His jaw flexed. He turned without a word and disappeared into the bathroom. You heard the creak of pipes and the rush of water. When he returned, he didn’t even glance at you—just grabbed the hem of your jacket and started peeling it off your arms.

“You smell like copper and stupidity,” he muttered.

You grinned. “You say the sweetest things.”

He tossed the jacket aside, unfastened your breastplate, and tugged your undershirt up, slow enough not to aggravate the cracked rib beneath. His touch was rough but careful. His expression though? That very specific stormcloud he got when he was trying not to say what if I lost you again.

This guy is such a softie...

Hoisting yourself onto your tiptoes, you pressed your forehead to his. “Still here, y’know.”

He exhaled, nose brushing yours.

“Barely.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “You missed me.”

“I told you not to go with that unit.”

“I’m charming,” you said. “They needed morale.”

He shot you a look. “You are five feet of broken bones and poor decisions.”

“And yet you’re still trying to get into my hakama.”

“I’m trying,” he said, picking you up like you weighed nothing, “to get you in the fucking bath before your dumbass goes into shock.”

You yelped and laughed, half-curled in his arms, pressing your face into his shoulder as he carried you down the hall.

“Sanemi.”

“What.”

“You’re such a wife.”

“I will drown you.”

“I’m into that.”

---

The bath water steamed up to your collarbones. It stung. You didn’t flinch. Didn't need another lecture.

Sanemi didn’t take his eyes off you.

He knelt beside the tub, one hand braced on the rim, the other in the water, cloth dragging in slow circles between his fingers like he was trying to remember what his hands were for.

You watched him over your shoulder.

“You keep looking at me like I’m going to vanish.”

His jaw flexed. His eyes didn’t move.

“You walked through the door covered in blood and grinning like you hadn’t just scared the shit out of me.”

“I said I was fine.”

“You say that every time,” he muttered, mindlessly dipping the cloth again. “And then I find out how deep it really went...”

His hand finally moved.

He brought the cloth to your back first, dragging it up the slope of your shoulder blade. The heat bled through your skin slow, like breath. His touch wasn’t rough—but it wasn’t detached, either. Every swipe was deliberate.

“I’m not going to break,” you said.

He made a quiet sound in his throat. Not a laugh.

“Yeah, you will,” he said. “One day. The way you throw yourself into shit.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“That’s different.”

You arched an eyebrow, glancing over at him.

“How?”

He wrung out the cloth. His hands were steady now, but tight—like he didn’t trust what might come out of him if he relaxed.

“I don’t look like you when I’m bleeding.”

You blinked. “...What the hell does that mean?”

He looked at you for the first time in a full minute. Really looked.

Like he was worshipping something that made him furious to need.

“You sit there like this,” he said. “Half cut open, bruises blooming, still mouthing off, still smiling like you don’t owe the world a fucking thing—and all I can think about is how bad I wanna put my hands on you.”

Your throat went dry.

His eyes dropped to the waterline.

“Not to fuck you,” he said quietly. “Not yet.”

The cloth moved again. Down your spine. Across the side of your ribs. Gentle over the cracked one.

“I want to feel your skin under my hands. All of it. I want to remind myself that you’re real. That you’re not going to slip through my fingers when I blink.”

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t—not with that heat crawling up your throat, not with the weight of him behind you, hands worshipping your wounds like they were the only part of you he was allowed to touch.

The cloth moved again. Slower this time. A drag over your side, the press of his knuckles near your ribs. Reverent.

It was unbearable.

He wouldn’t look at you again. At least, not directly. Not after saying what he’d said.

Like your body was something fragile, something borrowed, something he didn’t trust himself not to break just by wanting it.

And maybe that’s what undid you.

You blinked, slowly. The ache in your body hadn’t faded, but something warmer had settled underneath it. Something heavier. The quiet understanding that this man, kneeling outside the bath, was trying to show love through ritual. Through control. Through distance.

But that wasn’t what you needed right now.

So you reached for him.

One hand curled into the open collar of his half-buttoned shirt. It was already damp from the steam. You felt the fabric stick to his chest. His eyes snapped up to yours—sharp, startled.

He opened his mouth. You didn’t wait.

You just pulled.

Decisively.

Water splashed up as his knee slipped forward. His other hand caught the edge of the tub, but you had him off-balance. The motion dragged him toward you. His chest nearly hit the water.

“Hey—what the hell are you—?”

You tugged again.

The rest of him followed.

Water splashed up over the edge of the tub, his knees hit the porcelain hard, and for a second—just a breath—he looked at you like you’d slapped the sense out of him.

Chest heaving. Shirt soaked. Hands curled tight on the edge of the bath to keep himself from folding fully on top of you.

You didn’t even flinch.

You leaned back against the rim, let your knee slide along the inside of his thigh under the water, let him feel it. Let him look.

Let him want.

But he didn’t surge forward like you expected.

He just stared. Struck dumb.

​His half-clothed, muscular chest, crisscrossed with jagged scars, rose and fell with a tense stillness as his eyes, damn near black now raked over your features.

​Then he reached up and touched your cheek.

His thumb slid along your cheekbone, just enough to smear water there. His other hand rose to cradle your jaw. His whole body was straddling you now.

“Don’t do that,” he said, voice low.

Your brow ticked. “Do what?”

“Get me this close, when you’re still half dead.”

You laughed, even though your breath caught. “You saying I can’t handle it?”

“I’m sayin' I need to know you’re not shaking from blood loss before I put my hands on you the way I want to.”

You blinked, stunned. It hit a little lower than you expected.

His gaze moved over your face, like he was reading something there you hadn’t written. Then lower—your chest, your ribs, your stomach under the water. Then back up.

“You eat today?”

“Don’t start.”

“Answer.”

You hesitated, suddenly feeling shy. “...No.”

He exhaled through his nose. Dropping his head, barely able to break his gaze away from your puppy dog eyes.

He let his forehead rest against yours. Steam curled between you.

“You’re not getting me tonight,” he sighed. “Not like that.”

You swallowed a retort, you knew when to pick your battles

His thumb then brushed the corner of your mouth.

