, his chest nearly brushing yours.
"When I told you about my past, when I opened up to you, I had no idea I was handing my vulnerabilities to his lover."
"He wasn't my lover! I was his victim just as much as you were, Law! That is exactly why I didn't say anything! Because it's humiliating!" you shouted back, the tears finally stinging your eyes.
The silence that followed was deafening. You expected him to snap back, to defend his pride or demand more answers, but the sharp edge in his posture suddenly crumbled.
Law flinched as if you had struck him. The darkness in his eyes shifted, the-fury receding. He saw it then—not just the secret you were keeping, but the trembling vulnerability of the woman standing before him.
He realized he hadn't been fighting for the truth; he had been fighting for his own ego.
"God..." he breathed, his voice losing its edge.
He took a hesitant step forward, his hands reaching out but stopping just short of your skin, as if he were afraid his very touch might bruise you.
"I'm sorry. I...I was being a fool."
He let out a shaky exhale, his gaze softening with regret.
"I'm sorry...for making you feel like you had to defend your own pain to me."
He let out a ragged breath.
"It's just...the thought of him. The thought that he laid hands on you, that he saw you like that... it feels like he always has a claim over everything in my life."
"He has nothing!" you cried, your breath hitching. "It is all in the past!"
The tension snapped.
"Then let it stay there," he breathed, his eyes dropping to your mouth.
He collided with you. The kiss was a violent reclamation, a desperate attempt to overwrite the memory of Doflamingo's touch with his own.
His hands slid from your jaw to your chest, his palms heavy and warm through your clothes as he kissed you with a hunger that bordered on anger.
The walk to your room was a blur and the moment the door clicked shut behind you, the pretense of restraint shattered.
Law didn't wait for you to turn around. He pushed you against the wood of the door, his hands sliding from your waist to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly so you had to wrap your legs around his waist.
He kissed you roughly, his tongue searching yours as he steered you toward the bed, finally setting you down. Stripping both you and himself, his eyes tracked every inch of skin he uncovered of you.
You sank back into the mattress, and his head lowered as he knelt on the ground, finding his place between your legs.
The first touch of his tongue was a shock of heat against your folds. You let out a soft hiss at the notion, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as he buried his face in the junction of your thighs.
He groaned against your cunt, lapping at your folds with an uncharacteristic greed, his tongue swirling around your clit before dipping deep into your soaking heat.
He was drinking you in, his nose pressing into your soft flesh, inhaling the heady scent of your desire.
"Fuck," he muttered against your wetness, his voice muffled and slurred.
"Missed this so goddamn much..."
His fingers joined the assault, slowly dipping in till he was knuckles deep inside you, pumping at a punishingly slow pace, the friction there but not quiet enough.
And when he settled the pads of his fingers against that delicate spot inside you, his tongue worked your clit in tandem until you were arching off the sheets, your hips bucking against his mouth.
"Why'd you have to run away back then, huh? Mmmm...Could've had you another year..."
He was becoming intoxicated by you, his breathing ragged and uneven, clearly losing himself in the saccharine taste of you.
Law was no longer composed. His tongue was lashing against your clit rhythmically, his free hand gliding up to palm at your breasts.
"Law... Law!" you wailed, your voice cracking as you clawed at the sheets.
He didn't slow down. If anything, the sound of your desperation spurred him on. You could feel the tension building in your lower abdomen as your vision blurred, the room spinning as the pleasure peaked.
"I know you missed this too, baby..." he slurred against your cunt, "Let it all out."
With a choked moan, your body finally surrendered. Your walls clamped down on his fingers as a sudden gush of fluid erupted from you, soaking his face and chest as you squirted, your entire body convulsing in the orgasm.
You lay there, gasping for air, your limbs heavy and trembling uncontrollably. Law lifted his head, his chin and lips glistening, his eyes hooded. He looked truly drunk on you, his breath coming in ragged huffs as he watched the aftershocks burn your muscles.
Not giving you a moment to recover, he surged up your torso. You could feel the scorching heat radiating off his skin, the hard planes of his chest and abdomen pressing into the soft swell of your breasts.
He captured your mouth in a searing kiss, and you could taste yourself on his tongue.
"I can't believe he touched you like this," he rasped against your lips, his voice rough with a jealousy that seeped into his very bones. "Can't believe these hands, this body, was ever his..."
To punctuate his words, he gripped your hips with bruising force, his fingers sinking into the flesh of your hips as he hilted himself inside you with a single thrust.
You cried out, your back arching sharply off the bed as he stretched you out.
"Tell me," he demanded, his hips rolling in a slow, grinding circle, stirring his cock inside your fluttering walls.
"Tell me you're mine now. Tell me no one else will ever touch you like this again."
"Hahh-! Hah-! I'm- I'm yours-!"
He set a deep, heavy rhythm, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, punctuated by your moans and his guttural grunts.
"Fuck, you feel incredible," he groaned, his forehead pressed to yours as he loomed over you.
"So f-fucking precious to me- Hahh-!...She doesn't even know it..."
