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workout plan

18+ SMUT! personal trainer!sanemi shinazugawa x reader - ao3

synopsis: sanemi’s workout plan? stretches, strength training, and fucking you until you forget how to stand (w.c: 18k) tags: filthy smut, slow burn porn w/ plot, praise kink, degradation kink, overstimulation, throat fucking, handjob, messy blowjob, spit play, missionary, doggy style, hair pulling, light choking, cum on stomach, creampie, bath play, size kink?, um crying from pleasure, princess kink, praise + roughness, possessive sanemi, overstimmed reader, gentle aftercare notes: ok well this is my first sanemi fic but i wanted him carnal asf. im sorry yall. i tried my bestest. feel free to hit me if i got his char wrong

the app was supposed to be easy. click a few buttons, fill out your goals, choose your trainer preferences. your coworker swore by it—said she got paired with a girl who matched her body type and pushed her just enough. it sounded perfect for you. you didn’t want to get shredded, just toned, feel stronger in your own skin.

the profile you matched with had said female, background in yoga and light strength. exactly what you thought you needed.

except when you show up at the gym, duffel bag clutched in one hand, scanning the rows of treadmills and squat racks, it isn’t a yoga girl who walks toward you.

it’s him— well like it’s a him..

white hair, sharp and a little wild, pale scarred skin. his arms look like they could snap barbells for fun. ripped doesn’t even begin to cover it—he’s built like a wall, 5’10, shoulders broad enough to make you feel small just standing there. and those pale purple eyes lock onto yours in a way that feels… dangerous. good lawd.

he stops in front of you, towel slung around his neck, voice low and amused, “system must’ve glitched. you were expecting someone else.” it’s not really a question. you blink up at him, thrown off. “uh… yeah. i thought i matched with a woman.”

his jaw tics, gaze skimming the busy gym around you before settling back. he mutters, almost under his breath, “... dangerous.”

you tilt your head, not sure what he means, but the words make something in your chest skip, “i—uh—it’s fine,” you say quickly, a little too quickly, because you’re already embarrassingly attracted to him. “i mean… you’re already here. i can still pay you for the session, even if—”

he cuts you off with a sharp shake of his head. “are you sure? i don’t wanna make you uncomfortable.” his tone is serious, no teasing in it, like he’s actually concerned about the idea of you being stuck with him.

you swallow, heat creeping up the back of your neck. “no, you’re fine.”

he studies you for a long moment, and you can feel your pulse in your ears. he shifts his weight, scratches at the back of his neck before finally sticking a hand out. “shinazugawa. sanemi.” his voice is rough but not unfriendly, and his palm is wide, calloused, warm when you put your hand in his.

you almost forget to say your own name, tongue tripping over it when you finally do. his grip is firm but careful, like he’s holding himself back, and when he lets go you already miss the contact more than you should.

“i specialize in strength training,” he says, like he’s reciting off a checklist. “powerlifting. endurance. i do some conditioning too.”

you blink at him, not sure how to respond. powerlifting sounds like the opposite of what you were aiming for. still, you manage a small, “oh. okay. good, uh… good to know.”

he quirks a brow, clearly catching your hesitation, but doesn’t comment.

you tuck your hands behind your back, trying to recover. “my goal’s just to… tone up, i guess. build a little muscle, but nothing crazy. i just want to feel better about myself. stronger. not, you know…” you glance at his arms before you can stop yourself. “…not like that.”

it slips out before you can catch it, and you wish you could snatch the words back. no offense. no offense. no offense. please don’t choke me out with those muscles. or do..?

sanemi’s lips twitch, a small, sharp laugh breaking through. “don’t worry. i’m not gonna stick you under a barbell your first day. tone, huh? yeah, we can work with that.” the sound of his laugh lingers, husky and a little mocking, but not cruel. it makes your stomach do an unsteady flip, and you busy yourself nodding, trying to look anywhere but at the way his shirt clings to his chest.

his laugh fades but the smirk doesn’t, lingering like he knows more than he’s letting on. you hate that it makes your chest feel warm, like he’s already got the upper hand. “alright,” he says finally, eyes flicking over you in a quick, assessing sweep. it’s not sleazy—more professional than anything—but it still makes your skin prickle, like he’s actually mapping your body, “if tone’s the goal, we’ll start simple. bodyweight, form checks, nothing heavy yet.”

you nod too fast, blurting, “sounds good,” when really all you can think about is the way his shirt strains against his shoulders. he tilts his head, one corner of his mouth lifting again. “you sure you’re good with me? we can reschedule, get you with who you wanted.”

the question sounds casual, but there’s something in his eyes—testing you. your eyes scan him “i’m fine,” you say, though it comes out breathy. you clear your throat. “really. i’m fine.”

he hums, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but accepts it anyway. he gestures toward the open mats by the mirrors, a lazy sweep of his arm that makes his bicep flex in a way you pretend not to notice.

“warmups first. let’s see what we’re working with.”

you sling your duffel onto a bench, heart pounding harder than it should for something as innocent as stretching. you follow him to the mats, trying not to watch the way his shoulders move under that tank top. the mirror doesn’t help—it doubles everything, forces you to see how small you look next to him. still, once you’re both down on the floor, the nerves start to ease. he’s just a guy, after all. a really hot guy, yeah, but still just… a trainer. c’mon now don’t be weird.

he runs you through some simple stretches, demoing each one before nodding for you to copy. arms up, bend forward, twist at the waist. you match his pace, your muscles loosening, the rhythm of it grounding you.

“so,” you say between a hamstring stretch and a quad pull, “do they really do pizza fridays here? my coworker said it was a thing.”

sanemi snorts, pushing into a lunge. “pizza? yeah, i’ve seen the signs. dumbest shit ever. why would a gym hand out pizza?” he shakes his head, a sharp laugh under his breath. “might as well throw in free beer, too.”

you laugh, the sound surprising even yourself with how easy it comes. “guess it’s one way to guarantee repeat business.”

his mouth quirks again, and for the first time, the smirk doesn’t feel like it’s at your expense. “maybe. never touched the stuff though. no clue if it’s even good.”

the banter feels easy, almost normal. your chest doesn’t feel as tight anymore, your legs don’t shake just because he’s standing close. it’s strange—you’re still aware of him, the size, the scars, the sheer presence—but it’s not overwhelming anymore.

“see?” he mutters, rolling his shoulder as you both switch sides. “not so bad, right?” you grin, bent over one knee. “depends. you gonna make me regret this later?” his laugh rumbles, low and sharp. “maybe.”

he claps his hands once, sharp enough to draw a few glances from people nearby. “alright. warmup’s done. time to see what you can actually do.”

your stomach flips again, but he doesn’t give you time to dwell. he drops into a push-up, perfect form, arms locking and unlocking in steady rhythm. his voice is muffled against the floor, “give me five. show me your form.”

you blink down at him, half horrified. “push-ups? already?”

“don’t whine,” he shoots back, not even winded as he hits ten before popping back onto his feet like it was nothing. “five. that’s all.”

you lower yourself to the mat, trying to remember how your gym teacher explained this in middle school. hands planted, back as straight as you can manage, you dip down once, twice, three times—then collapse on the fourth with an undignified huff.

sanemi snorts. not unkind, but loud enough that your face goes hot. “not bad,” he says, crouching beside you. “spine needs to be straighter, though. like this.”

his palm flattens between your shoulder blades, the heat of it surprising even through your shirt. he presses lightly, guiding, while his other hand brushes the curve of your hip to shift your angle. “there. feel that? tighter. keep your core up.”

you manage a shaky nod, heart hammering for a reason that has nothing to do with exercise.

“don’t look at me,” he adds, a faint grin tugging his mouth as you immediately glance at him. “floor. always floor.”

“bossy,” you mutter, biting down a smile as you reset your position.

“better than letting you blow your back out on day one,” he shoots back, voice rough but faintly amused. you push through the last two reps, arms trembling, and collapse on the mat with a groan.

sanemi crouches again, forearms braced on his knees, eyeing you with something like approval. “not bad for a start. we’ll work on endurance. core strength first, tone second. you’ll thank me later.”

you blow out a breath, hair sticking to your forehead. “if i can move tomorrow.”

“you’ll move,” he says with certainty, standing and offering his hand to pull you up. “whether you’ll like me tomorrow—that’s another story.”

he doesn’t waste a second after pulling you back onto your feet. before you can even catch your breath, he’s launching into what sounds like a memorized script—safety precautions, injury prevention, hydration, warm-down routines.

“form’s everything,” he says, pacing a little in front of you as if he’s giving a lecture. “you do it wrong, you’re out with a busted joint or slipped disc, and all your work’s wasted. always start light, test the range, build up. you push past what your body’s ready for? congratulations—you’re fucked for six weeks minimum.”

you blink at him, a little startled at the bluntness. “…inspirational.”

he huffs, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “i’m not here to make it sound pretty. i’m here to make sure you don’t wreck yourself.”

you nod, pretending to take it all in while your eyes can’t help flicking to the curve of his jaw, the way a vein runs down his bicep as he gestures. he catches you drifting and snaps his fingers once. “hey. you listening?”

“yeah, yeah,” you say quickly, scrambling to sound engaged. “hydration, form, don’t wreck myself. got it.”

he squints at you but lets it slide. “so… how many clients do you usually take on?” you ask, trying to steer the spotlight away from yourself. “depends,” he shrugs. “i don’t do group stuff. just one-on-one. keeps it clean. i hate people screwing around with machines when they don’t know what they’re doing.”

“you sound like you really love your job,” you tease.

he gives a dry laugh, shaking his head. “love’s a strong word. but i know what i’m doing, and i don’t half-ass it. that’s enough.”

you hum, stretching your arms overhead again, partly to ease the ache, partly to stop staring at him head-on. “so what do you do if a client bails? like, quits halfway?”

“they always come back.” his answer is immediate, “maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week, but they always come back when they realize coasting doesn’t work. everybody wants results. nobody wants the grind. i just wait ‘em out.” there’s something in the conviction of his voice that makes your skin prickle again, like he’s talking about more than workouts, “that sounded kind of ominous,” you joke, forcing a laugh. he only smirks, not bothering to deny it.

after an hour of form checks, pushups that left your arms jelly, and his endless rambling about proper hydration and rest days, you finally drop onto the bench with your duffel. your body feels wrung out but light, like maybe you actually accomplished something. sanemi stands over you, towel slung across his shoulder, barely winded like he didn’t just demo every exercise twice.

“good work,” he says, and the words sound rare coming from him. “first sessions usually suck. you did fine.” — “fine,” you echo, blowing a strand of hair off your face. “that’s a generous grade.”

he huffs, and then, out of nowhere, “c’mon. i’ll buy you a smoothie. post-workout.”

you blink. “oh, uh, that’s nice, but you don’t have to—”

“i didn’t say i had to,” he cuts in, already grabbing his bag. “don’t even worry about it. place across the street does decent ones. protein, fruit, all that shit.” but before you can argue, you’re already following him out, the gym’s heavy doors swinging behind you. takes one good look— left and right— then drags you across the way.

the smoothie bar is small, crowded with bright posters of bananas and kale. you order something safe, and he orders something that sounds like it belongs in a bodybuilder’s diet, extra protein on top of protein.

you sit across from him, plastic cup sweating between your palms. it feels weirdly casual, not trainer-client anymore.

