₊⊹𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖓𝖆𝖍 ⚡︎

And the way Hakari leans in close, whispering in your ear as he makes eye contact with Kashimo from across the room. The grip on his nyoi staff tightens, causing his knuckles to turn pale. There’s enough couch for the two of you that there’s no need to be sitting so close. The final straw is when he sees Hakari place his hand on your thigh.

“Get out.” Pushing himself off the wall, Kashimo cuts into your conversation abruptly.

You turn your head towards the sound of his voice, brows furrowed, confusion evident in your tone. “What? Kin was just in the middle of telling a story.”

Said man looks over at the ancient sorcerer with that same smug smirk never leaving his face. He tilts his head as his eyes meet the piercing cyan ones that glare back at him. “Yeah, at least let me finish.” He lets out a small chuckle, heavy hand giving your thigh a soft squeeze.

Kashimo isn’t stupid, he’s aware of what Hakari is implying. It only makes that feeling in his chest grow tighter. Walking over to the couch, he comes face to face with the man, sizing him up.

“Get. Out.” he says lowly. The words are steady—final.

Hakari puts his hands up in mock surrender, small grin on his face like he’s not taking this situation seriously. “Hey, I don’t wanna do anything crazy in front of the lady. We can talk this out later.”

And with that, he leaves the monitor room. Which only leaves you and Kashimo in there. The air feels thick, filled with tension that you don’t know how to break—or that you really don’t want to. He turns around, being the first to break the deafening silence. “You will be dealt with right now.” He seems far too calm for what you had just witnessed.

“He was just telling a story. There was no need to get so angry, Hajime.” you argue, voice raised the slightest bit.

“That story includes putting his hands on your body, hmm?” he growls. Grabbing you by the hips, he quickly switches your position causing you to let out a small yelp. Ass now in the air like you’re putting yourself on display for him. “Whispering secrets to each other?”

As if on instinct, you wiggle your hips pushing yourself back against Kashimo’s clothed groin. Your needy pussy already looking for some sort of friction. The tiny shorts you wear ride up, exposing the curve of your ass.

He often forgets that things are different now compared to 400 years ago, more so when it comes to how people dress. But watching you prance around this place in such little clothes is something that he finds himself getting used to—enjoying entirely too much. Kashimo wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into the supple skin. To taste the saltiness on his tongue, mark your pretty body and show Hakari that you’re his.

“It’s normal for friends to get a little touchy, ‘jime,” you whine into the cushions of the couch. Though it wasn’t your intention to make him jealous, you can’t deny how seeing him act this way makes the heat rush straight between your legs.

A calloused hand is placed on the back of your thigh, kneading it like dough. He watches the way some of the plush skin spills through his fingers, like he’s lost in a trance, Hajime can’t seem to tear his eyes away from it. “That stops now,” he says, voice coming out low and controlled. His jaw tightens, the kneading stops with his hand now just resting there—heavy.

“Wh-what…” You lift your head from the cushions, unable to form any coherent thoughts. You poor thing. Your head has already gone hazy just from Kashimo’s wandering hands. He almost feels a bit sympathetic for you. Mocking a small pout, though you can’t even see it from the position you’re in.

Soft crackles of electricity are quick to snap you out of that hazy state. It traces up the back of your thigh, like tiny prickles on your skin, causing goosebumps to rise following its path. The intensity of it drops, yet it doesn’t feel that way when he traces it over your pussy, stopping at your aching clit. The sensation of the tiny sparks of electricity has your legs shaking, feeling like they might give out any second. You’re unable to control the moans that slip past your lips.

The thin fabric of your shorts stretches perfectly over your puffy folds. Pulling it to the side, the cool air hits the sensitive area making you whine. He watches the way you clench around nothing. The thought of stretching and filling you up only makes Kashimo’s cock twitch in his pants, begging for release.

“Say it or I stop. He’s not going to touch you anymore,” he says, voice strained like he’s close to losing every ounce of control left in his body. Thick fingers slowly enter your pussy, they curl deliciously against that sweet spot that has you letting out little mewls. Lewd squelches fill the room, velvety walls trying to milk Kashimo’s fingers like they actually have something to give. You push your hips back further, trying to push his fingers impossibly deeper into your dripping cunt.