“I’ll hold you all night. I’ll kiss you until your legs shake. But you’re eatin' first. Lying down second. If your hands are still steady by the time I’m done with that, then I’ll fuck you stupid.”

You stared at him.

“You’re kind of a romantic, you know that?”

He didn’t smile.

But his lips grazed yours once, soft enough to make your chest ache.

“I’d die for you,” he said.

Then kissed your temple.

“But I’d rather feed you first.”

---

Somehow, some-fuckin-how after all that, Sanemi managed to put something edible in front of you.

Game over.

The primal hunger won instantly, and you ate with focused efficiency, all objections forgotten.

You didn't notice, but, he watched your mouth the entire time.

He couldn't stop thinking about tasting your tongue.

---

The food had settled warm in your belly. The sheets were rough against your back, but clean. Familiar. Your skin still smelled like soap.

And Sanemi had just finished wiping the corner of your mouth with his thumb like you hadn’t dragged him into the bath twenty minutes ago and dared him to do something about it.

You watched him from where he sat beside you on the bed, one knee up, elbow resting on it. His gaze flicked down your body.

Assessing.

His hand lingered on your thigh. Thumb stroking idle circles, like a man checking the pulse of a horse before the run.

“You good?” he asked.

You nodded.

He didn’t look convinced.

“Anything feel off? Pain? Dizziness?”

“Nope.”

“You lying to me?”

You snorted. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

His hand stilled. His pale irises met yours.

The tiny, dark pinpricks of his pupils were framed by a sudden, violent filigree of red.

Something behind them changed.

You recognized it too late.

“Good,” he said, low. “Then I’m fucking done pretending I’m not starving.”

You didn’t even have time to gasp.

Sanemi’s hand slid up your thigh—fast, no more slow circles. His other hand came down hard beside your head as he climbed fully over you, straddling your hips, the weight of his body finally pressing you into the bed.

You opened your mouth to speak—he leaned down and kissed you before the sound left your throat.

His mouth crashed into yours. Hot breath, wet lips, tongue deep and shameless and impulsive.

He kissed like he meant to leave a bruise on your tongue. Like he was tasting something he’d bled for.

You whimpered, running out of air.

He pulled back just enough to speak, voice ragged, breath hot.

“You don’t get to look at me like that after licking rice off a spoon and not expect me to want to taste you.”

Your thighs clenched. He noticed.

“Oh,” he said, voice dropping. “You’re already wet, huh?”

You reached for him. He grabbed your wrists, pinned them above your head with one hand. Not hard. Just enough to make it clear—his turn.

“I’ve been patient,” he growled against your neck. “I fed you. Washed you. Waited.”

You felt his mouth at your collarbone. Teeth. Tongue.

“No more waiting.”

You tried to answer, but he was already moving—kissing down your chest, mouthing over every bruise, every healing scrape like he wanted to suck the pain out through his teeth.

When he reached your stomach, he looked up at you. That grin was back. Feral.

“I said you were sweet,” he murmured, nosing below your bellybutton.

“Now I’m gonna prove it.”

His hands gripped your thighs and spread you open. His grip was a familiar, intense claim, simply taking the access that had always been his. Unapologetic. Worshipful. Your knees fell to the sides, and the air hit your cunt, hot and humid between your legs where he was already breathing in deep.

“Fuck, look at you.”

He said it like it was more of a curse, than a compliment.

He ducked his head, nuzzled the inside of your thigh. Inhaled.

“You always smell like this when you're smug?”

You tried to close your legs. His fingers dug in to the soft flesh.

“Ah ah.” He glanced up, mouth against your skin. “You wanted me hungry. So now you’re gonna lie there and take it.”

Then he kissed your inner thigh again. Higher.

And again. Higher.

His lips grazed your mound. Still not your clit.

You were already squirming.

He saw it. Felt it. Smiled a toothy grin into your skin.

“You’re starting to twitch.”

“You’re starting to talk too much,” you muttered, voice thick with arousal.

He barked a soft, cocky laugh—equal parts predator and lover. “Don’t worry,” he said, dragging his teeth across his lower lip like he was picturing it. “I’ll shut up once my mouth’s full.” His gaze pinned you. “And I’m not stopping ‘til I’m fucking drenched in it.”

Then he went down—no warning, no mercy—and dragged his tongue between your folds in one long, obscene stroke. It was filthy. Wet. Loud. His tongue parted you like a mouth-starved animal, hot and hungry, slicking through every inch of your soaked cunt.

Focused didn’t even cover it. He was locked in, nose deep, tongue greedy. Like he couldn’t stand a single drop of you going to waste.

He started low, tongue pressed right at your dripping entrance. Dragged up the full length of your cunt, slow and shameless. The slick sound of it made your stomach twist. He licked the full length of your cunt like he was trying to mark it, tongue flattening to taste everything, from your slit to your clit and back down again. Your juices were everywhere already.

You gasped—shoulders curling off the bed. His tongue was so warm. So fucking perfect.

Warm and wet and wide enough to press against your whole slit, covering you in one greedy stroke. He licked you like a man starved, tongue laid flat and dragging with brutal slowness, spreading your slick until it coated his lips, his chin, dripping down his jaw.

He didn’t need to pin you—your body was already limp under him, twitching with every stroke of his tongue. He just kept eating, slow and filthy, mouth dragging through your slick like it was the best fucking meal he’d ever had.

“Sweet,” he muttered. “Fuck.” His lips were already glossy with your slick. He didn’t wipe them.

His grip shifted—one hand bracing hard on your inner thigh, fingers digging in, bruising. The other slid under your ass and hauled you up, tilting your hips like his personal fuck toy, presenting your cunt to his mouth like he owned it. Your ass came off the bed and stayed there, spread wide and helpless in his grip.

Then he dove back in, messier now, tongue fucking into you with sharp, hungry thrusts. He licked like he was trying to get his tongue inside—it was fucking obscene, like he wanted to replace his cock with his mouth and just stay there.