"Mphm-! L-law..."
"So perfect...ngh-! around my cock...Can't believe I let you r-hah! run away... U-unforgivable..."
Law sounded as though he had lost all reason, barely conscious, his only motive to feel you cum around his cock, just like you had on his tongue.
He hooked your leg over his shoulder, changing the angle of his thrusts to drive even deeper into your pussy. The new position allowed him to grind against that spongey patch inside you with every pump of his hips, sending bolts of pleasure up your spine.
You could feel another orgasm building, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your belly as he fucked you with a single minded purpose, chasing his own rapidly approaching release.
One hand grabbed on your your calf desperately, planting a heavy kiss before biting down onto the flesh to muffle his voice. That moment of pain sent you spiraling, creaming his cock in all its glory as moaned in abandon.
And it was no sooner that he reached his release, buried deep as the ropes of white tainted you from within.
Time had lost all meaning as the night went on. And you could only hope no one from your crew decides to show up.
You were no longer lying flat; he had hauled you up onto your hands and knees, forcing your hips high and your chest low in a devastatingly vulnerable position.
From this angle, every thrust was driving into you with such depth that you felt him reaching deeper each time.
He was drunk off of you, completely untethered from his usual persona. His hips slamming into yours with an echoing slap that sounded so obscene.
You were a mess of sweat and slickness, your skin glistening under the dim light, your hair plastered to your neck as you gasped for air.
"God... fuck..." Law groaned, his large hands clamped onto your hips like iron shackles, his thumbs digging into your waist to anchor himself.
You were too spent to do much more than survive him. Each time he lunged forward, you could only weakly push your hips back, meeting his momentum with a desperate, instinctive tilt of your pelvis.
Your moans had devolved into wet, gurgled sounds, caught in the back of your throat as the sensation overwhelmed your ability to breathe.
Between your thighs, the creamy mixture of his multiple orgasms and your own overflowing juices had formed a slippery ring around his base. And as he drove in and out, the liquid overflowed, trailing in long, translucent streaks down the insides of your thighs.
He was relentless, his thrusts becoming shorter, faster, and more frantic as he chased the next peak, his breath hot against the nape of your neck.
"Stay right there," he rasped, his voice cracking with a possessive need. "Don't- hah! fuck! Don't move...just take it...take all of it..."
Law's pace became rapid, thighs slapping against your ass as his thrusts lost all semblance of control. He gripped your hips so tightly his knuckles turned white, his fingers bruising your skin.
"I'm...fuck...!" he choked out, his voice breaking as his entire body stiffened.
He drove into you one last time, burying himself so deep it felt as though he were trying to merge his very soul with yours.
You felt the sudden release, the sensation so intense it triggered a final convulsion in your own body, your walls clamping around him in an all too familiar manner.
He collapsed onto your back, his heavy weight pinning you into the mattress. For several long minutes, the only sound in the room was the thudding of your hearts and the ragged hitching of your breath.
Slowly, the frantic energy ebbed, but Law didn't pull away immediately; instead, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing gradually slowing as he let the tremors subside.
His touch, that was once so aggressive, softened as his hands slid to your waist to trace soothing circles over your damp skin.
As he finally rolled to the side, he pulled you with him into the tangle of damp sheets, the silence of the night returning.
The weight of the past, the sting of the bounty, and the jealousy had all been washed away, drowned in the presence of each other.
It was all worth it, even if you woke up to the loud scream of Nami the next morning.
no context compass smut from a major upcoming scene
“We can talk later, I promise, I just —“ Sanemi falters, his hand flexing near your head. His throat bobs and he presses his forehead to yours, exhaling heavily through his nose.
It seems the weeks apart led him to the very same ledge you’d found yourself teetering on. His compulsion to ensure that this — you — are still real matches yours, the thumb of the hand cupping your jaw stroking repeatedly over your cheek just as your fingers cling to his wrist.
For a moment, there is nothing save your mutual, quiet breaths and the static charge that hangs in the air in the space between your mouths.
Sanemi’s eyes flutter open “Fuck, I need you.”
His mouth is on yours before you can blink. Hot, fast, desperate kisses, a rapid blend of lips and tongue and teeth as you tear through the room like a storm.
There’s no time to undress; Sanemi’s desperation won’t allow for it, and truthfully, neither will yours. But you both crave the reassurance of the other’s skin, so instead, you tear the buttons of his shirt open while he shoves yours up over your chest, along with your bra.
Your jeans and underwear are dragged down the length of your legs and you kick them off the rest of the way, letting them puddle somewhere near his feet. Sanemi’s hands fumble with yours as the two of you work his belt loose, and then the fly of his pants, your fingers tugging his waistband down just far enough to allow his cock to spring free, heavy and hard in your hand.
A groan rumbles in his throat as you palm him, and Sanemi plants a knee on the edge of the bed’s end. There is no preamble, no teasing drag of his tip up and down your seam. Instead, Sanemi lines himself up with your entrance and shoves his hips forward, impaling you on the first, thick quarter of him.