“F-fuck! I promise, Hajime!” you cry, desperate to feel more than just his fingers. Good, he doesn’t know how much longer he can wait, needing to feel you wrapped around him. Lowering his pants enough for his aching cock to spring free, the flushed tip leaking shiny beads of precum.

Grabbing himself at the base, he runs the tip over your slit, coating it in your arousal. Kashimo can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the scene in front of him, like he wants to burn this image into his memory. “Hajime, stop teasing mee.” Fuck you sound so pretty whining for him, he really could listen to the little sounds you make all day. He slowly starts to push his cock in, letting you get used to stinging stretch.

He lets out a quiet hiss, already sensitive from the warmth enveloping him. Hips flush against your ass, staying still for a second he lets you get used to the stretch. Though, only a moment later and he’s now setting a brutal pace with sharp, calculated thrusts. Aiming for that sweet spot repeatedly, never giving it a break. Your head feels fuzzy, unable to focus on anything but the way Kashimo pounds your poor pussy. “Please d-don’t stop, ‘jime! Feels so good!” Your load moans fill the room along with the loud slapping of skin on skin.

The thick fabric of his robe is now starting to become uncomfortable, his body feels burning hot, sticky with sweat all over. Pieces of his bangs stick to his face. The thought of your fingers getting tangled in his hair, pulling on it only makes his cock twitch in your warm cunt.

You bury your face in the cushions, loud moans now being reduced to muffled whimpers. Hajime takes notice of this, lowering himself, firm chest now being pressed against your back. Bandage wrapped arms along with striking cyan hair are only things you can make out in your peripheral. A teasing grin painting Hajime’s face. “Getting.. haa.. shy now? Don’t want Kin to hear how good I f-fuck you?” he says through heavy grunts.

Your face burning from the embarrassment of his words. His teasing only makes your walls clench tighter around him, the coil in your tummy growing tighter with each harsh thrust. He fills your senses completely—feeling the way he buries his face in the crook of your neck, heavy panting on your warm skin. “Pretty fuckin’ thing. All mine,” he growls, slowly licking your sweat slicked skin like he wants to savor the salty taste.

A rough hand snakes its way between your thighs, reaching your already sensitive clit. Small whimpers escape past your lips when you feel the soft buzzing of his cursed energy. It’s too much with the way his cock massages your walls, you can feel the way your body is right on that edge that you so desperately want to get over.

“N-ngh Hajime I’m close! Please don’t s-stop!” God, Kashimo might never get used to having something so sweet and soft like you falling apart under him. Wishing he could see your pretty face right now, that fucked out expression with glossy eyes. The thought that it’s him being the reason you let out these pretty whines, his hands that know your body so well—no one else but him.

The coil in your tummy becomes tighter with each thrust that has Kashimo’s cock hitting that spongy spot inside you. His fingers never leaving your throbbing, sensitive clit—it’s overwhelming. Only a few more harsh thrusts from his hips and that coil snaps completely. White, hot pleasure coming over you, your legs going weak unable to keep your hips up any longer. Choked moans leave your lips as your head goes fuzzy from your orgasm.

It’s a pretty sight watching you fall apart on his cock, and it feels even better. The way your walls pulse and flutter around him, soaking his cock in your arousal. “F-fuck-“ Hajime’s hips begin to the stutter, you can feel the heavy twitch of his cock inside you. His breathing gets erratic as he gets closer. With a few deep thrusts he’s cumming, the warmth filling you up. He sinks his sharp teeth into the delicate skin of your shoulder, trying to conceal any whimpers and moans. Like he’s actually never gotten over the embarrassment of it.

That exhausted feeling is soon to come over, your body melting into the cushions. “Hajime… what is your problem?” you ask lazily, that heavy feeling seeping into eyelids as your breathing starts to even out. Maybe you should piss him off more often. That seems to be the only thought crossing your mind right now.

Something between a scoff or a small chuckle makes its way past Kashimo’s lips. He covers you with his robe, making sure you’re comfortable. That idiot Hakari should know that you’re off limits now.

The shift isn't a moment. It’s a slow burn, a fuse lit at the beginning of the spar and finally reaching its powder keg. The air in the training dojo has gone from charged to saturated, every breath tasting of copper and raw power. The overhead lights haven't just flickered; they've died, leaving only the violent, strobing light of your colliding energies to illuminate the room.

You’re both breathing hard, not from exhaustion, but from exhilaration. A thin sheen of sweat slicks your skin, making the faint blue lightning that crawls across your arms and shoulders glow brighter as it follows the paths of moisture.