And then—gods—his mouth sealed over your clit. His tongue flicked it once, sharp, fast, a bolt of lightning down your spine. Then he started sucking. Wet and rhythmic, cheeks hollowing, his nose nudging your mound with every pull. You nearly screamed.

“Oh yeah,” he panted, tongue dragging slow across his lower lip. “Right fucking there. That’s where you start falling apart. That’s where I break you.”

And then—he stopped escalating.

Didn’t press harder, didn’t move faster. He just stayed right there, tongue barely flicking now, slow and cruel. Just enough to keep you on edge. Just enough to make you suffer.

Then he circled his tongue over your bullied clit once more—just once—then pulled back. Completely.

You made the most pathetic fucking sound. High. Desperate.

And Sanemi just sat back on his heels, his scarred chest rising and falling hard—like he’d just fought for it. His face was a fucking mess. Lips swollen, chin glistening with your slick, the wet shine trailing down his throat.

He wiped his chin with the back of his hand, slow. Watching you squirm. Then he sucked the taste off his knuckles. Eyes locked on yours. Watching the way your spread legs trembled, your cunt still fluttering around nothing.

“Keep looking at me like that,” he drawled, voice low and mean. “I’ll make you cum without laying another fucking finger on that soaked little pussy.” He spread his knees wider. “Or maybe I’ll watch you do it. Rub that swollen clit like I haven’t ruined it already.”

You couldn’t catch your breath. Your chest heaved, mouth open, sweat clinging to your throat. Your cunt ached. Every nerve buzzed, everything wet, and you were still fucking empty.

He leaned in, slow and smug, and kissed the inside of your shaking knee like a tease. Barely a brush of lips—lazy, filthy affection that had no business being this hot.

“I’ll go back,” he whispered, voice dark and low, “when you fucking beg for it. On your knees, if I say. Cry for it. Make it pretty.” He licked his lips again. “And maybe then I’ll let you cum on my tongue.”

---

Sanemi was still crouched between your legs, looking up at you like the devil who wanted to drag you to hell with his mouth alone.

And he hadn’t touched your clit in over thirty seconds.

Which, frankly, was fucking criminal.

He tilted his head slightly, mouth still near the inside of your knee. Close. But not close enough.

“I’m waiting,” he said, voice quiet.

“You’re a goddamn menace,” you muttered.

He grinned. “Say it.”

You shifted, tried to grind toward him—he pulled back just an inch. Just enough to make you feel the absence.

“Say it pretty.”

You glared down at him. Your legs were shaking now. You could see it.

Fine.

You dropped your head back to the pillow. Let out a breath. Then looked down at him through your lashes—on purpose.

“Sanemi,” you said, voice low. “Please.”

That smirk faltered. Just a little. A victory.

So you kept going.

“I want your mouth back on me. I want to feel your tongue, slow. I want you to make me cum with nothing but that sharp, smug mouth of yours.”

His breath caught. You saw it—right there at the base of his throat.

Still, you weren’t done.

“I pulled you into the bath. I let you feed me. I’ve been so fucking good for you.”

Your voice dropped, barely a whisper now.

“Please, Sanemi. Let me be worse.”

And that did it.

Sanemi growled—actual sound in his throat—and shoved your thighs apart like they offended him.

“You wanna be worse?” he rasped.

He didn’t wait for an answer.

He buried his face in your cunt.

No teasing this time. No slow circles. No pretending this was about control.

He fucking devoured you. Tongue wide and relentless, nose buried against your mound, jaw working like he was trying to chew the orgasm out of you. The wet sounds coming from between your thighs were obscene—sloppy, soaked, each one wetter than the last. You were dripping down his chin, and he didn’t stop to breathe.

He latched onto your clit like it owed him something. Lips sealing around it, tongue flat and ruthless, he sucked slow—hard enough it felt like he was pulling your soul out through your cunt. Every drag of his mouth forced your legs wider, made your hips twitch. He wanted everything—every breath, every moan, every humiliating little whimper you couldn’t hold back.

Your back arched immediately, heels digging into the bed, nails clawing at the sheets — it was too much, too fast. His name tore from your throat without warning—raw, desperate, shamefully needy.

He moaned into your cunt like he’d just tasted something holy. The vibration shot straight through your clit and made your entire body seize.

“Fuck yes,” he groaned, voice thick, slurred with lust and spit. He pulled back just far enough to speak, breath hot over your drenched pussy. “Give me that voice again. Scream for me."

You did.

Whimpering, legs trembling, hands clutching at the sheets like you didn’t know if you wanted to run or pull him deeper.

You were right fucking there. That white-hot edge, that screaming pulse of release, hips grinding helplessly against his mouth, chasing it—so close. Your clit throbbed, your thighs shook, your orgasm curled tight in your belly—

And then the bastard pulled back. Completely.

What came out of your mouth wasn’t language—it was a wail, ragged and raw, somewhere between a sob and a moan. It punched straight from your chest. Needy and ruined and fucking furious.

He grinned, mouth wet, jaw tight. He knew what he’d done.

“Already whimpering?” he said, voice gravel low. “Thought you’d last longer.”

Your hips bucked up without thinking, chasing any kind of contact, grinding against nothing like a desperate little bitch in heat. His hand came down—flat, heavy, right on your belly—pinning you in place with effortless strength. Like you were just a thing to hold still and ruin.

“Ah, ah—don’t fucking move,” he growled. His palm tightened against your stomach. “You wanna be good for me? Then lie there and take it. Be still. Let me wreck this little pussy how I want.”

He bent down again—your breath caught, heart tripping—only for him to press a single, closed-mouth kiss to your clit. Soft. Cruel. Then he pulled away like it was nothing. Like your cunt wasn’t fucking screaming for more.

“Ya' hear that?” he muttered, glancing up through his snowy lashes. His voice was smug, wrecked, already half-feral. “That nasty little sound every time I touch you? You hear how wet ya are for me? Like your cunt knows who it belongs to.”

Two fingers dragged through your folds, barely pressing in—just enough to part your lips and feel how soaked and swollen you were. The sound was wet, sloppy, downright embarrassing.

He pulled them back up and held them out in front of you, glistening with your slick. Dripping. Like a warning. Like proof.