“so,” you say after a sip, “what got you into all this? the gym life.”

sanemi leans back, rolling the straw between his teeth before answering. “family stuff. i was always the angry kid, i guess? gym gave me somewhere to dump it. turned out i was good at it, so i stayed.”

you nod, listening, curious, “my brother’s into it now,” he adds, and there’s a flicker of pride under his rough tone. “kid’s in high school. i’ve been training him to powerlift. it keeps him out of trouble, gives him focus. gives me something to do.”

“that’s… actually really sweet,” you say before you can stop yourself. he groans, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “don’t call it that. he’s a pain in my ass most days.”

you smile into your smoothie, hiding it with the straw. “still. sounds like you care.” he doesn’t answer right away, just gives you a look across the table.

the smoothie cups end up empty quicker than you expect, conversation tapering into a comfortable lull. when you both step back outside, the air is cooler, carrying the faint tang of car exhaust and fried food from a place down the block. you sling your duffel over your shoulder, adjusting the strap as you walk side by side.

sanemi doesn’t talk at first, just shoves one hand into his pocket, the other holding his phone. then, he stops and holds it out toward you. “here. take my number.” you blink at him. “your number?” he clears his throat, “yeah. if you want it,” he says, tone blunt but not unkind. “sessions, questions, whatever. easier than going through that app.”

you hesitate for a beat, then unlock your phone and pass it to him. he types fast, saves himself in your contacts with nothing but sanemi in all caps, and hands it back rather quickly. you brush it off.

“y’know what,” he adds, rolling his shoulders like he’s brushing something off himself, “don’t worry about charging me. we’ll just do this whole thing until you feel better ‘bout yourself.”

your brows lift. “what, like… free?” — “don’t make a big deal out of it,” he mutters, already looking ahead as he starts walking again. “you’ll stick with it longer if you’re not stressing over money. consider it… investment.”

the word hangs in the air between you, heavier than it should. you clutch your phone tighter, his name glowing back at you on the screen, and can’t help the flutter that sparks in your chest.

—

the next morning, you wake up and immediately regret every life choice that led you here. your thighs are on fire, your arms feel like bricks, and your stomach aches every time you shift like someone slipped weights under your ribs overnight. it takes a good five minutes just to roll to the edge of the bed, groaning into your pillow.

half buried under your blanket, you reach for your phone and scroll down to the new contact sitting there in all caps: SANEMI. your thumb hovers for a second before you type.

you: i can’t move. you: is this normal?

it takes him only a minute to respond.

sanemi: welcome to the club. sanemi: sore means it’s working. but don’t die. and drink water.

you snort, immediately regretting it as your abs cramp.

you: don’t die?? very reassuring. sanemi: you’ll live. sanemi: when’s your next free slot? we’ll go again.

you stare at the screen, part exasperated, part weirdly eager, and type out your schedule. session booked.

—

the weeks fall into a pattern after that.

the gym becomes a place you don’t dread anymore. its rubber mats, chalk-dusted air, and faint smell of disinfectant settle into something almost comforting. and always, sanemi is there—white hair a little messy, tank tops showing scars you try not to stare at too long(and fail each passing time), towel looped casually around his neck. he swears that cooling towel really works.

the workouts vary but the rhythm stays the same.

squats with him crouched nearby, sharp eyes locked on your knees, his hand occasionally brushing your arm when he adjusts your stance. planks with him dropping down beside you, counting seconds in that low, steady voice until your arms tremble and give out. bodyweight circuits where he paces behind you, tossing out corrections and encouragement in the same breath.

between sets, you talk. small things at first: about the music blaring overhead (“this song fucking sucks” “it’s sabrina carpenter sanemi.” “and what does that got to do with what i just said?!”), about your job, about the way pizza fridays really are a thing at the gym.

eventually, the talks deepen. he mentions his younger brother again, how he’s been training him for powerlifting in their garage, how the kid complains through every rep. you in turn tease him, call him a supportive big brother, and he groans, muttering for you to shut up while the faintest smile tugs at his mouth. even though he agrees. sometimes he laughs—short, sharp, like he doesn’t mean to let it out. you find yourself waiting for those moments, the way his eyes soften just a little when they meet yours in the mirror.

by the third week, you’re not counting down minutes until the session ends.

the session winds down with you both on the mats, stretching out tired muscles, the mirrors catching every angle of you beside him. the gym is quieter now, most of the morning crowd cleared out, leaving only the low hum of treadmills and the faint clatter of a barbell being racked somewhere in the back. the air smells of rubber mats and faint citrus from the spray bottles lined along the wall.

“well, congrats,” sanemi says suddenly, breaking the quiet. he tosses his towel over one shoulder, the ends damp with sweat. “been at this a month now. you’re doing great.”

you glance up at him, surprised, because he doesn’t hand out praise like candy. his face is serious, though—sharp lines softened just a little around his mouth, pale eyes holding steady on you. “really?” you ask, sitting up straighter, hair sticking damply to your neck.

“yeah.” his voice is blunt, but his expression doesn’t quite match the roughness. “your form’s cleaner. reps go smoother. you’re not whining half as much.” you huff, rolling your eyes, but the twitch of a smile breaks through before you can help it. he smirks in return, but it doesn’t last long—his gaze shifts, trailing downward in a way that feels less like a trainer and more like a man looking at you.

it’s subtle at first. the curve of your shoulders, the line of your waist where your shirt clings, the strength starting to show in your thighs. but then it lingers. his jaw tightens, like he realizes too late how long he’s been staring.

you feel the weight of it, heat creeping up your neck. he clears his throat, jerks his gaze away toward the wall. “sorry. habit. just… checking progress.” the apology sounds gruff, but the tips of his ears are faintly pink. you tug at your shoelace, trying to ground yourself. “progress, huh?”

his eyes flick back to you for the briefest moment, softer this time, before he looks away again. “you’re stronger. and it shows.” the words come out low, almost reluctant, like he’s not used to complimenting people. but there’s no mistaking the honesty in his expression—the way his brow eases, the tension in his mouth slackens, just for a second.

the silence that follows isn’t awkward, exactly. it’s charged, a silence that hums like static under your skin. then, you laugh a little too bright, a weak little spark trying to make sense of the static between you. “thanks,” you say, fingers smoothing sweat from your knee like you can iron out the heat crawling up your neck. “i got it. i—uh—appreciate it.”

he nods, eyes flicking to the clock, the towel sliding to his other shoulder. “heads up,” he says, voice rough like gravel, “i’ll be out next week. reunion. i won’t be around for about a week.”

your head perks up. “oh, fun. what are you doing for it?” he sighs, not at you, but at the thought of it. “old crew,” he says, mouth tipping like the word as if he didn’t want to say it. “we’re meeting at some resort. my friend tengen picked it. he said it was flashy enough. whatever that really means.”

you grin. “that sounds fun. sun, nap, tans, maybe run up his credit card. i’m jealous.” sanemi chuckles at your suggestion, “yeah,” he says, then breathes out like fun is heavier than it should be. “it’ll be fine until they start bugging me about my relationship.”

you angle toward him, elbows on your knees, soreness forgotten. “oh? and what about it?” his look lands on you, sharp at first, then softening like he changes his mind, well i’m glad you asked shinobu. “that’s the thing,” he says, a dry little laugh cutting off at the edge, “i don’t have one. they won’t let it go.”

you widen your eyes. “not even a secret girlfriend you don’t reveal to anyone?!” his mouth crooks. “um… does a barbell count?” — “uh yeah, if you’re a loser. of course.” you say, and he laughs for real, short and warm.

he fiddles with the edge of his tank, thumb dragging the fabric once, eyes taking a slow path along your face before he sets them back on yours. “they all paired off,” he says. “houses, cats and dogs,holiday cards. they see me and think i’m missing a piece.”

you tilt your head. “are you?” he chews on that, jaw working, not irritated, just honest. “depends on the day. i like my quiet. i like not explaining myself.” a small shrug. “then they ask if i’m lonely, and now i’m thinking about it.”

“classic,” you murmur. then you nudge your sneaker lightly into his. “you could lie,” you say. “tell them you’re in a committed relationship with leg day.”

“they’d buy it,” he deadpans. “or,” you say, pretending to examine the frayed lace on your shoe, “you could tell them you’re seeing someone. mysterious, charming, has excellent taste in pop.”

he groans. “you and that sabrina song.”

“it’s catchy.”

“it sucks.”

“you’re grumpy.”

“you’re biased. i bet you don’t even like espresso!”

you smile. “okay, serious question. if you could make them understand one thing about you that isn’t a relationship status, what would it be?” his gaze sharpens the way it does when he lines up your knees over your toes. “that i’m not wasting time,” he says. “i’m building something even if it doesn’t look like theirs.” a beat, quiet and true. “that i’m not behind.”

you nod, a soft hum catching in your chest. “you aren’t.” he searches your face like he’s checking your balance, like truth has a posture and he wants to see if you’re keeping it. the purple in his eyes warms at the edges. “what about you,” he asks, lower now, curiosity slipping in, “people bug you about all that?”

“all the time,” you say. “family chats, coworkers, the algorithm. everybody’s got a countdown they’re trying to hand me.”

“yeah,” he says, like he knows the sound of that pressure. “if it helps,” you add, feeling braver than a minute ago, “you can tell them you’re seeing someone— you can name drop me if you want. it keeps you booked, it keeps you busy, it looks like a relationship on paper, just, you know, no kissing.”

his look drifts down your mouth and back up like he didn’t mean to take the long way. “almost,” he says, and the word sits between you, warm as the lights humming over the racks. you clear your throat “text me when you land,” you say, and the ask comes out natural. “so i know you didn’t get kidnapped by a bachelorette party.”

“not my scene,” he says, quick. “prove it,” you tease just as quick.

his phone is already in his hand, the glow skimming his knuckles. “i’ll send a picture,” he says. “no women. maybe a pool, maybe a drink.”

“with the tiny umbrella.”