Kashimo stands opposite you, a silhouette of violet-white crackling energy. He’s grinning that specific, maddening grin of his—the one that says he knows exactly how much danger you’re both in and wouldn't have it any other way.

His shirt is gone, sacrificed to an earlier arc of your Static Flash, and the muscle of his chest and abdomen is etched with the faint, branching patterns of residual electrical burns from your last exchange. They don’t look like injuries; they look like ink. Like art.

“You’re slowing down,” he says, the words barely a rasp. The sound is swallowed by the constant, high-frequency hum that radiates from him.

You laugh, a short, sharp sound. “Liar. You’re just getting old.”

“Am I?” He pushes off the wall, the movement fluid and unnervingly silent for the sheer power it contains. “Then you shouldn’t have a problem keeping up.”

He closes the distance in a blink. There’s no tell, no wind-up. One moment he’s twenty feet away, the next his fist is inches from your face. You don’t dodge. You meet it.

Your palm catches his wrist, not with brute force, but by flooding the space between you with your own energy. The collision is catastrophic. The sound is a deafening CRACK-HISS, like a thousand power transformers exploding at once. A sphere of white-blue light erupts at the point of contact, throwing both of you back.

You land in a crouch, sliding several feet across the polished wooden floor, the grain scorching black beneath you. Kashimo hits the wall and doesn’t fall, simply absorbing the impact, the concrete behind him spiderwebbing with cracks.

He shakes out his hand, flexing his fingers. A new network of violet sparks dances over his knuckles.

“Getting warmer.” He says through a grin.

You push yourself up, feeling the wild, untamed energy thrumming through your veins.

You surge forward, a living conduit of Static Flash. The wooden floor splinters beneath your feet with every accelerated step, Arc Step leaving behind afterimages of brilliant, stuttering light. You don't plan a complex attack. You don't need to. You pour everything into a single, devastating strike aimed right for that smug, perfect face of his.

He meets it.

He doesn't block, doesn't evade. He moves into your attack, his entire body humming with that terrifying, concentrated energy. The world whites out. There is no impact, not in the traditional sense. There is a convergence. Your chaotic, storm-born force crashes against his absolute, inherent current.

The resulting explosion of power is not a shout but a silent, all-consuming pressure wave that shatters every remaining window in the dojo and sends the heavy wooden doors flying off their hinges.

When the light and chaos recede, the world is a blur of motion and sensation. You're moving, or rather, you're being moved. Kashimo has you. His arm is a steel band around your waist, the other hand gripping the back of your neck, and you’re both sliding across the debris-strewn floor, the momentum from your clash carrying you in a deadly tango.

 You crash into the remaining solid section of the far wall with enough force to drive the breath from your lungs in a pained gasp.

The impact doesn't faze him. He uses it to pin you, his body pressing flush against yours, trapping you. The wall is cold and hard at your back, a stark contrast to the inferno of heat that is his body against yours. His cursed energy isn't just crackling around him now; it's sinking into you, a deep, resonant hum that vibrates through your bones, overwhelming your own electrical field. You can feel it in your teeth, in the base of your skull.

He leans in, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your cheek. The grin is gone, replaced by a look of intense, burning focus that is far more dangerous. His hair, usually so pristine, is disheveled, a few strands falling across his brow.

“You’re panting,” he observes, his voice a low, intimate rumble that vibrates directly into your chest. His gaze dips, tracing the line of your throat, the rapid pulse beating there. “Am I finally pushing you past your limits?”

You glare at him, trying to summon the energy to shove him off, but your own power feels muted, scrambled by the proximity of his.

“Past my limits?” You let out a short laugh. “If this is your best, Hajime, you’re going to have to try a lot harder than that.”

The violence of the impact has shifted your loose training tank top, pulling the wide neckline down one shoulder. The fabric hangs, exposing the smooth skin of your collarbone and the curve of your shoulder.

His eyes catch the movement. His gaze flickers down to the exposed skin, lingering for a fraction of a second before slowly, deliberately, returning to your face. In that fleeting glance, something in the atmosphere between you shifts. The violent intensity doesn't fade, but it changes shape. It sharpens, focusing from a destructive force to a predatory one. The low hum of his energy seems to deepen, thrumming against you with a new, proprietary frequency.