“Look at that,” he purred. “This is what I do to you.”

You swallowed. Your pulse was in your clit. Your vision blurred. Your whole body was caught in that aching limbo between shame and desperation.

He sucked the fingers into his mouth and closed his eyes like it was a fucking religious experience.

“God, I should make you watch me stroke my cock to this.”

“Sanemi—”

Your voice broke. His smirk sharpened.

“You gonna beg again?” he asked, tongue wet against his bottom lip. “Or are you gonna try to grind against my face like a brat until I make you cry?”

He moved before you could answer.

One slow lick—tongue broad and hard, dragging from your soaked entrance up to your throbbing clit in one devastating, sloppy stroke. It wasn’t sweet. It was claiming. You gasped. He hummed into you, pleased.

But instead of following through, he dragged his tongue away from your cunt and down to the inside of your thigh.

Bit there, soft. Then kissed the spot.

“You twitch like a little cockdrunk whore,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded and feral. “So fuckin' cute when you think you’re getting what you want.”

You writhed, thighs trembling, pussy clenching around nothing as you fought the unbearable emptiness he left you in.

And he just watched. Kneeling between your legs, jaw tight, cock straining, looking like he could sit there for hours just watching you fall apart for him.

“Keep squirming like that,” he muttered, almost to himself, “and I’m gonna fucking blow without even touching my cock.” He exhaled hard, jaw flexing.

“You don’t even know what you do to me, do you? One look at your dripping cunt and I’m ready to fucking lose it.”

And thats when instinct took over.

Your hand twitched toward him—just to touch, to grab, to do something—and he caught you. Lightning-fast. Fingers around your wrist before you’d even realized you moved, his grip firm enough to make your stomach clench.

“Don’t.” His voice cut through you—low, lethal, dripping control. Velvet-wrapped steel, nothing but command. “I said lie the fuck still.”

Then, after what felt like a lifetime of nothing, he dipped down again—slow, deliberate, like he wanted you to see it coming and still not be ready.

Like he wanted the anticipation to burn.

This time, his tongue didn’t stop.

He flicked it over your clit once, twice, three times, just fast enough to make your breath hitch, to make your thighs start to pull in—

And then he ripped it away. Again. Again. Just as your climax started to break through the haze. Just when your legs began to tremble harder. His mouth was gone.

You actually whimpered.

He wiped his mouth, slow, looking proud of himself.

“Mm,” he sighed, voice drenched in false innocence. “You were about to cum again, weren’t you?” He tilted his head. “Poor little thing. You must be aching.”

You glared. He chuckled.

“Oh, you’re so fucking cute when you’re pissed.” He leaned in, close enough to feel his breath on your clit. “You think glaring’s gonna save ya'? You think I don’t want to see you crying from how bad you need it?”

Then—like a switch—his mouth was back.

Hot. Intentional.

Not merciful.

He fucked you with his tongue, deep and hard, like he wanted to break you open from the inside. Filthy strokes that had you arching off the bed, mouth open, hands clenched in the sheets. Your body couldn’t decide if it was cumming or crying. And then—right at the crest of it—he stopped. Again. Left you gasping, ruined, and nowhere to go.

Again.

You were seizing.

He kissed your hipbone. “What’s that face for?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Your body was on fire.

He dragged his tongue up the side of your thigh. Leisurely.

“You’ll get there,” he murmured. “But you’re gonna have to earn it.”

This fucking man.

This sadistic, beautiful bastard with your orgasm on a leash and your sanity tied to his fucking tongue.

“S-anemi—”

You choked on it.

His name, broken and desperate, ripped out of your throat like your lungs were trying to plead for you.

He’d made you come close. Too close. Too many times.

And every time you clawed toward the edge—every single time—he pulled away. Left you fucking throbbing, twitching, clenching around empty air.

And now you couldn’t take it. Your mind gone. Muscles trembling, cunt soaked, heart racing like it was trying to break through your ribs. You were past frustration. Past shame. You couldn’t fucking take another second of this.

You looked down at him—eyes glossy, lip trembling, your whole body betraying you with every desperate twitch.

“Please—please, fuck, Sanemi, I need you to—I need to cum—” The words poured out of you broken and ugly. You couldn’t even finish the sentence without gasping.

Sanemi leaned in and licked one lazy, wet stripe through your folds.

Didn’t go near your clit.

“Need what, sweetheart?” he murmured into the crease of your thigh, lips brushing just close enough to make you twitch. “Say it. Use your words. Beg like a good little slut.”

You whined. It was pitiful. It humiliated you.

But you gave it to him. You gave in.

“I need you—I need your mouth, your tongue—your fingers, fuck, anything, please, Sanemi, I’m going to lose my fucking mind—” The words tumbled out like sobs. Zero thoughts. Only need.

He grinned into your cunt. Didn’t touch it.

“That’s not what you said earlier,” he murmured. “Earlier you were mouthing off like you had a choice.”

You were crying without tears.

Your eyes burned, your thighs jerked, your cunt clenched around nothing as your body spasmed in tiny, pitiful pulses that gave you no relief. Your voice cracked so hard it nearly broke apart mid-syllable.

“I don’t—I don’t, Sanemi—please,” you begged, the words slipping out on gasps. “I’ll do anything. Anything. Just let me cum.”

And gods, the sound he made in response—low, wrecked, absolutely delighted. Like he was savoring every piece of your collapse like it was the sweetest fucking thing he’d ever tasted. That hum in his throat vibrated through the air, through your legs, and landed right where his mouth should’ve been.

But he still didn’t move.

He leaned in, slow, deliberate, and kissed the crease of your thigh. Your body twitched hard, helpless. He just looked up at you with those feral eyes, unreadable.

“You’re shaking.”

You nodded. You couldn’t speak anymore. You couldn’t even moan. Your chest was heaving. Sweat dripped from your neck to the sheets.

“You like that?”

Another nod.

“You want to cum on my mouth?”

A broken yes. More breath than voice. The sound of your desperation made his cock twitch against his pants.

“Loud?” he asked, his voice dipping deeper, darker.