“y’know what— sure, lady.” he agrees, still watching you. he thinks as you speak a bit more, making mental notes. a little note that says send her the picture, don’t forget the umbrella, book the next session, remember the way she looked right now when the gym went quiet and the air smelled like lemon and rubber, and you shift your weight on the mat, feeling the day inside your muscles, feeling the week stretching out in front of you, the promise of a photo, the next appointment blinking to be set, the door’s metal bar cool under your palm when you push it open into the bright outside where the sky sits high and wide and waiting

—

you clock in, grind through the morning, and blink your way to lunch a few minutes late. by the time the sun shifts in the windows, your shift is over. the only thing left is the ride home. your phone buzzes while you’re still in the parking lot, sun slipping low across the hood of your car. you don’t even have to check who it is.

sanemi: boarding. sanemi: this place smells like hand sanitizer and slight ass.

you snort. your reflection in the screen grins back at you.

you: send proof…? you: and i want the tiny umbrella when you land.

a beat, then a photo drops in. aisle seat, his knee in black joggers, a blurry wing through the oval window. his forearm takes up half the frame, veins and pale scars, the corner of a safety card peeking in like a photobomb.

sanemi: happy? you: deeply moved. thank you big guy sanemi: yw

he doesn’t message you for a couple hours. assuming he was already on board flying. you’re halfway through a shower when it buzzes again across the sink. dripping and wrapped in a towel, fly out of the shower to swipe and answer it.

a room photo. big resort bed, too many pillows, white sheets pulled tight. there’s a balcony door cracked open to blue water and a slice of sky. his bag sits on a chair, black and beat up, one strap hanging. his shoes are kicked half under the desk like he walked out of them mid-thought. the mirror catches him a little at the edge, shirt clinging from travel, hair a mess. he didn’t mean to catch himself like that. he sent it anyway.

sanemi: not bad. no tiny umbrella yet. you: oh my god that bed looks so comfyy

another photo, closer, his hand holding a plastic cup near the balcony. there is, in fact, a tiny purple umbrella jammed next to a lime wedge. the ocean blurs behind it. his thumb takes up the bottom of the frame.

sanemi: congratulations. you win. you: i always do. also nice thumb

three dots. then:

sanemi: stfu sanemi: tell me what to order for dinner so you stop bullying my thumb

you drop onto your bed and kick your feet like a child.

you: show me menu

he does sanemi: i might wing it. you: that grilled plate with the pineapple thing

twenty minutes. you scroll, you half-start a show, you don’t watch it. then your phone lights up in a tiny burst.

plate pic. grilled fish, char lines perfect, pineapple salsa scattered like confetti. another pic, hand hovering over a bowl of something green with chips stuck in at odd angles. the last one is a crime scene close-up of a churro torn in half with chocolate dripping. the angle is ugly. it makes you laugh harder.

you: i mean it looks good but ngl your photo skills are kinda ass! sanemi: fuck off. the contract didn’t come with ‘make sure you can take photos well’

a bit later a blurry video lands. two seconds long. his wrist flicks past the camera, a sparkly beaded bracelet spelling something you can’t make out. there’s laughter in the background, someone yelling his name, the beat of a poolside song that sounds like last summer and sunscreen. you replay it three times like a creep.

you: it’s so cute what the heck!

another message arrives almost on top of that one.

sanemi: they asked about my love life. you: and you said sanemi: i said i’m training someone mean who likes pop music and bullies me you: mean? sanemi: extremely. you: do they approve of your fake relationship with leg day sanemi: tengen asked if leg day treats me right. you: and? sanemi: i said it ruins me and i keep going back. #toxic

—

you spend the week traveling in small circles. work, errands, laundry half folded on the couch. the microwave beeps at midnight, the neighbor’s dog cries at the mailman, and your shoes leave the same crescent of dust by the door. you keep your phone faceup on the counter like a lighthouse.

he pings when he can. bad wifi, busy schedule, the ocean chewing up his reception.

sanemi: pool’s loud

you: sunscreen on your ears pls

sanemi: not a child

you: famous last words before sunburn

a photo lands at lunch on day two. a palm leaf shadow cut across concrete, his foot at the edge of the frame, bracelet glittering. tengen’s laugh bleeds in from somewhere off screen. in the evenings you do band walks in your living room. you shuffle past the couch, past the wilted plant that you've been meaning to throw out, past your reflection in the dark tv. you hear his voice anyway. chin up. tuck your ribs. breathe.

you: i did twenty minutes

sanemi: do twenty five tomorrow

midweek your coworker drags you to a cheap diner. the vinyl seat squeaks, and the waitress calls you honey. you tell her about the trainer who hates your pop playlist and sends you pictures of food like a dad on a field trip. you were teased endlessly about if hes hot or not. you had to show them a photo of him in the app when the questions piled up. your coworker who had originally suggested you the app is now jealous of you (jokingly of course.)

that night another message. a plate of neon shaved ice, two spoons stuck like flags. the caption is just:

sanemi: sugar

morning comes rough and soft. you pack your lunch, and let the kettle sing. he texts between sets of whatever reunion nonsense they’re doing.

sanemi: they made me play volleyball

you: did you win

sanemi: i broke a bracelet

you: of course u broke a bracelet. smh

sanemi: stfu. but i did win. of course i did.

on thursday the sky opens for ten minutes and throws water at your windshield. you sit in your car and watch it bead, thinking of the balcony door he keeps cracking open in his photos like a habit. you type and erase, type and erase, then send something safe about protein powder flavors. he replies with something saltier about all of them tasting like drywall. your ears feel warm from how stupid you felt.

that night he texts again, late. the notification lights your ceiling.

sanemi: need an opinion

you: on what

sanemi: which photo looks less stupid

two images blink in. both catch him clean and careless. in the first he’s near the balcony, shirt soft and worn in, hair pushed back by a damp hand. the ocean is a smear of blue behind him and there’s a crease at the corner of his mouth like a smile thought about showing up and changed its mind. in the second he’s by the resort walkway at golden hour. the light turns his scars to pale threads and warms his eyes to molten lavender. his jaw looks unfair. the bracelet is on his wrist. he forgot to hate it.

you stare too long and then pretend you didn’t.

you: both are good but the second one is so cunty actually

sanemi: omfg. english pls

you: the light loves you. send that one

sanemi: why do i need one at all

you: because i said so

sanemi: hilarious. they want me to post shit tengen makes everyone do it. updates, proof of life, blah blah

you: okay then. second pic. caption it something minimal so they think you’re mysterious

sanemi: like what

you: “sunset is fine” or “resort is loud”

sanemi: that shit sounds so stupid.

you: then “had fish”

sanemi: ??

—

the gym smells like lemon spray and rubber again, which feels weirdly like home now. the front desk girl waves without looking up from her tablet. the music is a playlist you recognize. you step onto the mats and then he is there, like he walked out of the mirror and into your lane. he looks travel-clean. hair damp like he shoved water through it in the locker room, shirt soft and dark, the bracelet gone, a faint mark left on the skin where it had hugged. he wears the week on him in small ways you can’t name until you are closer. he definitely got tanner too. sexy papa.

“hey,” he says, voice a little lower than usual, “you alive.” — “barely,” you say, smiling anyway. “how was it?”

the corner of his mouth lifts. “loud. expensive. dumb bracelets.”

“proof of life?” you ask. he reaches into his bag and flips you a tiny cocktail umbrella, folded closed. purple. same shade as the last one. it arcs once and lands in your palm.

“i hate that i knew you’d like that,” he says. “you’re evolving,” you say, tucking it into your phone case.

he nods at the mirror. “warm up. show me what survived.”

you stretch. shoulders, hamstrings, the long line down your calves. he watches like he always does, attention clean and exact, correcting with a tap of two fingers at your hip, a palm hovering near your shoulder blade without touching. it all feels normal and not normal at once.

“you post the photo?” you ask, breath steadying. he huffs a laugh. “tengen posted it for me. apparently i don’t move fast enough.”

“it was a good one,” you say, not looking at him, which is the same as looking at him too hard. “you picked it,” he says, like that explains the numbers stacked under the picture you didn’t let yourself count. “okay. bodyweight circuit. two rounds. slow. then we talk schedule.”

you move. the first squat feels clumsy and then your body remembers the map. planks shake the rust out. lunges mark the floor in a neat path you follow back. he counts lazy and precise.

between sets you trade small things. you tell him about the thrift jacket and the lemon ice. he tells you about his best friend obanai almost killing him with a volleyball, and a drink that tasted like melted candy. however, he admits the bracelet wasn’t the worst part.

second round finishes and you sit on the mat to breathe. the gym has thinned out; the big fans overhead click like slow clocks. “you kept up,” he says, and his mouth doesn’t fight the compliment this time. “good. we’ll add weight again by the end of the week.”

“mean,” you say. “effective,” he counters, and it’s almost a shared smile. he grabs his bag and digs out a printout. the grid is neat, days across the top, exercises down the side, notes in his blunt, impatient handwriting. “three days on, one day off,” he says. “light conditioning on your off day if you’re bored. don’t text me at 2 a.m. to tell me you’re bored.”

“no promises,” you say, folding the paper. “coach.”

“don’t start,” he says, but he doesn’t look mad. “same time wednesday?”

“yeah,” you say, and the word sits warm. you slide the tiny umbrella deeper into your phone case, and when you stand he is already reaching out a hand to pull you up by the wrist like this is just what he does now, and your skin goes electric at the touch you pretend is nothing while the mirrors throw you both back at you.

you’re still rolling the tiny purple umbrella between your fingers when he clears his throat, eyes cutting to the side like he’s aiming around you. the gym’s fans keep clicking, slow as breathing. “hey,” he says, casual like he’s testing a weight before he racks it, “there’s a movie i wanted to see later.” a beat. “tonight.”

you blink, then try to play it cool and fail immediately. “which one?” he names it, the exact one you’ve had shoved in your notes app for weeks. your mouth jumps before your patience does. “shut up. that one?”

his brow ticks, amused. “that one.” heat rushes up your neck, sweet and a little dizzy. “i wanted to see it,” you say, softer than you mean to. “i just… didn’t have anyone to go with.”

he looks at you properly then, like he’s re-measuring your stance. “you do now.” it comes out rough, plain, not a line, just a fact he decided to put in the air.

“okay,” you say, too fast, then you try to fix your voice and it comes out breathy. “i mean, yeah. of course. let’s go.”

the corner of his mouth edges upward like he’s working against it. a light shrug, shoulders cut clean under the soft shirt. “cool.” he taps his phone against his thigh. “showtime’s at seven-twenty. i’ll grab seats if you’re actually in.”

“i’m in,” you say, and your hands suddenly don’t know where to live. you tuck hair behind your ear, then you tuck it again, then you are extremely interested in the tiny umbrella now living in your phone case. “uh—should we meet there?”

“yeah,” he says. “text me when you’re close. i’ll be in the lobby, probably judging the popcorn.”

“you don’t like popcorn?”

“i like not getting kernels murdered between my teeth.” a ghost of a grin. “get the big one, though. i’ll help.”

you nod too much. you hate that he notices and you love that he notices. the fans hum. the mirror throws you both back, a little flushed, a little off balance. he adjusts the strap on his bag and it’s nothing, it’s routine, and somehow it feels like a step.

“go stretch your calves before you stiffen up,” he says, sliding back into trainer without losing whatever this is. “wear something you can sit in for two hours without cursing me.”

“copy,” you say, all blush and yes. “i’ll, um, see you there.”

“yeah,” he answers, eyes catching yours long enough to spark that small, charged sting under your skin. “see you.”

—.

you show up early on purpose and circle the lot once to kill nerves. comfy shoes that don’t pinch, soft pants that sit right on your hips, a loose tee layered under a zip hoodie that still smells like your detergent and your choice of perfume. you swipe lip balm on in the car and tell yourself not to overdo it. it’s a movie, not a wedding.

the lobby is cold in that way only theaters are, all ice air and neon. the carpet is some violent pattern that hides spills. the popcorn machine hums behind the chatter. you text him that you’re here and look up just as the doors slide open.

he walks in. black joggers that taper neat at the ankle, clean sneakers, a white and green jacket zipped halfway over a dark tee. the lights catch on the jacket’s green stripes and make his eyes look lighter, almost washed lavender. hair pushed back with water, a few pieces refusing to behave. travel is gone off him now. he looks like your city again, sharpened and steady.