The discomfort you feel is betrayed only by the bite of your nails into his shoulder. You hadn’t been entirely ready, what without the usual, painstaking preparation you’d grown accustomed to receiving from him. But Sanemi knows your body better than you do, and he eases his desperate plunge, nudging your head to the side to place heavy, open mouthed kisses along your neck.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he whispers hoarsely as you relax, allowing him to thrust in, bit by bit, until he’s seated to the hilt inside you. “Fuck.”
He will take his time with you later, you know. Right now, he needs his anchor, needs you to pull him back out of that cavernous pit he’s spent the last week in.
It’s fast and sloppy; a desperate romp atop the overly starched sheets of the motel bed, your clothes in disarray. Sanemi’s movements are rough and deep as he pounds you into the mattress, the posts of the bed quickly adding new notches into the cheap drywall as it creaks and rocks beneath you.
Any spare thought of Genya and the shared wall between your joint rooms is lost under the sounds of your rising cries and Sanemi’s ragged moans and grunts. As talkative as he normally is, Sanemi can hardly string together a coherent word, only managing a few odd syllables here and there in the shape of your name or a swear.
Sanemi fucks you through the weight of everything you’ve endured over the last three weeks. With every bruising snap of his hips, every tightening his hands around your waist or thighs, he makes sure any fissure, every little crack that spread in his absence, is sealed. Reforging you and him into one.
Sanemi’s an aggressive caretaker when his SO is ill or injured. He’s not one to coddle — what, you want him to baby your snotty nose or that cough that is keeping you both awake at night? Want him to feel sorry that you got injured in battle instead of listening to him? Fat chance in hell.
That said, he’s a suffocating mother hen. Not in the way of gentleness but he’s fussy. He’s not going to listen to you complain, but he is shoving a handkerchief in front of your nose every ten minutes with a demand to blow (“can’t get better if all that crap’s clogging you up.”) He’s bringing you teas with slippery elm to calm your throat and if you don’t drink it in the next thirty seconds, he’s going to pour it down your throat himself. Injured? He’s diligently wrapping and rewrapping your wounds, applying antiseptic, and barking at you to stop fucking moving so much, you’re going to pop your stitches and lord help you if you do.
You've always been one to be aware of Sanemi's hatred towards you, stirring in fear anytime the wind Hashira was nearby. But one day, as luck would have it, a mission arises... with him; and it's one that unexpectedly requires an overnight venture. What's the worst that could happen spending the night together?
wc: 5.4k
cw: dirty talk, overstim, jealousy, p in v, pain, fingering, creampie, cursing, breeding kink, choking (slightly)
a/n: Sorry for the delay in this first writing request! Also, noting I'm still learning how to write smut... plus I've been so tired and depressed lately, so I am so sorry if this isn't the best :( (mental health is so rough omggg but i've been watching fruits basket and trying super hard to be as positive and optimistic as Tohru)
❀ all images are found off of pinterest! I do not own them.
🧸 requested by anonymous
This was stupid.
Implicitly, irrevocably stupid. So profoundly vacuous that the moment Pebble opened his beak, you feigned obliviousness. Your fingers busied themselves with the tsuba in a contrived display, hoping that someone, anyone, was closer to the town than you were.
But you should’ve known better — especially with the way Pebble had been consistently conjuring up outbursts in the past few weeks due to his sudden apprehension of being ignored. So, the crow puffed his chest at your disregard, claws scraping lightly against the branch above you as his wings flared with theatrical indignation. “You are to report to Aokiri village!” You turned your back, feet kicking up a scatter of leaves in a poor attempt to drown out the bird’s deafening screech. Pebble, however, accepted the challenge. “You are not busy y/l/n! You are to meet Shinazugawa!”
“Nope.” Your words were low; hatred entwined with the single syllable.
There was no way in hell you would encounter Sanemi. He had made it abundantly clear to everyone that your presence was, in fact, a hindrance on his day-to-day. Each fleeting moment in passing, every thirty-minute Hashira meeting had been stained with insults, glares, and eye rolls. Which meant that if you tagged along on this mission, he would make the rest of the year a living nightmare — his horrid view of you as a partner in battle carved into every second of it.
But Pebble only scoffed at your refusal, the thin patience the crow held for you wound tighter with each transient second. “Orders are from Ubuyashiki — you cannot refuse!”
Fuck.
You were stuck. Thrust into a sick and twisted proposal with no real exit, forced to walk alongside the crow who was beginning to grate on every last nerve you possessed. You tried to ignore each of Pebble’s shouts, but the more you learned of the missing villagers, the harder that became.
It sounded almost surreal: Members of the surrounding villages reported strange glows near grave sites. Faint lights flickering between the headstones and whispers in the dark that resembled the voices of lost loved ones.
It was no wonder the lower-ranking slayers continued to follow the same path as the vanished villagers. Each description of the demon’s ability hinted at something far stronger than the average threat — something nearing the level of an Upper Rank. The kind of monster only a Hashira could realistically handle.