You whimpered—an honest-to-gods whimper, shame burned out of you long ago. “Yes—please.”

And finally—finally—he lowered his head, and gave you one long, slow, perfect flick of his tongue right over your clit.

Your body snapped. You seized, every muscle going taut like wire. The sound that tore from your throat was closer to a sob than a scream.

“God—fuck, Sanemi—”

He pulled back.

Again.

And smiled.

“You’re not cumming yet.”

You nearly fucking sobbed.

“You’re not even close to ruined,” he said. His voice was hot, low, relentless. No room to breathe in it.

“You want it? You’re gonna lie there. You’re gonna take everything I give you and nothing else.”

You nodded, eyes wide, body trembling so hard it hurt.

And he licked you again.

Slower.

Deeper.

Tongue pressing into you, fingers now finally slipping back under your ass to tilt your hips up and hold you where he wants you.

You moaned like it was the first time.

He groaned into your cunt. “God, the sounds you make. You fucking love this, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

So he gave you another flick. A pulse of pressure. A rhythm.

Not enough.

Never enough.

He pulled away again, lips wrecked and swollen, devilishly handsome grin plastered across his face.

“You’ll cum when I say. And when you do—”

He kissed your soaked thigh.

“—you’re going to thank me with my name on your tongue.”

---

You’d stopped keeping track of how many times he edged you.

It didn’t matter anymore.

Sanemi’s tongue had you shaking so bad your calves kept cramping, and every time you hit that edge—just about to fall over it—he pulled away.

Licked your thigh.

Bit the inside of your knee.

Whispered something cruel and sweet and unbearable right into your skin.

Now?

Now he was staring up at you from between your legs, mouth slick, flushed and grinning like the devil.

“Look at you,” he murmured, eyes locked on your ruined face. “You’re shaking so bad.”

His gaze flicked down. You were trembling—hips twitching, cunt glistening, your body stuck in a helpless, overstimmed loop of clenching for something that never came. He watched your cunt flutter. Watched the mess he made drip down your thighs.

“Poor thing,” he said. Then licked his lips—slow and greedy—with your taste still on them.

“You don’t even have the strength to grind on my face anymore, huh?” His voice went mock-soft, faux concerned. “Came in here all mouth, and now you can’t even move. Can’t even ride it.” He smirked. “Fucking useless.”

The sound you made wasn’t a word.

You whimpered. High, broken, completely defeated. You didn’t even know what you were asking for anymore—you just wanted something. Release. Mercy. Anything.

And that noise—gods, that fucking noise—made Sanemi growl. Growl.

Low in his chest, raw and guttural, like it hit him where it hurt.

“Fuck,” he growled, voice rough as sandpaper, eyes heavy with heat. “That’s good. That’s fucking good. You sound so pretty when you’re pathetic.” He dragged a thumb up the inside of your thigh, close—but not touching your clit. Watching the way you twitched. “I could get off just to that whine.”

You turned your face into your shoulder, embarrassed—ruined.

He reached up and grabbed your jaw, turned your face back toward him.

“Don’t look away. You’re gonna look at me while I finish this.”

And he went down again.

Tongue flat, slow, perfect—pressing against your clit just long enough to make you choke on air.

Then gone again.

You whimpered—pathetic and real.

Sanemi smiled like it was better than the sound of his own name.

“Yeah. That’s it,” he rasped, voice thick. “I want you wrecked. I want you soaked and crying and begging me like your fucking life depends on it.”

Your legs trembled. Your fingers clenched the sheets. You were past blushing, past caring.

“Please,” you whispered, “I can’t—I can’t—Sanemi, please, I need to—”

He kissed your clit. Just once. Open mouth. Tongue soft. Slow enough to make you feel it echo in your spine.

You gasped. Your hips jumped like your body had forgotten it didn’t have permission to move.

Then he stopped. Again.

“No,” he said, voice calm. “You want to. You don’t need it. Not yet.”

The moan that ripped out of you was pathetic—too loud, too naked. You heard yourself and still didn’t care. Couldn’t care.

He was rock-hard in his pants, humping the bed now, grinding into the mattress as he watched you squirm for his mouth.

“You wanna cry for me?”

You nodded. Desperate. Already halfway there.

“Say it.”

“Sanemi—” Your voice cracked. “Please. I wanna cum—I wanna cum so bad, I—fuck—please, I’ll cry, I’ll do anything, I’ll let you do anything—just let me—”

You felt it. That first sob. Shameful. Raw. Pathetic. But real. Honest. The kind of noise your body makes when your pride finally breaks.

And he groaned into you like he’d been waiting for that. Like your unraveling was the only thing that could satisfy him.

“There she is,” he breathed.

He held your hips down with both hands now, mouth finally locking on.

No more games.

Just reverence.

---

You didn’t know which part broke you.

Maybe it was the way his mouth latched on this time—real, no teasing, no threat of retreat. His tongue flicking over your clit with slow, relentless pressure, steady and filthy and perfect in it's rhythm.

Maybe it was the hands holding your hips down like your body was going to launch off the bed.

Maybe it was the sound—his voice, gone low and worshipful, like he was half-drunk on the taste of you.

But when it hit?

It hit.

Your body locked.

Back arched.

A moan cracked out of your throat like something being ripped from you. Your eyes rolled back. Hands flying to your face, or his hair, or nothing—you didn’t even know what you were grabbing anymore.

“Fuck—Sanemi—fucking—thank y—”

He groaned into your cunt as you came.

Possessed.

And he didn’t stop.

Tongue still moving, slow now, dragging through your orgasm with utter reverence. He licked you like he was savoring your aftershocks, moaning quietly as your thighs clenched around his ears.

You were gasping. Whining. Boneless.

And he just… kept licking.

Not teasing anymore. Just tasting what he earned. Mapping your folds. Savoring your taste.

You whimpered, voice thin, nerves firing like static.

“I—I can’t—”

He finally pulled back.

Looked up at you, mouth wet, flushed from cheek to collarbone.

And he was smiling, wolfish, as if he was watching something bleed out and loving the slow death..