“hey,” he says, voice under the lobby noise. he takes you in top to bottom like he’s memorizing a new warmup for you. the pause is brief and not brief at all. his mouth tilts. “those pants,” he says, blunt as always, “make your ass look good.”

your brain short circuits for a heartbeat. heat spikes up your neck. you laugh because your body needs somewhere to put it. “sanemi.” he doesn’t blink. a slow half-grin, no apology in it. “what. you asked for honesty the first week.” his gaze drifts and returns, heavier now, but his tone stays even. “i’m being honest.”

“noted,” you manage, smoothing a palm down the thigh that suddenly feels like it belongs to a different person. “you look… handsome.”

his brow ticks like you surprised him and pleased him in the same second. he pretends to study the showtimes as if they are complex math. “figured the jacket would keep me from freezing to death.”

“smart,” you say, then ruin it by adding, “it looks really good on you,” and the word really sticks like caramel.

he cuts his eyes back to you and that almost-smile lives a little longer. “popcorn?” he asks. “large. i’ll help so you don’t drown in it.”

you nod, too quick. the cashier slides a tub across, hot and absurd. you both reach at once and your fingers brush, a clean static that snaps up your arm. he pretends it didn’t happen, or maybe he puts it away for later. you can’t tell. you follow him toward the ticket taker, the jacket green bright in your periphery, the theater doors heavy and dark ahead, the cold air curling at your ankles like a cat getting you used to the idea of sitting close.

the auditorium is empty except for the two of you. rows of dark seats like ribs, screen washed pale with trailers. the air is cold enough to make your ankles goosebump under your sweatpants. he chooses the back middle like a little kid, drops into the seat with his knees wide and the tub of popcorn balanced between you.

the lights fall slow. you trade whispers at first, then normal voices, then laughter that doesn’t have to hide because no one turns to shush you. your shoulders knock once and again. the screen throws blue and then gold across his face, catching in the pale of his eyes so they look almost silver.

“that stunt was fake as hell,” he murmurs during a chase, and you gasp loud on purpose. “excuse me, sir, that was art.”

“that was wires,” he says, stealing a handful of popcorn. a kernel clings to his lip and you try not to stare. you fail. he flicks it away, eyes cutting to you. “what.”

“nothing,” you say, smiling into your drink. “you’ve got opinions.”

“correct ones.”

when the score swells, he leans forward, elbows on knees, absorbed in the movie. you see this, and giggled to yourself, something warm settle in your chest. when the comedy lands, you both giggle like you’re not supposed to, trading lines back and forth, building dumb little riffs that make the scene funnier than it is. when the quiet parts come, he sits back again and you feel the space between your thighs and his go aware. the popcorn tub becomes a negotiation. your fingers brush. once, twice. neither of you move away.

halfway through, a jump scare you absolutely saw coming still gets you. your hand shoots to his forearm before you can think, palm landing on warm muscle and the smooth line of an old scar. he turns his head, not his arm, and the look he gives you is quick and sharp. you whisper, “shut up,” before he can say anything. he huffs a soft laugh that you feel more than hear.

there are moments you forget to watch. his profile is a clean line in the light, the green on his jacket catching when the screen goes bright. he tilts the tub toward you without looking, like he already knows you’re reaching. your thigh touches his for a whole minute and neither of you mention it. your voice gets loud on a joke and he laughs harder just to make it worse. you swat his shoulder. he bumps yours back, gentle, then pretends to be fascinated by the plot again.

near the end, a scene lands that you both love for different reasons. you turn to tell him your reason and he is already turning to tell you his, and your words tangle for a second in the dark like you walked into each other in a doorway. you grin first. he grins back, small and clean, and the world on the screen blurs at the edge until the music pulls you under again.

credits start to crawl. the house lights stay low. neither of you stands right away. he taps the empty tub lightly with a knuckle, like a gavel, and says, “verdict?”

“i loved it,” you say. “even the fake stunt.”

“especially the fake stunt,” he corrects, eyes on you, voice warm with something that wasn’t there when you walked in.

as you both make your way to the front he excuses himself to the bathroom and you hover by the lobby poster wall, reading taglines you already forgot. the theater is mostly empty now; the neon hums, soda fountains hiss, a carpet-stained arcade game blinks like a tired eye. you text him a stupid line about the fake stunt and pocket your phone.

a group of guys spills out of theater three, loud in the careless way. they clock you standing alone and alter course like it’s nothing. one of them grins too wide. another adjusts a cap that doesn’t fit his head. the tallest leans an elbow against the poster frame near your shoulder.

“you here by yourself?” cap asks.

you smile because that’s what you were taught, small and neat, and keep your tone light. “waiting on someone.” — “we can wait with you,” the tall one says, not a question. his friends laugh like they’ve already decided this is charming.

you nod like you’re indulging a bit, eyes skimming the doors, the bathrooms, the concession counter. pulse steady, breath even. you don’t want to make a scene. you don’t want to be rude. you don’t want to be here.

“what’d you see?” wide-grin asks, leaning in too close to read the title off your face.

“the good one,” you say, joking on autopilot. it buys you a sliver of space but not enough.

“we could show you a better one,” cap says, and his laugh is the kind that needs an audience.

“babe,” a voice cuts in, low and near your ear, “you ready to go?”

you don’t have to turn to know it’s him. the guys do. they straighten like a teacher walked in. sanemi steps into the small circle they made around you without touching anyone, jacket still bright white and green under the neon. his eyes aren’t loud. they don’t need to be. he looks at you first.

“yeah,” you say, letting the relief slide into the word like a hand into a pocket. “ready.”

“my bad, man,” tall says, hands up half an inch. “didn’t know she was with you.”

“now you do,” sanemi answers, evenly. he shifts so you’re at his side without making it obvious that he did that on purpose. the group mutters apologies that bump into each other and peel off toward the doors.

the lobby breathes again and you do too. he angles his face down, eyes skimming your expression like he’s evaluating you over something.

“you good?” he asks, softer now. “yeah,” you say, and it’s mostly true. “thanks.” his jaw works once like he’s swallowing something sharp. “don’t thank me.” then his voice tips wry to lighten it. “c’mon. before i start a fight.”

you fall into step beside him, tiny umbrella a small weight in your phone, the arcade game’s tired blinking chasing you both toward the night air and the parking lot glow where the world widens out again

—

a few weeks slide by like good reps. you get bolder without announcing it. leggings that hug a little closer, tops that skim your waist instead of hiding it. nothing loud. just small edits you pretend are for comfort. he never comments right away. he adjusts your stance, counts your seconds, taps two fingers at your hip to keep your line. later, when you’re wiping down a bench, he says it as you barely catch it. “--color suits you.” it lands warmer than it should.

photos trade places in your phones. you send a mirror snap before a session, he'll either heart it or leave you on read. later he replies with the gym’s empty morning in cool blue light, a stack of plates, his hand in frame like an accident. you send a coffee pic that catches your mouth at the edge. he sends his lunch with an aggressive amount of protein.

you: hows work

sanemi: its boring. i rather kms

you: rude. meet me after for not-rude food

sanemi: ohagi cart then. seven thirty

dinners start sneaking into the schedule. ohagi cart first, sweet rice and red bean pressed into neat shapes, powdered fingers and soft bites you trade without thinking. a week later it’s tacos from a truck where the lime juice runs down your wrists and he watches you laugh at yourself before handing you a napkin with the quiet he uses to rack weights. another night it’s a diner where the waitress calls you both sweetie and he pretends not to hear it while you steal his fries.

at the gym the space between you keeps learning you. when you squat, he no longer hovers at the edge of reach. he spots you close and his palm skims your ribs when you wobble and neither of you flinch. when you plank, he drops beside you and counts too slowly on purpose. you kick his ankle. he'll feign like it hurts him until you actually push him down.

plans start sounding less like errands. a night market. a bookstore with a cat that ignores both of you. a late grocery run where he carries the heavy bag without asking and you bother him about which protein drinks he liked (again). a walk after one session where you circle the block twice because neither of you says goodbye fast enough and the air feels good.

on a thursday he texts a photo of his brother pulling a deadlift in their garage, sneakers crooked, wrist wrapped, pride loud in the background you can’t see. kid’s getting there. you send back a voice note cheering a soft 'go genya!!'. he writes: he said thanks and shut up and you can hear his laugh in the words.

by the time the month flips, your camera roll is a map of where you’ve been together without trying to name it. bowls and tickets and streetlights on wet pavement. his jacket green and white in three different images. your hand on a paper cup with his thumb barely in frame like he forgot to get out of the way again. the texts sit under it all.

sanemi: saturday dinner. real one. sit-down. no truck

you: i have a dress that you may like

sanemi: try it

you look at your closet like it is a starting line and feel the same sweet, light dizziness you felt in a dark theater when a fake stunt made him speak and your hand found his arm.

—

and so saturday comes.

you text him your address and he texts back a simple got it that feels bigger than it reads. maybe you're just so nervous. hes sexy. hes hot. he flirts with you. he has the same interest as you. the afternoon stretches slow. you shower, lotion, pick a dress you haven’t had an excuse to wear—soft, easy to sit in, skims your waist, falls sweet over your hips. nothing loud. a little gloss. the good perfume, one spritz at the back of your neck because you’re not trying too hard, except you are. you layer it with a lotion on your elbow and shoulder.

you stand in your entryway pretending to look for your keys when the knock comes. two taps. your stomach drops and then lifts instantaneously.

when you open the door, he goes completely still.

he had said he’d keep it simple—dark tee, black jeans, jacket slung over his forearm, clean sneakers—but the look on his face knocks the breath out of you harder than any set. his eyes sweep once, slow, and catch. the quiet whistles out of him.

“damn,” he says, honest as a slap. “those pants are no match.” his mouth crooks, praised and a little wrecked. “you look—” he huffs a laugh at himself, shakes his head like words are heavy. “yeah. you look like that.”

you blush so hot your ears go fizzy. you make a sound that isn’t a word and try to hide it as a laugh. “oh my god. stop,” you say, which is the worst lie you’ve told today.

“why would i do that,” he asks, voice gone quieter. he reaches, slow enough for you to step back if you want. but you don’t. his fingers find your hand, warm and sure, and he lifts it. he bends and presses his mouth to your knuckles—light, careful, lazy. so achingly tender.

your heart bangs against your ribs hard enough to make you sway. fuck.

his eyes flick up while his mouth is still close to your skin, like he wants to check if you’re breathing. you are. barely. he straightens, still holding your hand for a beat longer than necessary, thumb brushing once at the base of your fingers in a touch so small it feels enormous.

“ready?” he asks, rougher now, like that single kiss gave way to something tender and he’s pretending it didn’t.