“That’s new,” he murmurs, the words less of a taunt now and more of a discovery. His thumb on the back of your neck begins to move, stroking the sensitive skin there in a slow, possessive circle. The touch is electric in a way the fight wasn't—a sharp, tingling current that shoots straight down your spine. “Do you have any idea what you look like right now? All this power… this fire… and you’re falling apart just from being this close to me.”

You try to retort, but the words catch in your throat. Your breathing is ragged, each inhale pulling the scent of him—sweat, and something clean and sharp like a storm—deeper into your lungs.

His free hand, which had been braced against the wall by your head, moves. It drifts down your side, tracing the curve of your ribcage with a feather-light touch that makes your muscles jump and twitch. His knuckles brush against the damp fabric of your sports bra, a phantom pressure that feels heavier than a blow. His journey ends at the hem of your shorts, his fingers hooking into the elastic with a casual confidence that steals your breath.

He holds your gaze, a silent challenge in his cyan eyes. “I wonder…” he says, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a near-growl that vibrates through you both. “How much can you actually take of me?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy with implication. His index finger slips beneath the hem of your shorts, not to enter, but to trace a slow, teasing line along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The touch is light, almost delicate, a stark, maddening contrast to the brutal force he just displayed. A bolt of pure, unadulterated heat flashes through you, and your hips give an involuntary jerk.

A choked gasp escapes your lips. Your hands, which had been braced against his chest, instinctively move, curling over his shoulders.

Your nails dig into the solid muscle, not to push him away, but to anchor yourself in the dizzying storm of sensation. “This isn’t training anymore,” you manage, your voice a breathy, unsteady whisper.

A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face. It’s not the arrogant grin from before. This is something else. Hungry. “Isn’t it?” he counters smoothly. His finger continues its maddening path, moving higher. “Call it what you want. It’s still a test of strength.”

In one fluid, powerful motion, he hooks a hand behind your knee, lifting your leg and hitching it high on his hip. The new position opens you to him, leaving you completely vulnerable. The hard line of his erection presses against your core, a blatant, undeniable promise through the thin layers of clothing. The air crackles, not from your colliding powers, but from the sheer, magnetic tension between you.

“Let’s see how you handle this,” he breathes against your ear.

His other hand moves with decisive intent. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and panties alike, pulling them aside with no pretense of gentleness. The cool air hits your heated flesh for a split second before his fingers are there, exploring. One long, calloused digit slides through your folds, gathering the slick evidence of your arousal.

The sound you make is half-moan, half-gasp.

Your head falls back against the wall, your eyes fluttering shut. “Kashimo…”

He doesn’t answer with words. He answers with action. His finger, coated in your wetness, circles your clit once, twice, a slow, deliberate pressure that makes your entire body clench. And then, without warning, he sinks two fingers deep inside you.

Your hips buck off the wall, a strangled cry tearing from your throat. The stretch is exquisite, a perfect, piercing pleasure. He doesn’t give you a moment to adjust. He sets a rhythm, pumping into you with a sure, deep stroke while his thumb finds your clit and begins a firm, circling pressure that leaves you seeing stars.

He watches you, his gaze predatory and intense, drinking in every twitch of your face, every helpless sound that falls from your lips. “Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice a rough, velvet caress. “Soaking my fingers. You’re so much more responsive like this.”

Your mind is a haze of pleasure, the fight completely forgotten. All that exists is the feeling of him inside you, the relentless pressure of his thumb, the hard muscle of his thigh you’re draped over.

“Someone… someone might hear,” you gasp out, the thought a distant, flickering worry amidst the overwhelming pleasure.

He growls, a low, possessive sound from deep in his chest. The vibration of it travels from where he’s pressed against you straight to your core. “I don’t care.”

To prove his point, he dips his head, his lips finding the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder. He doesn’t just kiss. He nips and bites, sharp, stinging pressures that are immediately soothed by the sweep of his tongue. Each mark he leaves is a jolt of electricity, a claim. His free hand abandons your hip, moving up to roughly tug the neckline of your tank top and sports bra down, exposing your breasts to the charged, cool air.

He pulls back just enough to look, his eyes darkening with a primal hunger. “Perfect,” he breathes, before ducking his head to take one aching nipple into his mouth.

The dual sensations are devastating. The relentless, skilled thrust of his fingers inside you, the torturous circles on your clit, and now the hot, wet suction of his mouth on your breast. He lavishes you, his tongue swirling, his teeth scraping gently, before he switches to the other side, giving it the same thorough, possessive attention.