And Shinazugawa was a safe bet. His Wind Breathing technique was volatile and erratic, destructive in ways most slayers couldn’t hope to match. If anyone could dive headfirst into a situation like this, it was him. Which, frankly, pissed you off even more. Not only were you stuck with the one coworker who seemed perpetually irritated by your presence, but now you had to watch him work; forced to witness firsthand just how terrifyingly skilled he actually was.
Not that you would ever admit that to him. You’d rather drop dead.
The village was quieter than it should have been. Sure, it was small, but even the coziest places carried a rhythm: Voices echoing between houses, shop owners waving in customers under the crowded paths. Yet here, there was nothing. Only a few sparse flowers tucked in a dirty vase near the vegetable stand.
Even the graveled walkways were scarcely disturbed. Each crunch of your feet a new indent into the pristine streets. It was depressing, really. Witnessing the fear and despondency of the residing citizens. The bouts of futility that lingered from the lack of rescue by the Imperial Army. All that remained was the stench of dread for the future. And unanswered pleas.
But what was worse? Sanemi.
There he stood, palms clasped to his sides as he perked his brow at the young boy standing in front of the medicinal herbs. His hair was unruly, probably from the constant drag of his fingers, and his sword was tucked tightly against his hip. The clasps of his top were unlatched, allowing any human (or demon) he encountered to see the years of scars he’d obtained from the monsters.
“Huh?” His lids narrowed, lips thinned into a tight line. “What do you mean a group of people investigated last night? Are you all that dumb?” His tone was the usual; condescending. As if Shinazugawa was the only one in a thirty-mile radius that obtained solid logic.
The boy almost looked shaken at the outlandish declaration, his eyes jumping from wall to wall to ignore the lingering gaze of pale purple. And as selfish as it was, all you could hope for was the notion that you’d become invisible. That the young kid would skip over the unknown entity coward in the corner.
But you never had good luck.
Sanemi followed his goggled expression, intrigued brows now knitted together in a crease as the realization sank in. He was to be accompanied on this mission. And, of course, it had to be you.
“Why the fuck are you here?” The kid took the well-timed opportunity to bolt. The wind Hashira paid no mind, though. His focus was glued exclusively on you. “Tell me this is an accident.”
“It’s not,” you stepped forward, arms crossed over your chest as you fought back the trembles that threatened to slip from your legs. Fuck he was intimidating. “Ubuyashiki requested me… and you.”
Shinazugawa looked as though he was going to burst into a fit of rage. But he held back, the logical side of his brain etched on public appearance towards the Demon Slayer Corp. Because if he were to make one wrong move, one wrong sign of destruction — his paycheck was bound to eat it.
Besides, last time Sanemi was placed under disciplinary review, he almost went insane.
He mumbled a string of profanities, hand pressed to the hilt of his sword as he scoured the surroundings again. Something he always did when you were near. It didn’t take a genius to detect such displease to your presence; knuckles white from death gripping his weapon, eyes shooting towards something tangible and less... you.
What was it about you that irked him so much?
“Well,” you took your cue. “I’m going to go see if I can track anyone down. And next time Sanemi, please don’t let a witness get away.”
He hated when you used his first name. You knew that. Which is exactly why you did it, watching as his ears turned a shade of red that matched Rengoku’s haori. If he was going to be a dick (like usual) the least you could do in return was poke fun at the bear. It made it all the more entertaining. And easier — you weren’t afraid to admit you were fearful of the wind Hashira. So playing a little game always eased your nerves.
“Whatever. Let’s just get this over with.”
That was the intention at least; getting this all over with. But somehow, someway, Sanemi had managed to scare the very last witness off again.
It all started when you continued forward, knees bending slightly as you placed your hand above the gravel. Initially, you were there to inspect the spill of oil — a clear sign that someone had dropped a lantern in the midst of an escape. But then you felt it: a small pulse underneath the soil.
Huh… weird.
“Um, excuse me,” a wavering voice pulled you from your investigation, causing you to peer above, head tilted slightly to view the tall man who hovered close by. “Do you need help?” He flinched at your innate narrowed stare, clutching a small knife in his hand. His cotton vest bore a single kanji in white: ‘Watcher.’ Perhaps he was the village’s makeshift guard until someone more capable arrived.
“Actually, yes.” You heaved yourself off the ground, palms pressing against your sides to scrape off the few loose rocks that indented themselves in your skin. “Do you know anything about the missing residents?”
“Oh,” the man straightened instantly at that. His previous scared demeanor quickly overshadowed with relief as his eyes scanned your sheathed Nichirin sword. He knew. “Are you with the white-haired man?” You almost gagged. But you nodded anyway. “Some of my neighbors noted that he had shown up a bit earlier today! I’m so glad you came too.”
Great, so he got here a whole hour before you — just one more thing he can irk about later on.
“Your vest, it says you’re a watcher?” He nodded at your query. “Does that mean you know what’s been happening?”
He chewed the inside of his cheek; his pointer directed to the edge of the town. “There’s been witness accounts of small bouts of light coming from over there,” he shifted slightly, leaning closer to your ear, his voice hushed — as if to keep the two children pressed against the cracked door nearby from hearing. “There’ve been… voices too. From dead loved ones.”