“yeah,” you say, except your voice comes out thinner and sweeter than usual, the kind you don’t hear yourself use. you grab your keys, phone, the tiny umbrella tucked into your case flashing purple for luck. you lock the door with your free hand, and he is still there, broad in your narrow hallway, smelling clean and warm, looking at you like you’ve already stepped into a different kind of night.

“elevator or stairs?” he asks, teasing light.

“whichever gets us out there faster,” you say, and your pulse answers the question for you while he guides you toward the hall, your fingers still tingling where his mouth had been, the evening opening in front of you like a door that’s finally, finally been unlocked

he opens the passenger door for you. the car smells faintly like clean soap and something warm you can’t place. rock hums low from the radio, guitar a lazy snarl under the dashboard lights. he waits until your seatbelt clicks, then rounds to his side and slides in, palm easy on the wheel.

“too loud?” he asks, already dialing the volume down so the music settles into thebackground. “it’s good,” you say, looking out at the streetlights smearing the glass. “what is it.” — “old playlist,” he says. “stuff that didn’t get annoying.” a small glance over, a quick sweep that lands and lingers. “you look good.”

you pretend to study the passing storefronts so your mouth doesn’t give you away. “you already said.”

“well, saying again,” he answers, softer now, like the song asked him to.

you talk about nothing and everything again. the neighbor’s dog that ran into the fire hydrant. his brother’s latest deadlift number. which leggings would look good on you. best yelp restaurant. best movie, you name it.

he turns down a side street you don’t usually take. the buildings go newer, shinier, the sidewalks wider. a line of people waits outside a place with soft gold letters and a host stand that looks like a jewelry counter. your brows jump.

“we’re not going there,” you say, respectful disbelief in your voice. “that place is booked out for the year.”

he pulls right up to the curb, puts the car in park, and cuts the engine. your eyes widen. "how in the hell did you manage to snag a spot?"--- “oh shut up,” he says, laughing, the sound low and pleased. “my friend’s the chef.”

you turn to him too fast and then slower because you’re trying to be a person. “you have a friend who can do this.”

“kyojuro,” he says,. “he loves food. he got a michelin star recently.” he slides out, comes around, and opens your door again. “come on. before he decides we didn’t end up coming.”

the night air is soft on your knees as you step out. inside the restaurant, light pours like honey, quiet voices layered with the soft clink of glass. the host recognizes him and smiles like you’re expected. sanemi rests a hand at the small of your back for just a second as you follow, heat through fabric, a guide more than a claim. your heart does its stupid sprint anyway.

“reservation for shinazugawa,” he says. the words fit his mouth like a suit. the host beams and gestures you down a private room for 2. you sit. he sits. the rock from the car still ghosts your ears, and over it you can hear the quiet rush of your own pulse meeting the hum of a room that has already decided tonight is going to be good.

the host slides a door open and the city noise flattens to a soft hum behind glass. the room is small and warm, a low table washed in honey light, two settings, linen that feels like you were one of the 1%. you sit across from each other at first and then drift closer by instinct, chairs angled, knees almost friendly under the table.

there’s a single candle that smells like rice steam and cedar. condensation pearls on a carafe of water. the menus are weighty, thick paper that makes a clean sound when you lift the corner. you lean in to share one, shoulders touching for a beat before either of you pretends to adjust.

“it’s a set,” he murmurs, chin tipping toward the page. “chef changes pieces every week.” his voice has that low glide it gets when he actually likes something.

“what’s calling you,” you ask, and your breath stirs the edge of the menu where his fingers rest. his hands look different here, calmer. he traces a line down the descriptions like he is already tasting them.

“this,” he says, tapping a course that mentions smoke and stone. “and the cold to hot one.” he glances at you. “you like citrus, right.” you nod

the server appears and disappears. warm towel, cool towel, a shy little dish of toasted sesame to crush between your fingers. you both roll the scent over your mouths and grin. when the server asks about allergies, he lets you answer first and you feel him listen.

“we’ll do the tasting,” he says, after, casual like he didn’t just buy you a tiny world. “and whatever pairing is not annoying.”

“tea,” you suggest. “or something floral. nothing that fights.”

“tea,” he decides, quick. his knee bumps yours under the table and neither of you move it.

you talk while the first small thing is being built somewhere out of sight. not about work. not about macros. little things. his little brother. your tiktok you sent him. the way the candle smells like your grandmother’s kitchen when winter was loud. he watches your mouth while you speak and you pretend you don’t notice because it makes your tongue clumsy.

“you nervous,” he asks “a little,” you tell him. “but in a good way.”

the door slides open again and the first plates arrive like punctuation. your shoulders are still angled together, the menu still open and shared beside your wrists, the candle throwing soft gold at the inside of his throat, and the night steadies itself around this small table where everything feels a little heightened and a little easy at the same time

“go ahead,” he says, chin tipping, voice softer for the small room. you lift one of the bites with its tiny spoon and hold it up without thinking, angled toward him. the light is dim enough that the space between you feels private, face to face but blurred at the edges.

he leans in. his mouth closes around the spoon with a quiet clink, careful, the heat of his breath warming the space between your fingers and the handle. when you pull back, his breath brushes your knuckle. he swallows, eyes on yours like he’s waiting to see if you’ll spook.

“good?” you whisper.

“yeah,” he says, low. “give me yours.” it comes out like a tease and a test. you take the second bite for yourself, citrus bright and a little smoky, and your eyes flutter without permission. his mouth tilts like he caught it. he takes the tiny spoon from your fingers then, turns the next plate, and holds one up for you the same way. you lean in because now it’s your turn.

the server slips out as quietly as they came. the candle leans, the room breathes, and the two of you sit a little closer than before, sharing plates and the small, charged hush that comes from talking softer than you need to.

another plate arrives built for fingers. neat bites lined up. you pick one up and raise a brow. “careful,” you murmur, because it glistens. “messy.”

“i can take it,” he says, which is not subtle, and his eyes say he knows it isn’t. you feed him again. he opens for you, slow, and when he closes down this time the pad of his tongue skims the tip of your finger to catch a run of sauce. it is quick and it is not an accident. heat pricks the back of your neck.

“good?” you ask, pretending your breath is normal.

his gaze flickers to your mouth. “yeah.” his voice roughens. “your turn.”

he brings a bite to your lips and holds it steady, patient. you lean in, teeth catching, and the edge slips. you steady it with a hand around his wrist, and when you lick a smear of citrus from the side, your lips kiss the inside of his thumb. the touch is light, honey-sweet. his inhale stutters, barely there, but you feel it in the place where your fingers circle him.

“sorry,” you whisper, not sorry at all.

“don’t be,” he says, and bites down softly on his bottom lip like he’s keeping something inside. you watch the imprint bloom and your stomach drops a floor.

he feeds you another. you take it cleaner and still manage to chase a glossed edge with the tip of your tongue because now it’s a game. his hand doesn’t move. the corner of his mouth does. you’re close enough to see the pale scar that interrupts his upper lip and the faint, unfair pink of it when he relaxes.

“you always this neat,” he asks under his breath.

“no,” you say, and that’s the truth. your thumb glides over a stray grain of salt at his knuckle. “you’re making me try.”

he huffs, not a laugh, a sound lower. “keep trying.” his fingers brush your wrist when he passes you the next piece.

a softer course lands, something you’re meant to break together. you both reach, hands overlapping, and the delicate shell snaps with a sweet crack. you look up out of reflex, and he is already looking, eyes half-lidded like he’s watching heat rise. you thumb a gloss of filling from the corner of your mouth and he tracks the motion, tongue darting out to wet his own bottom lip like his body answered a question you hadn’t asked yet.

“you missed a spot,” he says, voice thinner than before. he leans in and lifts his napkin, clean and careful, swiping the edge of your lip. he doesn’t have to use his thumb after. but he does. his skin is warm, a touch that lasts exactly one heart count longer than it needs to. you catch the pad of it in a quick kiss before you can stop yourself.

he stills. then breathes out through his nose, slow, “tea?” you say, too lightly, because your pulse is loud. “before i start committing crimes.”

he nods for tea and the room resets, steam curling like breath. the plates get smaller, sweeter. you steal a sugared berry with your fingers and hold it out. he leans in and takes it slow, teeth grazing your skin, tongue chasing a grain of sugar.

“careful,” you murmur. “sticky.”

“i like sticky,” he says, quiet and filthy. his eyes don’t leave your mouth. you laugh to break it and don’t break it at all. the server glides in and out, refilling water, whisking matcha. you trade one more bite and your lips brush the pad of his thumb again. this time he doesn’t pretend it’s an accident.

“you missed,” he says, voice almost a breath, and brings his thumb to your bottom lip to show you where. you close around it without thinking, a press, a hum, nothing polite. his breath skates across your cheekbone.

“sanemi,” you warn, but it’s not a warning and both of you know it.

he leans in like the candle pulled him. his shoulder nudges yours, his knee presses to the side of your thigh under the table. his mouth finds the shell of your ear where the perfume sits warm. “keep doing that,” he whispers, words a scrape that sinks straight down your spine, “and i’m going to take you home and make you say please.”

your chest squeezes. your pulse trips hard enough to send a ripple through the tea. you set the cup down before you wear it. he doesn’t move away. you can feel the smile in his voice when he adds, softer, “say you understand.”

“i understand,” you breathe, throat a little raw.

he sits back like he just finished a set, satisfied. “good,” he says, normal volume again, eyes bright. “finish your tea.”

and you do

you drain the last of the tea because he told you to. the server ghosts in with a leather folder, and he’s already tucking his card inside before you can reach. you stand; the room tilts a degree warmer; the candle breath lingers on your clothes.

the sliding door opens to a corridor hushed and plush underfoot. the city sits outside the glass like a quiet aquarium. you’re aware of everything at once—your palms a little damp, the soft cling of your dress at the back of your knees, the thrum low in your belly that makes you feel both light and clumsy. he walks half a step closer than necessary, hand on the small of your back.

turning the corner, you almost run into him—bright hair, broad grin, warmth that arrives before the man does. “sanemi!” kyojuro booms, voice a sunburst. his presence fills the hall like incense.

sanemi’s mouth tilts. “oi. working, are you?” kyojuro’s eyes sweep once, landing on you with instant curiosity and something gentler under it. before he can aim a question, sanemi says it clean, no hesitation: “this is my date.”

you feel the word land in your body like a stone dropped into water—shock, rings, a settling you didn’t realize you were waiting for. kyojuro goes stunned-bright, then delighted. he claps sanemi on the back hard enough to make the jacket shift. “excellent! proud of you!” it’s too loud. he turns to you, softer. “we’ll take good care of you any time you’re here.”

heat climbs your throat; you smile because anything else would fall apart. “thank you,” you manage. “back to the fires!” kyojuro announces, already backing toward the kitchen door like he's guy fieri. he throws you both one more beam of approval and vanishes in a wash of light and stainless noise.

the hall goes quiet again. your pulse does not. sanemi angles closer, hand hovering at the small of your back once more before settling there for one steady second, warm through the fabric. “c’mon,” he says, low, guiding you toward the lobby. the carpet’s nap strokes your ankles, the perfume of cedar and char trails after you, the city hums louder the nearer you get to the door. you are acutely aware of your breathing, of the way your thighs brush when you walk, of the tiny tremor hiding in your fingers when you hook them into his elbow for balance you don’t actually need. he glances down at that—at you—and something satisfied sparks in his eyes like he’s reading every line your body is writing.

the host nods you past with a knowing smile. outside the glass the night is slick and soft, all reflections and tail lights, the kind of air that cools your skin and does nothing for the heat underneath. he holds the door; the city exhales on your face; your heartbeat answers it, quick and useless and wanting

the sidewalk is washed in soft gold. families drift past with paper bags and strollers, couples fold into each other, the whole street humming like a warm hive. you and him walk close, your reflections trailing in the restaurant windows. the night air cools your cheeks and does nothing for the heat in your chest. you can feel your pulse in your wrists, in your mouth, in the place where his hand might land if he reached.

his car waits under a halo of a streetlamp. he opens the passenger door and the dome light blooms pale. you move to sit, then his fingers catch lightly at your wrist and guide you back up. a small tug, steady and sure. time slips thin for a second.