“Nnngh… Kashimo…” Your back arches, pushing your breast deeper into his mouth as a particularly hard thrust of his fingers hits a spot inside you that makes your vision swim. “If someone… comes in…”

He lifts his head, releasing your nipple with a wet pop. His eyes are burning, a feral light in them that both terrifies and exhilarates you. He licks his lips, a slow, deliberate motion. “They would see you,” he says, his voice a low, dangerous purr right against your ear. “They would see you falling apart beneath me.”

As if to emphasize his point, the pressure of his thumb on your clit increases, circling faster. His fingers pump into you, harder and deeper, the wet sounds of your arousal loud in the ruined dojo—schlick… schlick… schlick—a percussive beat to your rising cries.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he groans, nipping at your earlobe. “Uncontrollable. Needy.” He grinds his hips against you, the hard, thick length of him trapped in his own pants pressing insistently against your stomach. “All that strength, just melting away for me.”

The coil in your belly tightens to an impossible degree. The pleasure is a white-hot fire, consuming your every thought. Your fingers clamp down on his shoulders, your entire body trembling.

“Fffuck… Hajime…” The use of his given name is a surrender, a complete capitulation. “I— I’m—”

He knows. He feels it in the way your inner walls clamp down on him, in the desperate pitch of your moans. He leans in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Cum on my fingers, little storm,” he growls, the command a final, delicious push over the edge. “Now.”

Your orgasm shatters through you. It’s not a gentle wave but a violent, electrical convulsion. Your back bows sharply off the wall, a ragged scream tearing from your throat as white-hot pleasure obliterates everything else. Your vision whites out, your hearing replaced by a high-pitched ring. You’re dimly aware of Kashimo’s groan of satisfaction, of the way he watches your face with intense, rapt focus, as if memorizing every second of your undoing. His hips grind against you, a needy, desperate movement that tells you he’s right there with you, lost in pleasure. 

The aftershocks of your orgasm are still rippling through you when he claims your mouth. It’s not a kiss of gentle reassurance; it’s a branding. His lips crash against yours, demanding and possessive. He bites your lower lip, not hard enough to break the skin, but with enough sharp sting to make you gasp. He takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping in to dominate yours, tasting you, devouring the moan that escapes your throat. It’s a kiss that says you are his, a claim as absolute as the lightning he commands.

When he pulls back, you’re both panting, your chests heaving. His eyes are wild, a storm of cyan and lust. With a guttural grunt of pure need, he hooks his fingers into the ruined waistband of your shorts and panties. The sound of fabric tearing is loud and sharp in the silent dojo. He rips them clean off, the ruined scraps falling to the floor.

There’s no ceremony. No hesitation. He grips your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as if you weigh nothing. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, your arms clinging to his neck as he presses you back against the wall, bearing his full weight. One-handed, he fumbles with the tie of his own pants, the swift rasp of a zipper and the clink of a buckle a prelude to the main event.

Then you feel it. The thick, hot head of his cock presses against your still-sensitive, soaked entrance. The size of him is a daunting promise. He doesn’t wait. With a slow, relentless pressure, he sinks the tip inside.

A raw, unfiltered groan is torn from both of your chests. The sensation is overwhelming, an impossible stretch that borders on pain but is shot through with a bolt of pure pleasure. Your nails dig into the hard muscle of his shoulders, a desperate attempt to ground yourself.

“Relax,” he pants, his forehead resting against yours, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. “Let me in.”

“You’re too… big,” you gasp out, your voice shaky. “I don’t… I don’t think you’ll fit.”

A dark, arrogant smirk touches his lips. “We’ll make it fit.” He shifts his grip, one arm hooked firmly under your ass, holding you steady. His other hand moves, finding your clit with unerring accuracy. He presses down, circling the sensitive bud with a firm, knowing pressure.

The reaction is instantaneous. A choked cry escapes you, your body arching against him as another wave of pleasure crashes over you. “Fuck… Hajime…”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants, his own control fraying as he feels your body react to him. “Just like that. Cum for me. Let me in.”

His command is your undoing. The stimulation, combined with the feeling of him poised at your entrance, triggers another orgasm. It’s smaller than the first, but just as intense. Your body clenches and flutters, and a fresh gush of your arousal floods his cock, creating a perfect, slick ring around the base of his head.