Your brow furrowed, thumb rubbing small circles against the hilt of your sword in puzzlement. Voices? Lights? Pebble had mentioned it in the debriefing. But if there were witnesses, people stood nearby to notice each trademark… Well, it sounded more like a serial killer than a demon. Not once had you seen blood demon art that could harbor such purity with such foul intentions. Not to mention leave bystanders alive.
“Has anyone investigated?”
He swallowed, eyes darting nervously. “Yeah… and they never come back.”
You had planned to pry more, your eyes widened up at the man who was now leaned in closer. Each breath he dragged swayed the strands of your hair; and, honestly, he was kind of cute. His brown hair, ruffled and layered, laid just above his lashes. The shade of pink that coated his cheeks only exacerbated the adorable freckles that coated his nose.
Was he single? No, this is probably the wrong time to ask that. “How long has this been happening?”
“A week ago; it only happens every other night, oddly enough.” His distance stayed the same, nose brushed against yours with each swift word. And you had to wonder now — was he doing that on purpose? “Sorry if this is… weird, but can I ask something?”
You nodded. But the poor man was never able to finish his inquisitive wonder. Because Sanemi rounded the corner, eyes wild and swirled with a twinge of darkness that only happened in the midst of battles. “I’m sorry,” his voice was low; sharper than it was before. “Did we lose the goal of this mission?” You didn’t even have time to respond. “If it wasn't apparent,” he continued, gaze flicking briefly between you and the man. “This isn’t a ‘find a husband’ search.”
The villager stiffened instantly. “My apologies!” He stammered, bowing quickly toward Shinazugawa before retreating without another word. You watched him go, irritation flaring: First of all, there was no reason for him to apologize to Sanemi. Second — you had been gathering information.
Crucial information. The one piece of information, actually, that was the cause for the shared room at the inn.
Don’t get it twisted, you did try to plead with the innkeeper; bribe him into splitting you both up. Yet with travelers too afraid to leave, and even fewer willing to pass through, every room but one had been occupied. So, here you were, stretched out atop the shikibuton, staring up at the ceiling as the white-haired man beside you made a very deliberate effort to drag the kakebuton further away from your side.
Which was pointless. The room was far too small.
“Can you move your makura?” you asked, voice edged with vexation. “Preferably… away from mine?”
Sanemi just scoffed. “There’s nowhere else to put it.” He dropped back against his own futon, forearm sliding beneath his head as he shoved the pillow slightly to the side, as if that alone created distance. It didn’t. “Trust me,” he muttered, eyes fixed above. “If I could, I wouldn’t be here.”
“This is so stupid.” You whined. Shinazugawa was quick to grunt in agreement. “What the fuck does the demon even do every other night?”
“How the fuck would I know?”
You shot him a glare. “It was a rhetorical question,” you paused, eyes scanning over his obviously irked demeanor. “If you don’t know what that is, it’s—”
“I know what that is!” There was a moment of silence after his outburst. A quietude that you felt grateful for. Until Sanemi decided to make it a one man show — once again. “Shit, you’re a distraction.” Your fingers stilled against the fabric of the kakebuton. And slowly, your head turned, observing as the scarred Hashira kept his gaze on the plafond. “No fucking clue why you’re here.”
“A distraction?” You repeated.
You couldn’t believe it. There was no way in hell you were a distraction. If anything, he was. All Sanemi did was scare off every witness. Not to mention consistently groan in protest to your arrival. Which, from what Mitsuri told you, was completely out of character for him. But maybe Obanai wasn’t the most trustworthy informant when it came to the love Hashira. He was probably too distracted by her presence to actually delve into the hell he faced with his co-worker.
“Yeah.”
You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, brows raised in utter astonishment. “That’s funny,” you mumbled. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”
“Didn’t realize I needed permission to point out the obvious.” He retorted.
Oh, you wanted to punch him. No, worse — you wanted to leave him for dead. There was absolutely zero evidence to support his claim. “What are you even talking about?”
“Seriously?” His head flit to the side, the corner of his right iris peering at you over the scrunched makura. “I had to keep you from kissing a total stranger.”
That’s what this was about? His entire exasperation in this very moment had to do with the notion that the villager… stood too close? “Excuse me?” You leaned forward, strands of hair cascading over your cheek as you eyed the Hashira mere inches beneath you and to the right. “I was gathering information. Like we planned.”
“Information on something, I bet.”
That was the final straw. You could deal with his ignorance in Hashira meetings, deal with the fact that every time you stepped in a room he left. For fuck’s sake, you could deal with the fact that everyone knew just how much he despised you — no matter how humiliating it was. But this? This was beyond that. Because now, he was insulting your morals.
Well, sure… You did think he was attractive. And yes, the thought of asking if he was single had crossed your mind. But you didn’t. That counts for something. “Even if he was attractive,” you said. “I wasn’t going to jeopardize the mission. Every slayer knows work comes before anything else.”