“hey,” he says, quietly. his eyes search your face and then soften into a decision. you feel it before it happens.

he leans in and kisses you.

it is careful and deepening at the edges. his mouth is warm and sure, tasting faintly of tea and sugar, the breath between you sweet and steady. your hands find his jacket without thinking. his free hand slides to your waist, a fit like it was always supposed to be there, fingers spanning the fabric, holding and not holding at once.

your heart goes wild. a quick patter against his chest when you lean closer, the drum of it echoing in your throat. you feel his answer, the rhythm under your palms, steadier but no less loud. the street keeps moving around you and somehow it all dims to the circle of light and the scent of cologne and your perfume waking up on your skin.

he breaks just enough to breathe, lips still close to yours, smile pressed small and crooked. “been wanting to do that all night,” he admits, almost a whisper. “me too,” you say, and it sounds like a promise.

he kisses you again, softer. when he draws back this time, his forehead rests against yours for a beat. you can feel the hitch of his breath and the tiny laugh caught in it like you surprised him with your yes.

“get in,” he murmurs, voice low, thumb tracing a slow line at your waist that makes your knees feel jelly. “before i keep you standing here and the families call security.”

you slide into the seat with your pulse still bright in your ears. he closes the door gently, the glass catching a last look at his mouth as he rounds the hood. when he settles behind the wheel, you both sit in the soft quiet for a half second, smiling.

streetlight maps flicker across the windshield as he pulls away from the curb. the radio murmurs low. your mouth still tastes like him and sugar. he drives one-handed for a block, the other resting easy on the console like it’s waiting.

“what do you want to do,” he asks, not casual exactly, more like he’s lining up a lift and wants your count. his eyes stay on the road. you can feel him listening.

you breathe out a laugh that shakes a little. “we could go to yours,” you say, brave before you can talk yourself out of it. “or mine.” a beat. “i’m good with either.”

his mouth tips, pleased and a little undone. “i’d love to.” then, like he is choosing the simplest path, “come to mine.”

the light turns green. his hand leaves the console and lands on your thigh, warm through the dress, fingers spreading like he is checking form. he doesn’t look away from the road when he says it. “pretty sure i’ve hinted it already,” his thumb tracing a small arc that makes your breath catch, “but i’m into you.”

your pulse goes bright. “yeah?” it comes out softer than you planned.

“yeah.” his grip is gentle, sure. “been into you since you told me that stunt was art.” a quick grin. “and since before that.”

you lay your hand over his, press him closer. the city slides by in little squares of light. your knee leans into his fingers. his thumb keeps that steady, absentminded stroke like he’s memorizing you for later.

—

he pulls into a marked spot like he’s done it a thousand times, kills the engine, and your breath has nowhere to hide. outside, the lot is quiet, lights turning the pavement soft gold. he gets out first and is already opening the passenger door by the time you reach for the handle. that little care undoes you more than the kiss did.

his hand finds yours for the walk in. the building smells faintly like laundry and rain. the elevator hums. your fingers stay laced until he needs them to punch his floor and then he takes them back like he didn’t want to let go. at his door he keys in, shoulder easy, and the lock clicks. the place opens warm. a candle that smells like cedar and soap, a couch that has clearly held him after long days, a tidy stack of weights near a bookshelf like he can’t help himself. framed photos on a low console: his brother grinning with a crooked barbell, a group shot of loud men at a beach, one older photo of a woman smiling with her hand on his shoulder. throw pillows in a polite pattern. a small fern that is thriving against all odds.

“it’s nice,” you say, stepping out of your shoes at the entry. the rug is soft. your toes thank you.

he toes his sneakers off beside yours, shrugs out of his jacket, and drapes it over a chair. there’s a tiny pink floral embroidery on one of the pillows that gives the game away and you bite a grin.

“your mom helped,” you tease, soft so it lands kind.

he snorts, caught. “yeah yeah. i told her it sucked and kept it anyway.” a hand to the back of his neck, sheepish in a way you don’t get to see at the gym. “she brought a box and messed with it till it looks like this. i went out when she did it.”

“she did good,” you say, running a finger over the neat stitch on the pillow. “don’t tell her i said that. she’ll get ideas.”

“too late,” he says, but he’s smiling. “water? tea? something cold?”

“water’s good,” you say, taking in the tiny details while he moves in the kitchen. the quiet hum of the fridge. the way he opens cabinets without looking. the soft slide of a drawer. your heart finally starts to slow and then spikes again when he comes back, two glasses in one hand, the other landing with easy familiarity at the small of your back as he guides you toward the couch.

you sip water because your mouth forgot how to be normal. he tips his glass toward yours in a quiet clink and settles deeper, arm along the back of the couch, wrist a breath from your shoulder.

“so… kyojuro,” you start, curiosity finally catching up. “what’s his deal besides being the human version of a sunrise.”

sanemi huffs, fond despite himself. “childhood friend. comes from money. loud as hell. half deaf from being an idiot around fireworks as a kid.” his mouth kicks up. “chef now. real good.”

“that tracks,” you say, smiling into the rim of your glass. “he looked proud.”

“he was prouder of the food,” sanemi mutters, then relents with a shrug. “yeah. he’s… good people.”

you ask little things and he indulges you, the rough edges of his voice going rounded while he talks: summer bikes, scraped knees, stealing fruit from a neighbor’s tree, getting caught, getting fed anyway. you listen, turned toward him without noticing, knee drawing up onto the cushion, dress slipping warm over your thigh. somewhere in the middle of a story about a busted car stereo and a beach, you realize you’ve both drifted closer, easy as breathing.

when the story runs out, the silence that lands isn’t empty. his arm is still along the couch back, hand near your shoulder. your knee touches his. it’s a soft, steady contact that feels like a question mostly answered.

you glance at his mouth. he sees it. the corner of his lip pulls slow, pleased, dangerous. he leans in a fraction, breath skimming your cheek. “what game are we playing?” he asks, low, amused, like he already knows and wants you to say it anyway.

your heart jumps. “i—” you whisper. he closes the last inch and kisses you, unhurried but sure, mouth fitting yours like it remembered how from the car and wanted more. his hand slides from the couch to cradle the side of your neck, thumb a slow stroke under your jaw that asks and answers at the same time. you make a sound you didn’t plan. he swallows.

when he breaks for breath, he stays close, forehead tipping to yours. “again?” he murmurs, like he’s checking your form and your pulse at once. “again,” you breathe.

his thumb still strokes under your jaw when he pulls back from your mouth, just enough to look at you. the lamp light catches his eyes in that way that always makes you forget to breathe. he’s close enough that you can taste his words when he says them.

“you know how hard it was not to drag you out of that restaurant,” he mutters, like a confession slipped raw. “that dress—” his eyes travel down and back up slow, purposeful, “—was unfair. had me chewin’ my cheek just to keep my hands still.”

you start to laugh, nervous, but he tilts your chin higher and his smile cuts sharp. “don’t laugh. i mean it. you walked in looking like you knew i’d lose my head over you.”

your skin heats all the way down your throat. “i didn’t—”

“yeah, you did,” he interrupts softly, but there’s no sting in it. “and you were right.” he kisses you again, quick, then pulls back before you can chase him. “you’re driving me crazy.”

his hand leaves your jaw, drifts down the line of your throat, and rests heavy but careful over your sternum, right where your heart drums. “hear that? i put that there. that’s mine tonight.”

he pauses then, eyes flicking back up to yours, serious under all the roughness. “can i say what i want? call you what i want? i’ll stop if you don’t like it.”

your breath catches. “yes,” you whisper, shaky but sure. “i want you to.”

the crooked grin that breaks over his mouth looks half-wild, half-relieved. he leans in close again, his voice right at your ear, low and burning. “good girl.”

your whole body goes taut, your fingers fisting in his shirt before you can think better of it.

he feels it. he hears it. his laugh is a rumble against your jaw, not mocking, just thrilled. “yeah. that. i could get drunk off that sound.”

he kisses the side of your throat, not biting, just pressing his mouth there, marking his spot. “you make me want to ruin every other dress you own,” he mumbles, his restraint clear in how slowly his hands are moving, every touch placed, nothing rushed.

his mouth lingers at your throat, lips brushing your pulse like he’s testing how fast it can go. you tip your head back, helpless, and that’s when his hands shift—one firm at your hip, the other sliding beneath your knees.

“up,” he says, almost a growl, and before you can answer he’s lifting you. it’s so easy for him it makes your chest cave in. your gasp breaks against his shoulder as your arms instinctively loop around his neck.

“you weigh nothing,” he mutters into your hair, like he’s scolding you and worshipping you in the same breath. “you think i don’t notice how light you are in my arms? i could carry you like this all night.”

you press your face against his collarbone, dizzy from the steadiness of his stride as he walks you down the short hall. the world tilts with the sway of each step, your heart hammering in sync with his.

he nudges his bedroom door open with his foot, the faint smell of a masculine lotion trailing in. the bed is wide, sheets dark and smoothed, a single pillow crooked from earlier. he lowers you onto it with deliberate care, like setting something precious down.

but he doesn’t climb on top of you yet. he stays standing, fingers hooked at his waistband, eyes roaming every inch of you laid out in the dress he’s been thinking about since dinner. the look on his face is more sinful than hungry—though the hunger is there, tight at the corners of his mouth.

“you don’t even know,” he says, voice low, roughened. “you don’t know what you did to me in that dress. had me bitin’ my tongue all night just so i wouldn’t embarrass myself.”

his hand drags over his jaw, frustrated and awed at once. then he catches your gaze again, sharp and direct. “say it back,” he tells you, softer now. “tell me you knew what you were doing.”

your lips part, breath shaky. “i… might’ve known,” you admit.

he exhales like that was the only answer he wanted. then finally, finally, he lowers onto the bed, bracing on one arm beside your head, the other hand cupping your cheek. “good girl,” he whispers again, kissing you slow, the praise heavy and molten between every press of his mouth.

he props himself above you, thumb dragging slow over the neckline, tugging the fabric just enough to make you feel the stretch. his eyes burn over every inch the dress clings to.