The added lubrication is all he needs. With a shared moan of pure relief, you feel yourself slip, taking another inch of him. The stretch is exquisite. He seizes the opportunity, burying his face in the crook of your neck, kissing and biting a new trail of marks across your shoulder.

“Just a little more…” he grunts against your skin. “I know you can take me.”

He bucks his hips, a short, hard thrust that forces you to take even more. Then another. The rhythm is punishing, a deliberate assault on your senses until, with one final, deep thrust, he buries himself to the hilt.

A loud, sharp gasp is torn from your lungs. You are utterly, completely full. The feeling is staggering, a delicious pressure that touches every nerve ending.

He stills, breathing heavily against your neck. “You’re so tight,” he groans, the words muffled by your skin. “You fit me perfectly.”

Then he begins to move.

There is no gentle build-up. He sets a deep, punishing pace from the very start. Every stroke is a hard, deliberate thrust that knocks the air from your lungs and sends sparks of pleasure behind your eyes. The sound of skin slapping against skin, wet and loud, fills the ruined dojo, mingling with your mutual moans and pants.

He is vocal, a constant stream of praise and profanity. “Look at you… taking me so well,” he pants. “Fuck… you feel incredible.” He captures your lips again in a bruising kiss, a messy, passionate clash of teeth and tongues.

He tangles a hand in your hair, pulling your head back to expose the long line of your throat. He nips and sucks at the sensitive skin there, and you can’t help the loud moan that escapes you with each powerful thrust. “Such a good girl,” he praises, his voice a rough, breathy growl. “Made to take my cock.”

The pressure builds again, a familiar, tightening coil deep in your core. “Hajime… I’m… I’m going to cum again,” you warn, your voice barely a whisper.

“Do it,” he commands without breaking rhythm. “Cum for me. I’m going to cum too.” He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze burning with a desperate, primal hunger. “I’m going to cum inside you.”

A flicker of panic cuts through the haze of pleasure. “Nnngh… fuck… Kashimo, you can’t… oh GOD— FUCK! Right there! Please don’t stop!” Your protest dissolves into a desperate whine as he angles his hips, hitting that perfect spot inside you again and again.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he grunts, a feral grin on his face. He releases your hair, bringing his thumb to bear on your clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with renewed, expert pressure. The dual stimulation is your final undoing.

He holds your jaw, forcing you to maintain eye contact, demanding you watch him as you fall apart. “Look at me,” he orders, his voice rough. “I want to see you.”

Your orgasm hits you like a physical blow. A long, breathy cry escapes your lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. “Haaaah… Haji… me…” Your back arches, your head falling slightly back as your eyes roll back, eyelids fluttering shut. Your inner walls clamp down on him like a vise, fluttering and milking his length as a gush of your arousal floods him.

The sight of you, lost in the throes of pleasure, the feel of you cumming around him, is too much. He loses control.

A guttural, animalistic growl is torn from his chest, “Nnngh—FUCK!” His thrusts become rapid and erratic, a desperate, hard pounding as he chases his own release.

With one last, deep thrust, he buries himself inside you to the hilt. You feel him pulse, a hot flood of his cum filling you, coating your insides. He groans your name, a raw, broken sound against your skin as he continues to rock into you, riding out the waves of his orgasm until every last drop is spent, until you have milked him completely.

He sags against you, his full weight pinning you to the wall as you both struggle for breath. The only sounds in the silent, ruined dojo are your ragged gasps for air and the frantic beating of your hearts. For a long moment, neither of you moves, content to simply exist in the aftermath, a tangled, sweaty, and thoroughly satisfied mess.

The silence that follows is not empty. It's heavy, saturated with the scent of sweat and sex and the lingering, electric tang of ozone. His body is a dead weight against yours, a furnace that seeps into your skin, chasing away the chill of the wall at your back. Your legs are still wrapped around his waist, a hold that has become less about passion and more about pure necessity, the only thing keeping you from sliding to the floor in a boneless heap.

You feel him soften inside you, a slow, intimate retreat that leaves a strange ache of emptiness in its wake. A tremor runs through your body, a delayed reaction to the sheer intensity of it all.

