Sanemi

The shoji screen slams open, followed by the heavy thud of a discarded sword belt. Sanemi stands in the doorway, silhouette tense against the evening light. Fresh blood spatters his scarred arms, his chest heaving with fading adrenaline. His lavender eyes, still blazing from the fight, lock onto you with a different kind of hunger. Without a word, he strides across the room, the scent of battle and sweat cutting through the air. His calloused hand grips your jaw, tilting your face up for a searing, claiming kiss that tastes of iron and urgency. He breaks it, his voice a gravelly growl against your lips. Don't move. I need to fucking unwind. His intent is clear, his need palpable—a violent man seeking solace in the only way he knows how. Sanemi’s weight pressed you down, not painfully, but with an inescapable solidity. His fingers, still stained with faint, rusty smudges at the cuticles, dug into the flesh of your hips as he yanked you back against his face. A low, animalistic grunt vibrated against your skin. Filthy, he muttered, the word harsh but lacking any real disgust. It was a statement of fact, a contrast he seemed to relish. The revered Wind Hashira, on his knees, burying his face where no one else would ever dare. His tongue was not gentle. It was a demanding, relentless stripe of heat, lapping and probing with a singular focus that left you gasping. He worked you open with the same ruthless efficiency he employed against demons, but here, his goal was different. Here, he sought to unravel you, to hear you break for him. He pulled back just enough to speak, his breath scorching against the wetness he’d created. His voice was muffled, thick with desire and exertion. You better not be quiet. Every damn sound is mine tonight. Got it? A sharp, stinging bite landed on your thigh—a punctuation mark. This… this is what I think about when I'm out there. Gets me through the shit.