“You say that,” he murmured, “but your cunt’s still fucking throbbing.”

You flushed like he’d slapped you. Heat rose so fast it burned, shame and arousal tangling so tight you couldn’t tell them apart anymore.

He didn’t care. Didn’t slow. Just leaned back down and dragged his mouth up the inside of your thigh, breath hot, tongue wetter than it needed to be.

Then higher. Then again.

Then bit.

Not hard. Just enough to make you jolt.

“I told you,” he said, licking the mark he left, “that was just the beginning.”

You blinked up at him like you didn’t know where you were anymore. Like you were lost in your own body.

And he loved it.

He dragged two fingers through you—slow, lazy, like he was sampling you—and pulled them back slick and glistening.

Then sucked them into his mouth, slow.

“Still sweet,” he said around them. “Still hungry.”

He leaned in again.

And whispered into your trembling, dripping cunt:

“Next one’s with my fingers.”

---

You were still trembling, muscles jerking every few seconds like you couldn’t hold yourself together—because you couldn’t.

And he was so damn calm.

He touched you like he had all night to watch you come apart.

You felt one fingertip—just one—slip between your folds, slow as a breath. He didn’t push. Didn’t try to stretch you open again. Just gathered your slick and spread it.

And you whimpered.

It didn’t sound like a moan anymore. It sounded like surrender.

Sanemi huffed a laugh into your thigh. “Still wet,” he said, like it offended him. “And still dripping. You just don’t know when to quit, do you?”

You turned your face into the pillow, flushed to your scalp.

He bent down and licked you again.

Slow.

Solid.

You gasped like it hurt. Like pleasure had crossed the line into something else—

—need. Overload.

He didn’t stop. His tongue stayed pressed flat against you while that single finger slid lower, dipped just barely inside, and then dragged your slick back up over your clit.

You shuddered.

“Oh, fuck—Sanemi—”

He moaned, thumb brushing your hip lazily while his mouth stayed warm and close.

“You hear that?” he murmured, lips dragging over the skin of your thigh. “You’re so fucking soaked, I could drown in it.”

His finger sank in just a breath deeper—just studying it. Feeling how you pulsed around him.

Your breath stuttered. Your body clenched.

He didn’t move.

He just stayed there, finger dipped flush to your heat like he could hear it begging. The pad of it traced maddening, lazy circles—wet and slow—like he was trying to memorize you from the inside out. Like this was just the warm-up. Like he had all the time in the world to ruin you.

“Don’t wanna get you off again yet,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

He kissed your mound, wet and lazy.

“Just wanna keep you messy,” he said. “Keep you aching and sweet and stupid for it.”

You whimpered. Your hips bucked gently—reflexive.

He groaned. Deep. Hungry.

“Fuck. You’re leaking all over my hand.”

He pushed in a little more. The pad of his finger curled slightly, just enough to stroke the soft, swollen spot inside you—

Your moan hit the pillow.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “That’s it. You stay wet for me.”

He started to move the finger a little more now, slow and shallow.

Just stirring your slick.

Spreading it. Coating his skin in it.

Keeping your body ready.

“I could do this all fucking night,” he rasped. “Keep you like this. Open. Aching. Leaking for me until I decide you get to cum again.”

His thumb found your clit. Didn’t press. Just rested there. Heavy.

And your body throbbed.

He licked his lips.

“Still not done tasting you.”

You didn’t mean to beg again.

It just slipped out—cracked with the edge of a sob. Your voice was nothing now, not after what he'd done to you. After the first orgasm. After the relentless, teasing ruin he kept you in with one damn finger and a smile that said you were his to play with.

You didn’t even register what you said at first.

Didn’t realize the sound leaving your mouth was please—until it echoed in the silence.

And then you looked up.

And you saw his face.

That smirk. That sharp glint in his eyes.

Like he'd just won. Like he knew exactly what kind of mess he’d turned you into.

Smug. Dangerous.

And completely in control.

“Please,” you gasped. “Sanemi, please, I—I need it—just touch me, just—fuck—please, I want to cum again—”

He laughed.

Laughed.

A dark, guttural sound from deep in his belly—your begging hit some nerve in him.

He wanted more. He needed more.

The sound of you unraveling just made him hungrier.

“You’re really losing it, huh?”

You whined.

He curled that one finger just slightly, brushing your front wall—and your body jumped.

He watched.

“I could fuck you with one hand and never let you cum,” he said, half in awe. “Just keep you leaking for hours.”

His mouth dropped to your inner thigh. Warm. Wet. He kissed it once. Then sat up on his knees, hand still buried shallow in your cunt.

You blinked up at him—dazed and fucking aching.

His other hand lifted. Two fingers traced the air near your belly. Breathing form. But slower. Precise.

And then—

You felt it.

A gust of air, sharp and cool, like someone exhaling right onto your soaked clit.

Except it wasn’t random.

It was goddamn perfect.

It hit like a tongue.

You screamed.

Your back arched off the bed so fast it hurt, thighs trying to close around his wrist as your pussy clenched and throbbed, a second orgasm crashing over you without warning, without mercy—just from the wind. His wind.

Sanemi laughed again—stunned, almost reverent.

“Holy shit.”

He did it again.

Another flick of his hand. Another controlled breath of wind right to your clit.

You cried out, twitching, legs buckling open.

“You like that?” he asked, eyes wide now, voice rough.

You couldn’t answer.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re so wet,” he growled. “I can feel you dripping down my wrist.”

He pressed his finger deeper this time—inside, curling, stroking slow and deep while the last shiver of air hit your cunt again.

You moaned, tears hot in your eyes now.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “Overstimmed already? We’ve barely started.”

His smile was sharp now. Wild.

“I’m gonna use every fucking form I have on this pussy before the sun comes up.”

And your body didn’t know what to do anymore.

You’d cum twice already—after what felt like hours—and now your clit was throbbing again, too sensitive, too swollen, too wet, too quickly, and Sanemi was still between your legs with that same look in his eye. The one he got when he was hungry.

But not for food. For the next sound you’d make.

For the next shudder. The next cry.