“The fuck did you just say?” Shinazugawa propped up on his arms, the swirls in his pale purple eyes turning closer to a shade of a ripe plum. “Attractive?”
Of course he completely glazed over the rest of the sentence.
“Yes.”
He surged forward, the futon shifting beneath him as he leaned in, closing the distance in an instant. But it was too fast, too close — your breath caught, a flicker of defensive instinct tightening in your chest as his presence loomed over you. And for half a second, you thought he might actually hit you. “That’s your type?”
Okay, this steered completely off topic. “Again, what are you talking about?”
“Your type is ugly dark-haired men.” You opened your mouth to protest, but he kept going. “I’ve seen the way you hang with Tomioka. He’s ugly. And has dark hair.”
And you couldn’t help it. You laughed. You doubled-over, hand clasped to the Hashira’s shoulder as your head swiveled down, your shoulder bouncing with each drag of breath. “Tomioka is the only one that will train with me when asked.” But Shinazugawa didn’t laugh with you. And he sure as hell didn’t crack a smile. His gaze stayed locked on you — and, against his will, dipped just slightly as your chin lifted again. The quick flick of your tongue across your lower lip definitely didn’t help either. “How do you even know this? You leave every room I walk into unless you’re forced.”
“Obanai.”
Huh, it seems Obanai was everyone’s messenger when it came to things they had no business in knowing.
And, really, that should’ve been your first sign. The first inclination that Sanemi’s reason for distance was not due to your ‘lack’ of skills. But you were too caught up in the moment — too distracted by the humor of it all. Too focused by the absurdity in the way the whites of his eyes began to web with faint vessels, twitching with every flicker of irritation.
“Laugh it up,” His voice turned rougher, like something was sitting wrong in his throat. Or, more accurately, as if one flawed tone, one wrong slip up, and his secret would spill. “Didn’t realize that was your standard.”
You should’ve pulled away after your laughter subsided. Created some sort of distance between the two of you. Hell, that’s exactly what you would’ve done two days ago. But if you were being realistic, this wouldn’t have even been a predicament — because Sanemi would’ve never let you get this close. And he sure wouldn’t have allowed you to brace your palm over the broad part of his shoulder. “Why does it matter?”
“It doesn’t.” He kept still, eyes lasering through the thick of your orbits. “Hashira operate under different rules when it comes to being with commoners."
“Not when it comes to sex.”
Sanemi’s lid convulsed, something volatile flickering beneath the surface as he leaned impossibly closer — close enough that the ridges of his scars brushed faintly against the fabric of your yukata. His hand pressed into the futon beside you, bracing his weight, caging you in with full oblivion. Because if he had half a mind, he’d maintain any sliver of distance. “You can’t just—” His voice faltered, the words catching unexpectedly as his jaw tightened. “sleep with strangers?”
“I never said I wanted to,” you corrected, steady despite the way your pulse had begun to climb. “I was just stating that the rules around sex aren’t the same as marriage.”
Sanemi stared at you. Really stared. Like he was trying to pick apart every word you’d just said — and getting more irritated the longer he thought about it. “You think that makes it better?”
Your brows knitted together slightly. Honestly, you didn’t even understand why he was so upset about the logical part of your solution. Sure, sex with strangers wasn't the most ideal; diseases and unwarranted pregnancies could always arise. But it seemed way better than marriage. Besides, men usually lacked emotional maturity needed for such a long-term commitment. “I’m just being realistic.”
“Realistic?” His fingers clutched the fabric beneath him, knuckles whitening as the tendons in his hand pulled tight. “Is that what your mind thinks of?”
Truthfully, that was a very personal query. Of course you thought about it. Every Hashira probably has. Especially Tengen with his three wives. But no one really… discussed it. “Well, um,” you were stammering. And each delay of the answer only solidified his initial notion. Which, somehow, shifted his expression. As if he was filling in the blanks himself, and none of the conclusions were helping his mood. So you pivoted. “Do you?”
“What?” His eyes narrowed, the ends of his lips downturned at the sudden transfer in discussion.
Good, you managed to deflect. “Do you think about sex?”
Sanemi blinked. Once. Then twice before the tips of his ears twinged into a shade of deep red. It was obvious he wasn’t prepared for the switch of his inquiry. A flicker of satisfaction sparked in your chest. And maybe you would’ve pushed it further, pressed the advantage, watched him unravel under the pressure of it. But his gaze dropped; lower than you anticipated.
Your lips. He was staring directly at your lips.
And it wasn’t the casual glance, the one you do when you’re displaying listening intent. It was more. His jaw pulled, brows tugged together like something in his mind had gone haywire — and he was irritated with himself, with you, with whatever had him frozen there instead of pulling away like he should have.
“... Sanemi?”
His teeth ground together, the tension in his body coiling tighter as his fists pressed deeper into the blanket beneath you, fabric bunching beneath the strain. You could tell he looked to be in agony; like he was desperately trying to ground himself, hold himself back from… Well, you weren’t exactly sure.