He shifts, pushing himself up just enough to look at you. His hair is a complete mess, falling into his eyes, which are no longer burning with a predatory fire but are now a deep, clear cyan in the dim light. He reaches up, pushing the damp strands back from his forehead. A smear of dust is on his cheekbone, and there's a faint, purpling bruise already forming on the corner of his jaw from an earlier, more violent exchange. He looks wrecked. And utterly, devastatingly content.

“Well,” he says, his voice a low, raspy murmur that vibrates through your chest. His gaze sweeps over your face, taking in the dazed, satiated expression he finds there. A slow, smug grin touches his lips. “That was a much more satisfying conclusion to the spar.”

You manage to summon enough energy to roll your eyes, a feat that feels like it takes every ounce of your remaining strength. “You’re impossible,” you mumble, the words muffled against his shoulder.

His grin widens. “And you,” he says, his tone dropping to a near whisper as he leans in, “are incredible.” He presses a soft, surprisingly gentle kiss to your temple, a stark contrast to the brutal, possessive marks he left on your neck and shoulder. He carefully disentangles himself, lowering your legs to the floor with a steadiness that belies the trembling you feel in your own limbs.

The moment your feet touch the ground, your knees buckle. He catches you instantly, one strong arm wrapping around your waist to hold you up. “Easy there,” he murmurs, a note of genuine concern in his voice.

“I’m fine,” you insist, pushing weakly against his chest. “Just… need a second.”

He doesn’t let go. Instead, he stoops, scooping you up into his arms with an effortless display of strength.

He carries you not with haste, but with a deliberate, steady pace through the wreckage. Each footfall is sure, navigating the splintered wood and shattered concrete as if he’s done this a thousand times. The cool air of the adjoining locker room is a welcome shock to your heated skin. He walks directly to the communal showers, kicking open the frosted glass door of a stall with his foot before setting you down gently inside.

The water turns on with a sharp twist of his wrist, the initial spray cold before it quickly warms to a soothing temperature. He doesn’t join you, but he doesn’t leave either. He leans against the stall’s entrance, arms crossed over his chest, watching as the water cascades over your body, washing away the sweat, the dust, and the evidence of your combined destruction.

You close your eyes, tipping your head back to let the spray hit your face. You feel the tension seep out of your muscles, the aches from the fight and the exertion of sex beginning to make themselves known. A clean, fluffy towel appears in your peripheral vision, held out by a steady hand. When you’re done, he wraps it around you, then disappears for a moment, returning with a thick, white robe. He helps you into it, the movements impersonal yet strangely tender, like he’s patching up a valuable piece of equipment.

You walk back into the main dojo together. The silence is comfortable, a shared understanding passing between you without words. The place looks even worse in the dim emergency lighting. The far wall is a crater, the floor a mess of debris, and the air still thrums with a residual, dangerous energy. You reach the main entrance, the point where your paths would normally diverge, and pause.

The moment is shattered by the main doors swinging open. Kinji Hakari strolls in, hands in his pockets, with Panda trotting along beside him. They both stop dead, their eyes widening as they take in the apocalyptic scene.

Hakari’s gaze sweeps over the destruction, then lands on you and Kashimo, standing amidst the ruin. His expression immediately sours, a flicker of intense annoyance crossing his face. “No,” he says, the word flat and absolute.

Kashimo turns his head, fixing Hakari with an impassive stare. “No what?” he asks, his tone devoid of inflection.

Hakari throws a hand up, gesturing wildly between the two of you and the wreckage. “Whatever just happened here… no. It’s done. You two aren’t allowed to train unsupervised anymore. Gojo is going to lose it at the damage in this dojo. You two are way too intense when you spar.”

You pull the robe tighter around yourself, a small, almost inaudible sigh escaping your lips. “You have no idea,” you murmur to no one in particular.

Kashimo’s gaze remains on Hakari, his face a mask of calm. “I don’t understand what the issue is,” he states, with a level of sincerity that somehow makes the situation worse.

“THAT,” Hakari snaps, pointing a finger directly at Kashimo. “THAT is exactly what I’m talking about.”

Panda, who has been observing the entire exchange with his head tilted, lets out a sudden, booming laugh. “Hoo boy, you really did a number on the place.”

Ignoring them both, Kashimo turns to you. A mischievous, knowing smirk plays on his lips. “Spar again tomorrow?” he asks, the question a clear continuation of the conversation you were having before you were interrupted.

You look at him, still feeling dazed and boneless. “Fine,” you agree, the word quiet but firm.