“Still breathing?” he asked, low and dark, his finger sliding slick and slow out of your pussy.

You nodded. Barely.

“Good.” His grin sharpened. “You’re gonna forget how soon.”

He shifted his knees between yours, and you barely registered the slight change in posture—until you saw his hand rise again.

Two fingers. Drawing another pattern in the air.

You felt it a second later.

Another gust—icy, sharp, directly on your clit with maddening accuracy.

You screamed.

Your thighs clamped shut instinctively, hips jerking. He grabbed one, and forced the other apart with his knee, keeping them pinned to the bed with a strength that made your whole spine bow.

“Don’t you dare,” he growled. “You’re taking this.”

You tried to sob something—his name, a word, anything—but all that came out was a breathless sound, half-moan, half-cry.

He licked his lips. Didn’t even bother pretending he wasn’t hard now, grinding lazily against the soft flesh of your thigh as he watched you shake.

“I can feel it,” he whispered, reverent. “You’re dripping down your thighs.”

He slipped his finger back in—precise now.

Curled it. Dragged it against your front wall.

Then again—another Wind Breathing technique.

Not a flick this time.

A series.

A gentle, rhythmic series of gusts, each one a kiss of air against your clit—a maddening, measured silken friction perfectly timed.

You went rigid.

“Fuck—Sane—mi— I—I can’t—”

“You can,” he said, and his voice was so calm. “You’re doing so good. Look at you. Taking every fucking gust like your pussy was made for it.”

You cried out—guttural this time, raw.

He stroked you inside once more.

And again.

“God, you’re pulsing. I can feel you getting close.”

You were. So close.

But it felt different this time. Way too fast. Too much. You were still soaking from the first and second, and now this—

“I’m gonna—fuck—”

He smiled, slow and deadly.

“Go on then,” he murmured. “Cum from the air, baby.”

And you did.

Harder.

Worse.

Your third orgasm snapped out of you like a snapped cord. No control. Just pressure—white-hot and screaming.

Your back arched, whole body seizing, and you sobbed his name into the sheets. It hurt, almost. Your nerves were frayed. Your muscles jerked with every twitch of wind.

And he still. Didn’t. Stop.

The rhythm slowed, but the wind kept brushing you. All over. Every sensitive spot. Up your chest. Inside the shell of your ears. Behind your knees. Caressing and teasing like second sets of devious hands.

He was watching you with dark eyes and a slack jaw, breathing hard like he was the one who’d just cum.

“I could make you do that again,” he whispered, licking the air like he could taste it. “No fingers. No tongue. Just breathing techniques and your slutty, soaking cunt.”

You gasped, hips flexing, trying to crawl away.

He slid out of you, grabbed your thighs and dragged you back down the bed.

“Where you going, princess?” he murmured. “You think you’re done? That was two. I’ve got nine forms.”

Your orgasm hadn’t even faded before he was moving again.

You tried to sit up—failed. Sanemi’s palm found your chest and pressed you down, gentle but firm.

“Don’t move.”

His voice had dropped, rasp gone feral-soft. “Not until I’ve had all of you.”

He traced your belly with two fingers—slow, slick with your own cum and sweat.

“You want to feel it everywhere?”

You nodded, hazy.

“Say it.”

Your voice cracked. “I-I want to feel it everywhere. Everywhere, Sanemi. Please”

And he smiled like he’d waited years to hear that.

“Good girl.”

He shifted forward slightly—one knee still between your legs, the other now braced beside your hip—and drew his fingers through the air again.

Wind Breathing. Second Form.

You barely saw the movement—just the flick of his fingers slicing through the air.

But you felt it.

A gust of air brushed over your nipple—sharp, a sudden lick of pressure and heat.

Your back bowed off the bed. Hard.

You gasped, breath caught and ragged.

He did it again—other side.

Another burst. Another sting of heat and chill lashing your skin, tightening everything in an instant.

You cried out. Couldn’t stop it.

He looked ecstatic.

“You feel that?” he breathed. “The air wants you open.”

Your nipples stiffened instantly. Your toes curled in the sheets. You could hardly breathe.

He bent down then—finally—tongue dragging over one peak, slow and maddening, while the other caught another gust. Perfectly aimed. Perfectly cruel.

You writhed.

“Look at you,” he said, lips brushing your skin.

“Look how fast your body begs.”

You moaned—loud now.

And then—Wind Breathing, Third Form.

A spiral of air, precise and dancing, traced the curve of your waist. You felt it swirl around your ribs, dip under the slope of your breast—like invisible fingers teasing your skin.

Your thighs jerked.

“You want the next one?” he rasped, licking down your stomach. “You want to feel it where you’re aching again?”

You nodded, wild now. Eyes pleading through blurry lashes.

He drew another shape.

Fourth Form. Rising Dust Storm.

This time the wind rose from the bed like a lifted hand—brushed up between your thighs, dragging over your pussy in one firm, gentle wave.

You sobbed.

Your legs tried to close. He slapped your thigh—hard.

“No,” he growled. “Stay open. Let it touch you.”

You tried. You did.

But it was too much. The air—everywhere. Him—caging you wide open. Your cunt throbbed. Your nipples burned. Your whole body felt like it was being kissed inside-out by something you couldn’t see but could feel in every nerve ending.

He kissed down your stomach. Bit your hip lovingly.

“You feel fucked yet?” he whispered. “Because I haven’t even put my cock in you.”

You couldn’t speak.

And then without warning:

Fifth Form. Cold Mountain Wind.

A pulsing rhythm of air from above.

And not just one. Many. Like a breath you couldn’t catch.

All centered on your clit.

The current vibrated relentlessly. Perfectly. Timing the pulses of wind over your clit to your racing pulse. Just shy of overstimulating and just strong enough to force your body to react.

Oh and did your body react.

You came again.

Harder.

No warning, no build—just wind.

Your hips rose off the bed. Your mouth opened in a silent scream.

Your cunt clenched around nothing. Slick pouring, soaking, dripping.

Sanemi was grinning, sweat sliding down his battle-scarred chest, eyes locked on you like you were prey he wanted to starve and devour all at once.