“Don’t say my name again.” Even his sentence came out pained. And suddenly — you were aware of everything: Your hand on his shoulder, the heat between you, the way his face had drifted closer without you noticing.
An inch. That was all it would take.
And that didn’t make any sense: This was Shinazugawa. The Hashira who avoided you. Who left rooms just to escape your presence. Who met you with insults and indifference at every turn. He never wanted you around. So why wasn’t he moving away?
“Why?” You weren’t even sure what you were asking anymore; Why wasn’t he moving? Why didn’t he want you to say his name?
Either way, it didn’t matter. He ignored it entirely. “Yeah, I’ve thought about it.” Your breath hitched. The admission sat heavy between you, honest in a way nothing else he’d said had been. But surely he wasn’t saying what you thought he was saying… “And it’s a distraction,” he continued, jaw shifting. “That’s why I avoid it.” Your chest tightened, because he didn’t need to spell it outright. Didn’t need to clarify. You understood.
By it — He meant you.
And you’d be lying if you said you hadn't thought about it too. The way his hands would clasp around your neck, his movements drilling into you with such force that your eyes would innately roll back. It would be volatile; rough. There would be no care for your wellbeing — just Sanemi chasing his own high as he watched you unravel beneath him.
But it was a fantasy. A fleeting moment of imagery while you touched yourself in your own estate. Because there was no world in which Sanemi would lay a finger on you. For fuck’s sake, he hardly even looked at you.
You opened your mouth to retort something sarcastic. Say anything that could shift the conversation back to his usual irritation with you. Yet all you could do was gawk. Irises traveling down his lips and to his exposed chest; the diabolical images now displayed proudly in your mind.
No — no, this wasn’t okay. How dare you feel the warmth pool between your thighs. Shinazugawa warranted nothing more than a slap to his face… his beautiful, sculpted and scarred face.
Oh my gosh you were losing it. There was no reason for this excitement. You hated Sanemi; loathed him with every ounce of your being. Sure, you imagined him naked on the rare occasion. And sure, you had noted that he was attractive the first time you met. But you had learned to push those feelings down; learned the notion that Shinazugawa saw you as nothing but a burden. Yet, here you were; legs shifted beneath the blanket, hoping that whatever dampened your undergarments was nothing more than the start of your period.
But who were you kidding, you weren’t due for two more weeks.
“Something bothering you?” Your eyes trailed back up to his face, observing as he adorned a rare smirk. It was the same expression you had only noted once; the single moment in passing as you heard him tease Obanai for gifting Mitsuri new socks after she ruined the first pair.
He knew.
Sanemi fucking knew.
And he was reveling in it, finding absolute pleasure in the way your knees brushed together to obtain some sort of friction to distract yourself from the fluttered heartbeat between your legs. But the more you tried to conceal the explicit anticipation, the more Shinazugawa pressed forward. His nose touched yours; the plump of his lips brushed slightly against your skin.
It was wrong. All of this was irrevocably inapt. And Sanemi understood that. He knew the consequences of Hashira romance, the constant turmoil that followed due to death and lack of time. Even his brain was shouting at a high octave, attempting to halt the insanity that was about to ensue: The amygdala displayed a horrid future — you dead, strewn on your back as blood seeped from your lungs. And the only thing Shinazugawa could do was watch. Witness the last moment he’d ever lay eyes on you again.
But that image wasn’t a fact. It was fear; fear of the unknown. And Sanemi hated that. He prided himself on his ability to dive head first with no terror. So, if ripping your clothes to shreds meant he’d conquer trepidation? All well.
Besides, it was a bonus that he’d make you forget about the commoner who stood too close to you.
He’d just reap the repercussions later.
His palm released the scrunched cloth, finger dragging over the kakebuton as it neared the dip in your borrowed yukuta. It was a silly thing — your initial idea of wearing pajamas was a sigh of relief due to its comfort. But now? Now all you wished for was a pound of fabric shielding the way your chest trickled with goosebumps. The telltale sign that, whatever Sanemi was doing, had some sort of impact on your body.
“Someone nervous?” Of course you were nervous. Not once did this idea flash inside your mind. The only thing you anticipated was snarky remarks and ignorance. You didn’t prep for… this. But it seemed Sanemi had thought about this moment a bit too much. His mouth watered in excitement; eyes darting at every inch of exposed skin. “Odd. I thought casual sex was… what did you say? Realistic.”
Ugh, curse your loud mouth.
You swallowed the lump forming in your throat, knees still pressed together to keep the rapid heartbeat from quickening further. Still, the wind Hashira wasn’t oblivious. And besides, your lack of refusal as he unfastened your yukuta was all the agreement he needed to move forward. So, before you knew it, he had mounted on top of your bare body, scarred chest pressed to yours as his digit dragged along your folds.
“Tsk,” his pointer dipped just slightly, pressing your slick inwards. “Already this wet? Don’t tell me you’re this easy.” Even in the heat of the moment he was being condescending; which warranted a punch. But you’d be lying if that didn’t hasten the throb between your legs. And you’d be even more of a prevaricator if you didn’t admit that Sanemi could feel it. “If you’re going to be such a distraction,” his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, breath soft against the lobe of your ear. “The least you could do is relieve the pressure you fucking curse other people with.”