“you know what’s killing me?” he rasps, nose brushing your temple as his voice drops into your skin. “this—” his fingers pinch a fold at your shoulder strap, “—this damn dress. the way it hugs you. the way you sat across from me in that little booth like you didn’t notice me staring at every inch of you.”

your breath stutters when he trails his hand lower, palm flattening over your waist. “you wore it knowing i’d lose it, didn’t you,” he pushes, mouth brushing the corner of your lips.

you shake your head, trying for denial, but it comes out weak. “i didn’t—”

“liar,” he murmurs, grinning against your mouth, hungry but patient. “don’t care. i love it. love the way you look in it. love the way you make me want to tear it off.”

his hands shift lower, tugging at the hem. you catch his wrists, trying to slow him, breathless. “sanemi—”

he freezes for a beat, watching your face, eyes sharp. “you fighting me?” he asks, and the grin that spreads is sharp-edged, full of thrill. “you think that’s gonna stop me?”

you try to hold your ground, pushing lightly at his forearms. he doesn’t push harder—he waits, shoulders taut, eyes fixed on yours.

“every time you push back,” he growls, voice shaking with control, “you just make me want you more.”

his mouth crashes back onto yours, kiss deeper now, almost ragged. your grip on his arms falters, melts, and he uses the chance to work the dress higher, inch by inch, whispering between kisses: “so beautiful. every damn part of you. i’ll say it a hundred times if i have to.”

the fabric slides, slow, over your hips, your ribs, your shoulders—each inch leaving you more undone. he pulls back just enough to watch, lavender eyes molten as the straps slip down your arms.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, low and wrecked. “let me see you..”

he finally dips lower, tongue dragging a deliberate stripe just shy of your center, and your whole body jolts. he laughs under his breath, the sound low and smug against your skin. “fuck, you’re jumpy,” he mutters, kissing the spot he just teased. “gonna make a mess on my face before i’ve even started.”

his thumbs press deeper into your hips, steadying you as he shifts closer, broad shoulders clasped against your thighs until you can’t close them even if you wanted to. he licks you slow, one long stroke that makes your head tip back, and then he does it again, firmer, savoring the way you gasp for him.

“sweet,” he groans, voice breaking against you. “tastes even better than i thought you would.”

your hand knots in his hair, tugging without meaning to, and instead of pulling back he moans into you, the vibration running straight through your belly. the sound tears a helpless whimper from you and he grins, feral and pleased.

“that’s it,” he says, nose bumping your clit as he speaks, hot breath spilling over you. “keep talkin’ to me like that. let me hear every fuckin’ sound.”

his mouth closes around your clit in a sudden, wet pull, and your hips buck before you can stop them. he pins you down with a growl, one hand leaving your hip just long enough to slide under, dragging you closer to his mouth like he can’t get enough. his tongue circles tight and fast, then slows, then speeds again, unpredictable and devastating.

you’re babbling his name now, thighs trembling against his jaw, but he just eats it up, literally, groaning like your arousal is feeding him. “yeah, pretty,” he praises, voice ragged, tongue pressing harder. “so fuckin’ good for me. don’t stop—give me all of it.”

your back arches off the seat, body strung taut as the tension spirals higher and higher, and he doesn’t let up. doesn’t give you an inch. his mouth is locked on you, relentless, until you’re shaking, crying out brokenly, and the orgasm rips through you so hard it leaves you clinging to his hair, thighs closing around his ears.

he stays with you, licking you through it, groaning at every shudder like it’s his own pleasure. when you finally sag back, gasping, he pulls away just enough to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning up at you with wild, hazy eyes.

“fuck,” he says, voice rough, lips shining. “look at you. prettiest fuckin’ thing i’ve ever seen.”

he drags his mouth higher, leaving hot, messy kisses up your belly, over the fabric of your dress still bunched at your waist. his hand stays between your legs, two fingers stroking lazy, steady circles through your slick folds until your hips are jerking against his palm. “you’re fuckin’ soaked,” he mutters against your ribs, tongue flicking over your skin before he bites. “all that just from my mouth? you’ve been dying for me to ruin you, huh.”

you whimper, the sound spilling out before you can stop it, and his grin sharpens against your skin. he slides a finger inside you, slow but unrelenting, watching your face as you clutch at his shoulders.

“hear that?” he asks, voice low, ear tilted toward the obscene sound of your body taking him in. “tight little cunt begging for more.” another finger joins the first and you gasp, back arching. he kisses your sternum, then your collarbone, dragging his teeth along the line.

“sanemi—” his name cracks on your tongue, and he laughs, curling his fingers until you’re clenching down so hard your thighs tremble.

“say it again,” he orders, fucking you slow with his hand. “say my fuckin’ name when you fall apart.” you moan it for him, shameless now, hips grinding into his hand as his mouth climbs higher, finally catching yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and heat, nothing sweet about it.

he breaks it only to murmur against your lips, rough and sure, “i like things rough. i’m gonna fuck you till your legs give out. you think you can handle that?” your whole body shudders, and the yes that comes out is a breathless moan, your walls clenching tight around his fingers.

“good girl,” he growls. his mouth is still on yours, hot and hungry, when he pulls back just enough to mutter, “been watchin’ you at the gym, y’know. all that work you’ve been puttin’ in.” his fingers never stop moving inside you, dragging slick and tight, thumb teasing over your clit until you’re whimpering against him. “fuckin’ proud of you. strong, pretty thing… look at you now.”

he shifts back, yanks his shirt over his head in one rough motion, tossing it aside. your eyes can’t help but roam — broad shoulders, scars cutting across muscle, chest rising hard and fast with every breath. he smirks when he sees the way you’re staring, veins standing out down his arms as he hooks his thumb into the waistband of his joggers.

“c’mon,” he says, voice rough, dragging the fabric down just enough to free his cock. thick, flushed, already heavy in his hand. he strokes once, lazy, then grabs your wrist and brings your palm to him. “you worked for this too. go on. feel how bad you got me.”

your fingers curl instinctively, wrapping around him, and the hiss that leaves his throat is filthy. you stroke him, slow, testing, and your lips part as the reality of his size sets in.

“sanemi… you’re huge,” you breathe, awe and heat tangled in your voice. “i didn’t think—” he cuts you off with a sharp grin, hand covering yours, guiding your strokes tighter, faster. “yeah? well, it’s all yours. every fuckin’ inch.” his forehead tips to yours, his voice dropping lower, rougher. “use it how you like. i’ll give it to you however you want it.”

your thumb swipes over the leaking tip and he groans, hips twitching against your grip, eyes fluttering closed. “fuck—just like that. strong hands. knew you’d look good strokin’ me off.”

the way he praises you — raw, unfiltered — makes your belly clench, heat pooling low and heavy, the thought of what comes next making you wetter around nothing. your hand works him slow at first, testing his weight, then faster when his hips twitch and his breath turns ragged. his cock is hot and heavy in your palm, veins thick under your grip, precum already slicking your fingers. every time your thumb circles the head he groans low, the sound punching out of him like he couldn’t hold it in if he tried.

“fuck, you’re good at that,” he pants, head tipping back, jaw tight. “look at you—my strong little slut jerkin’ me off like you own it.”

the praise makes your thighs clench, and before you even realize it, you’re leaning down, lips parting, the taste of salt and heat already on your tongue. you press a messy kiss to the tip, licking the bead of precum from him, and his whole body jolts.

“shit,” he groans, fist clenching in the fabric bunched at your waist. “you tryna kill me? fuckin’ knew you’d be filthy for me.”

you take him in deeper, your spit mixing with the slick already there, and the wet sounds echo loud in the room. his hand fists in your hair, just holding, eyes glued to the way your lips stretch around him.

you gag once when he hits the back of your throat, and the noise makes his hips buck. “yeah, that’s it. fuck—messy little thing, droolin’ all over me. look so good with my cock down your throat.”

spit dribbles down your chin, coating your hand as you stroke what you can’t fit, pumping him in time with the way you swallow around him. the gurgling sounds fill the air, obscene, and he’s watching every second, chest heaving, abs tight.

“good slut,” he rasps, hips rolling shallow into your mouth. “makin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind. keep goin’, pretty. don’t stop.”

his thighs tense under your hands, his whole body writhing with every wet glide of your mouth. eyes watering, spit stringing from your lips when you pull back to breathe. he groans at the sight, yanking you back down, voice breaking.

“fuck—look at this mess you’re makin’.”

his grip tightens in your hair, knuckles white, eyes blown wide as he stares down at you. his voice comes out shredded, almost a plea.

“can i—” his chest heaves, words catching on a groan, “—can i fuck your throat?”

your stomach flips, heat crawling up your spine, and you nod fast, saliva still dripping down your chin. your voice is a whisper against the wet head of his cock. “yes. fuck—yes, sanemi. do it.”

his jaw locks, pupils blown, like he’s barely hanging on. “good girl,” he rasps, thumb stroking over your cheek before he angles your face up. “open wide for me.”

you do, lips stretched, tongue out, thankful to the gods your uvula was removed years ago because the second he pushes forward, thick and heavy, he sinks all the way in. there’s no gag, just the stretch, the slick slide, and the obscene sound of him burying himself in your throat.

he groans like it’s breaking him, head thrown back, every muscle in his chest and stomach tightening. “fuck—holy shit. you’re takin’ me so deep. throat’s squeezin’ me like you were made for it.”

his hips start moving, shallow at first, then harder, fucking your mouth with sharp, desperate thrusts. each time his cock drags out and pushes back in, your spit strings and gurgles, loud and messy, coating your chin and soaking down his length.

your hands clutch at his thighs, nails digging into hard muscle, and the sight of you—tearstreaked, spit-drunk, lips swollen around him—makes his moans unravel into broken curses. “fuck, fuck, fuck—you look so good like this. my filthy little slut lettin’ me use your throat. jesus, i’m—”

he grips your hair tighter, controlling the pace, hips snapping as his cock slides in and out of the wet heat of your throat, slick and obscene. you moan around him, vibrations making his knees almost buckle.

“shit, keep doin’ that,” he groans, hips stuttering, eyes rolling back. “you’re gonna make me lose it—fuck—you’re perfect, takin’ me all the way down like that.”

your throat spasms around him, swallowing him deeper, and he lets out a guttural moan, hips jerking uncontrollably now, completely unraveling in your mouth.

his moans break ragged as his hips snap one last time, cock buried deep in your throat. hot ropes of cum spill straight down and you swallow fast, messy, grateful you can take it all. he groans at the sight of your throat working for him, curses spilling through clenched teeth, “fuck—swallow it—good girl, take all of it.”

when he finally pulls out, a string of spit and cum stretches from your lips to the flushed head before breaking. you gulp down the last of him and lick your swollen lips, eyes glassy. he stares like you’ve wrecked him, chest heaving, before he’s grabbing you under the arms and hauling you up against his body.