“That’s five.”

He leaned over you, kissed your mouth—soft, finally, the wind gone for a moment.

“You want six and seven?” he whispered into your lips. “You want to be wrecked so deep the air’s inside you?”

You couldn’t breathe.

Your skin had turned impossibly raw, making every whisper of contact feel immense and almost fucking unbearable. Everything felt linked to your clit.

Your thighs. Your hips. The back of your neck.

Even your scalp prickled with sensation, like the air around you was alive—coiling and biting and dragging over your skin like invisible fingers.

Sanemi’s chest was still heaving. His body gleamed with sweat.

And he hadn’t even touched your body in minutes.

You were soaked.

More than soaked—flooded. Leaking down onto the sheets, overstimmed and still wet, still twitching, still begging for something your mouth was too broken to say.

He tilted his head, grinning. Sharp.

“Still with me?”

You tried to nod.

He kissed your knee, then traced a fingertip up your thigh so slow it made your skin burn.

“You sure?”

“Sanemi—”

It was a whimper. Not a warning.

He leaned in, nuzzled between your breasts. Bit your collarbone.

“I told you not to beg if you weren’t ready,” he rasped. “You wanted everything?”

You nodded. Desperate.

He exhaled. Stood up over you—casting a long shadow over the topography of your curves. Eyes half-lidded. Body feral.

“Then take everything.”

Sixth Form. Black Wind Mountain Mist.

This time, you didn’t feel it as a gust.

You felt it as pressure. All around you. Heavy. Humid.

Like the air was wrapping around your limbs, sealing you in.

You cried out—and it echoed.

The wind caught it. Trapped it. Folded it back into your mouth.

You whimpered again—another moan, looped and swallowed by the mist, forced down your throat by pressure and wind.

You were crying now—from it, through it, into it.

Sanemi stepped back, watched the mist form tight tentacled vortexes around your hips, your throat, your ankles.

“Still want to be ruined?”

Your body twitched. A yes without words.

He crawled back between your thighs, hands finally on you again, hot and rough and so fucking real compared to the air. You melted into him.

Two fingers slid into your cunt. Deep. Unforgiving.

You screamed—only to have the wind catch your voice and fold it back into your mouth.

Sanemi was watching your face now. Almost dazed.

“You feel that?”

You sobbed. Just two of his fingers felt so big. They were stretching you out so much. But he kept stroking you. Slowly. Gently. Curling deep. Massaging that soaked, swollen spot inside you like he owned it.

“The wind doesn’t want to let you go,” he whispered. “It wants to keep you.”

You clenched around his fingers. It felt so good. So perfect.

“Good,” he growled. “Then let it.”

Seventh Form. Gale—Sudden Storm.

The air slammed into you. Cold. Unpredictable.

Licks of pressure over your ribs.

A sudden gust over your breasts—your nipples screamed.

A whip of wind between your legs, brushing your clit with no rhythm, no mercy.

One flick curling up your collarbone and into you inner ear, leaving you tingling everywhere.

Another found it's way under your lower back and traveled up your spine.

You shrieked—your voice bouncing in the mist, coming back to you a split second later.

Sanemi leaned down, bit your thigh.

“You’re gonna cum again,” he growled. “Not ‘cause I’m fucking you. Because everything is.”

Another gust hit your side. Your stomach. The soft skin between your legs.

Your pussy clenched around his fingers.

“Come on,” he hissed. “Let the air fuck you.”

And then it hit.

Immediate, absolute, and fucking final.

The wind pulsed right over your clit at the exact moment his fingers dragged against your g-spot, and you shattered.

You came screaming.

No sound.

No air.

Just convulsing, body locked, mouth open pleasure.

Sanemi watched you like he’d never seen anything so fucking beautiful in his life.

You—shaking, spasming, mouth open but silent from how hard it hit. Eyes wet and glassy and unfocused.

And it wasn’t his tongue.

Wasn’t his cock.

It was him—his breath, his body, his technique—wringing that orgasm out of you like the wind had been crafted just to feel your scream.

He stared.

In awe. In reverence.

His mouth open.

His cock painfully hard.

And his body not touching you at all now.

Just the wind.

And your own soaked, shuddering body.

It was a fucking vision. A storm he summoned just to worship.

He couldn’t breathe for a second.

You were strength and sweetness and utter ruin.

And it was all for him.

He should’ve stopped.

You were limp beneath him — breath shallow, lips parted, eyes glazed with the kind of dazed, ruined haze that screamed done. Your body twitched around nothing, still fluttering, still leaking. Still twitching for him.

But that only made it worse.

He crouched over you again — finally lining himself up.

The head of his cock dragged through your folds, catching on your slick, twitching entrance. Not inside.

Not yet.

Just there.

He didn’t move. Just stayed there, watching the way your body trembled, still caught in the aftershocks, already desperate for more.

Sanemi made a sound. Something low and animal.

He should’ve worshipped you. Should’ve held still and let you come down. Let you breathe.

Instead—

His hands tightened on your thighs. Too tight. He dragged you closer like he owned your hips, like your softness was something that belonged under his hands, spread and shaking and soaked. His breath hit your skin in broken huffs.

"You still want more?" he whispered, voice barely human. Strained. Almost shaken.

"You want to take me like this? Still shaking… still full of wind and want?"

His cock twitched against you, wet with your mess, and he bit back a groan that sounded more like a prayer.

“Let me wreck you with it,” he said, voice low and tight. “Let the wind tear you open from the inside while I fuck the rest.”

But he didn’t move. Just let his forehead rest against your chest, breath ragged, jaw tight.

“Let me stay,” he whispered. “So every time the wind touches you, it feels like me crawling back in.”

------------maybe to be continued?---------------

Tysm for reading (∩∀`*) I'm not normal about this man. I hope I did him justice! [Also LMAO guys I know he has 9 forms but I barely survived this 7 ok...]

P1PIC : EP1[GIFS] /EP2[PIC] : EP2[Gifs] /

EP3[PIC] : EP3[GIFS] : UZUI / EP4[PIC] : EP4[GIFS] : Hashira