Without warning his thumb dipped in the confines of your walls, an agonizing stretch that forced a whine out of your throat. It was cruel, really. The way Shinazugawa had seemed to completely dismiss the notion of benignity in intercourse. Yet, once again, your body betrayed you — hips bucked in the air, palms pressed flat against his haori. “You like the pain?” Your head nodded innately. “That idiot definitely wouldn’t have known that.”
Idiot?
“Huh, w—” Your query was cut short as he replaced his thumb with his middle finger, curling it ever so slightly until it pressed against the pattern of your gummy tissue — the very spot that made stars speckle across your vision. “Nemi’ hold — nghhh — on.”
You didn’t mean to give him a nickname. But you could hardly form a coherent sentence; a shortened version of his title seemed reasonable enough to get your point across. Yet Sanemi stilled. His once rhythmic pace overshadowed with a faint twitch. “What… What did you just call me?”
“... Nemi’?”
Sanemi groaned in pleasure at the sound of your voice; forehead pressed to your collarbone as he continued to thrust his fingers with intense precision. And if it wasn’t clear before; this was why he created distance. The exact reason why he avoided you. Because he couldn’t contain himself; too aware that a slight change of your tone would have you trapped beneath him as he pummeled himself to ecstasy. But here you were — served on a platter for him in the shared room.
Plus, how could he let your crude imaginations be entwined with the man who happened to stumble upon you this afternoon?
The very commoner who almost asked you out on a date. Pathetic.
Shinazugawa’s eyes blurred with hatred; the idea of another person fueling your pleasure was a complete disgrace to him. So what if he ignored you? So what if he wasn’t your boyfriend? You still belonged to him. And any inclination of another man’s touch vindicated rage.
Which was why you practically shouted as something much… bigger unexpectedly slipped deep within you. A frustrated blow to your walls that bordered pain more than pleasure. Oh how oblivious you were to the unclasping of his belt, the way he fumbled with his pants while his right hand continued to create some sort of relief for the tightening knot deep within your abdomen. “Such… a fucking — aghhh,” Sanemi’s breath became ragged the more he moved his hips. “Distraction.”
Moans spilled from your throat, the occasional cry of agony etched in between the sounds of rapture as his nails dug into your hips, keeping you stationed to withstand the increasing brutalized pace he began to set. “Who do you think about?”
His words were almost lost. Your muddled brain too focused on the near snap of the knot. Not to mention the squelches of wetness and slaps of skin that reverberated off the cramped corridor. “W-what?”
“Alone,” his right hand made its way to your throat, tightening ever so slightly as his thumb and pointer cupped your jaw, tilting your head to look up at him. “Fuck — who do you think about… alone at night?”
You shouldn’t have answered. Shouldn’t have admitted the occasional late night pleasure that came from him. But you were too drunk on bliss to think of reason. “You.”
And that was all it took. The single word that made him snap his hips in an agonizing way until he got to observe a stream of tears spill from your eyes; cheeks painted in a rosy shade of pink. But still, Sanemi needed more. He needed to hear your sniffles, observe as your eyes rolled back with each shaky sob.
He needed to witness the effect he bestowed on you. Something no one else could ever dream of achieving.
He shifted his right hand down to your thigh, hoisting it over his shoulder to deepen his momentum. Your irises bulged, the feeling of his length deep in your stomach prevalent. It was plain from the get-go that Sanemi was showing zero mercy for you, your eyes consistently brimming with salty tears that leaked with every thrust. “Shit, you’re so…” he grunted, tongue dragging his lower lip and brows creased in concentration. “Tight.”
“Nemi’.” You whined, nails clawed deep within the kakebuton beneath you. There was no way in hell you were going to last another thirty seconds — not with the way his tip pummeled against your g-spot. “You’re gonna make me… nghhh.”
But what came next was a surprise. Or, more accurately, a slip-up of Sanemi's true intentions. “Maybe I should get you pregnant, hm?” A moan caught in your throat, your breath jagged while you stared wide-eyed at the Hashira. And normally, you would’ve screeched in horror at his erratic statement. The absurdity of the comment so outlandish it warranted nothing more than a scolding. Yet right now? The idea of him stuffing you full was more important than anything else — the ache in your abdomen something that could only be fulfilled with his warmth. “Then… oh fuck — no one will look at you.”
It was wrong. The way his declaration took you over the edge, fingers grasping at the fabric beneath you while your sclera took over for your rolled back irises. And the flutter against his dick? The string of thoughts that allowed everyone to know you were his? Yeah, that fucked him
He cursed under his breath, doubling-over and tightening his grasp around your neck as his rhythm stuttered, his hips carelessly hitting your ass as he spilled inside. His groan was gruff, teeth clenched together to bite back the overwhelming wash of ecstasy that overcame the months of pent-up tension.
“If one more person looks at you. I’m seriously going to get you pregnant. Got it?”