“good fuckin’ girl,” he pants, voice rough with awe. “jesus—you’re perfect.”

you barely have time to catch your breath before he’s lifting you clean off your knees, carrying you like you weigh nothing yet again. his eyes spot the bed and drops down into it with you straddling him, still dizzy from the way he used your throat.

your thighs spread over his, your body pressed tight to his scarred chest. his cock, still wet and heavy, slips right between your slick thighs as you settle down. the head drags against your folds and both of you groan at the same time, the sound filthy, needy.

you grind down instinctively, the length of him sliding along your soaked slit, catching at your clit each pass. his big hands clamp to your ass, guiding you back and forth, groaning every time the tip nudges higher.

“that’s it,” he mutters, forehead pressed to yours, eyes wild and hazy. “fuckin’ knew you’d ride me like this. so wet—already makin’ a mess on my cock.”

you whimper, rocking faster, smearing your slick all over him, thighs trembling as he praises you with every breath.

“look at you,” he groans, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your ear, filthy and sweet all at once. “so pretty sittin’ on me. good girl—my good girl—gonna let me fuck you stupid next, huh?”

his cock keeps slipping and sliding between your thighs, soaking in your heat, teasing your entrance with every pass until you’re clinging to him, flushed and whining into his shoulder while he murmurs every filthy piece of praise he can think of.

“strong. gorgeous. filthy. ” he rocks you harder, voice breaking. “use me. ruin me. take every fuckin’ inch when you’re ready.”

you shift your hips just right, and the next slide of his cock isn’t between your thighs but pushing inside you, stretching you open until you can barely breathe. the sound that rips from your throat is half a moan, half a sob, nails clawing at his shoulders as you sink all the way down.

“fuck,” he groans, head falling back, jaw locked tight. “tight as hell—fuckin’ knew you’d feel like this.”

the stretch has your legs shaking, your body trembling, but the second you adjust, you’re moving, bouncing on his cock fast and sloppy, desperate to chase the ache blooming low in your stomach.

“whoa, whoa—” his hands shoot to your hips, gripping bruises into your skin. “slow the fuck down, sweetheart—you’re gonna make me cum in thirty seconds.”

but you can’t stop, thighs burning as you ride him hard, babbling nonsense into his chest. “s-so big—sanemi—it’s too much—it’s too much—oh my god—”

your voice cracks into broken little sobs, but your body won’t let up, clenching around him, pulling him deeper with every drop of your hips. your head tips back, mouth open and eyes glassy, tears pricking at the corners from the sheer overwhelming stretch.

“shhh,” he rasps, wrapping an arm tight around your waist, pinning you down so he can slow the pace. his thrusts turn harsh, deep, dragging every inch of him inside you slow enough you’re crying with the pressure. “there you go. breathe, baby. let me fuckin’ take care of you.”

he kisses your wet cheek, even as his hips roll up into you with punishing depth. “i know it’s a lot. know you’re stuffed full. look at you—babblin’ like a fucked-out mess already.”

your nails dig into his chest, your voice a wrecked whine against his ear. “sa..nemi—too much—i can’t—”

his growl vibrates against your throat as he sucks a bruise there. “yes you can. you’re takin’ it. takin’ all of me like a good slut. fuckin’ perfect on my cock. cry for me, baby—lemme see how pretty you look when you break.”

his grip on your hips tightens suddenly, and before you can blink he’s got you lifted, flipped, and pinned flat to the pillow below. your back hits the sheets, warm from his body; he stays between your thighs, cock still buried to the hilt, never letting you go. the change in angle has you gasping, legs already trembling.

“mine,” he growls, voice low and hoarse against your ear. “i’m the only man you’ll ever remember bein’ with after i’m done with you.”

he drags your ankles up, sets them high on his shoulders, palms sliding down your calves as he folds you in half beneath him. the stretch makes you whimper, nails raking his arms, but he just shushes you with a rough kiss, tongue sliding against yours as he rolls his hips slow once, then again, deep enough to make you see stars.

“fuck.” he mutters softly, eyes dark as his free hand slides from your knee up over your belly, between your breasts, until it finds your throat. his fingers curl there, not squeezing, just holding, thumb stroking the hollow as if to remind you he’s in control, you’re safe. “right here. i’ve got you.”

then he starts to move, hard and steady, each thrust deeper, driving you into the sheets beneath until you’re clawing at it. the new angle hits that spot over and over, your body jerking with each stroke, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, watching your face, thumb still on your throat. “take it. let me fuck you the way you’ve been beggin’ for. gonna push you past it. gonna make you come again and again ‘til you forget your own name.”

your moans turn to broken little cries, your body arching off the bed, clenching around him so hard it makes him snarl. he keeps going, sweat dripping down his temples, eyes locked on yours as your legs tremble against his shoulders.

“look at you,” he grits out, thrusting harder. “shakin’… still takin’ me. such a good fuckin’ girl. you like this? like me stretchin’ you open, stuffin’ you full?”

you nod, words lost, only a wrecked whimper spilling out. his hand squeezes your throat just enough to make you gasp, thumb tilting your chin so you’re forced to look at him.

“say it,” he demands, hips snapping. “tell me you like it. tell me you’re mine.”

the world goes white at the edges, the deep drag of his cock and the weight of his hand on your throat tipping you into another wave, pleasure so sharp it’s almost pain. he groans, hips grinding deep as your walls flutter around him, and his voice drops to a rough whisper, “good girl… come for me again. i’ve got you. right here.”

he pulls out with a sharp groan, fisting his cock tight and stroking fast until hot ropes spill across your stomach, sticky warmth marking you as his. his chest heaves, muscles trembling as he jerks the last drops out, groaning at the sight of your skin painted with him.

you’re shaking beneath him, eyes glassy, sounds breaking out of you without form. “it feels so good,” you babble, voice torn between moans and whimpers, thighs trembling around nothing. “oh my god—’nemi—it feels so fucking good.”

his expression softens for a blink, pride cutting through the rough haze. he cups your cheek with one messy hand, leaning down to kiss your temple. “my beautiful princess,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice ragged but full of awe. “took me so well. so fuckin’well.”

but he’s not done. before you can catch your breath, he flips you over, pressing you down into the softness of the covers. your ass is lifted in an instant, his hands firm on your hips as he lines himself up again.

“not finished with you yet,” he growls, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds before pushing back inside in one deep, ruthless thrust.

you cry out, body arching, already too sensitive, clenching around him so hard he snarls. his hand tangles in your hair, yanking gently but firmly, pulling your head back until your eyes meet his upside-down.

“look at me,” he orders, voice low and dangerous, hips snapping against you with obscene force. “keep your eyes on me while i fuck you.”

your back bows, every thrust sending shockwaves through your overstimmed body. your arms shake where they brace against the headboard, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as his cock drives deep, relentless.

“good girl,” he pants, yanking your hair a little tighter, curving your spine just the way he wants. “that’s it, princess—let me see your pretty face while i ruin you again.”

the slapping rhythm of his hips against your ass fills the room, his grunts hot in your ear each time he leans closer, every thrust dragging you higher into the haze.

“you feel that?” he growls, his hand sliding from your hair to the base of your throat, holding you upright while he pounds into you. “you’re mine. every inch of this perfect body—mine.”

your voice breaks, pleading and moaning his name, but he only fucks you harder, lips curling into a feral grin as you fall apart for him all over again. your voice is wrecked, breaking on his name with every thrust. “s–sanemi—oh god—” it’s all you can get out, the sound high and desperate, and it makes his hips stutter, his grip tighten on your hair.

“fuck—” his voice is ragged, torn from his chest. “where do you want it, huh? tell me where you want me to cum.”

you try, you really do, but your brain’s gone static, your body trembling too hard around him. the words won’t come, only a whimper, a moan that melts into his name again.

his jaw clenches, eyes squeezing shut as his pace falters, hips grinding deep as he loses it. “shit—too late—”

with a guttural groan, he buries himself to the hilt and cums inside you, hot and thick, filling you until it spills over, his forehead pressed against yours as his body shudders through it.

he doesn’t move right away, just breathes hard, chest heaving against your back, then eases you down, soft now, protective. his hands find your face, tilting you toward him, his lips capturing yours in a messy, desperate kiss.

you kiss him back, clinging, tasting the salt of his sweat and the faint copper of his bitten lip, the world still buzzing around you.

“my girl,” he pants against your mouth, kissing you again, slower this time. “perfect. you’re fuckin’ perfect.”

his thrusts slow, tapering off until he’s just holding you, kissing you like he can’t quite let go. when he finally eases out, his spend slips warm between your thighs, and he presses a palm to your lower belly like he’s grounding you.

you’re trembling under him, voice thin and wrecked when you whisper, “sanemi…”

he kisses your forehead, softer than you thought he was capable of, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “easy,” he murmurs, thumb stroking your cheek. “you did so fuckin’ good for me.”

he sits back, still breathing hard, watching you struggle to settle. the rough edge in his expression fades, something gentler cutting through as he cups your jaw. “how about a bath, huh? hot water’ll help your muscles. and i’m not leavin’ you a mess like this.”

your lashes flutter, exhaustion tugging at you, and you manage a small, broken smile. “yes, please,” you breathe, weak and sweet, like you can barely get the words out.

his chest tightens at the sound, and his grin softens into something real. “that’s my girl,” he says, kissing your temple again.

he scoops you up easily, one arm under your knees, the other around your back, carrying you bridal-style toward the bathroom. you’re limp against him, cheek pressed to his chest, and he’s careful with every step, lowering you like you’re made of glass.

when he sets you down on the edge of the tub, he smiles—no smirk, no wicked edge, just kind, open pride. “i’ll run it warm.”

he kneels in front of the tub, one hand on the tap, the other slipping right back between your thighs like he never left. the water starts to run, steam curling up, but your attention’s already snagged on the way his fingers slide into you, slow and deep, pushing past the mess he left inside.

you whimper, knees parting wider on instinct, and he groans low in his chest. “fuck—look at that. still so wet for me. still takin’ me so good.” his eyes flick up to your face, watching your mouth fall open, the little tremble of your lashes.

“sanemi,” you breathe, giggling through a moan, your body jerking when his thumb brushes your clit. “you’re supposed to be running the bath.”

“i am,” he argues, though his voice is wrecked, rough around the edges. he curls his fingers just right and your laugh catches into a gasp. “i’m multitasking.”

you slap weakly at his shoulder, dissolving into another moan when he pushes deeper. “you’re unbelievable.”

he leans in and kisses your thigh, his stubble scratching warmly against your skin. “yeah, well, i can’t keep my fuckin’ hands off you.” his mouth presses higher, lips catching at the sensitive skin near your hip. “sorry, princess. you’re just too good. i lose my head every time i touch you.”

your giggles melt into whines, your hips grinding helplessly against his hand. “god—nemi—”

“that’s it,” he praises, curling his fingers faster, his breath hot against your skin. “pretty little thing—still flutterin’ around me. can’t stop even if i tried.”

he kisses your stomach as his pace quickens, eyes heavy with hunger and devotion both. “let me hear you, baby.”

the bath keeps filling, water sloshing, but all you can hear is his voice, his praise, the wet sound of his fingers working you open again.

NEXT CHAPTER SOON! :)

taglist: @miffysoo, @aeveden

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