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Something about Gyomei made Sanemi’s knees buckle, made his face heat up and his brain short circuit. Often, people recounted similar symptoms—mostly being tongue-tied and unable to support themselves—but they called the feeling fear . Sanemi, on the other hand, disagreed. Sure, fear did many things that you could mistaken Sanemi’s reaction as. Like his heartbeat racing, the feeling of being held down and wanting desperately to do something, to name a few. But those placed in the anxiety and terror Sanemi knew versus whatever it was he felt around Gyomei were extremely different. Fear didn’t tent your pants. Fear didn’t flash images of being fucked stupid in your brain. Fear didn’t make it so all that could slip from your lips was a pathetic moan.
Unless, of course, you were masochistic. And maybe Sanemi really was. He wouldn’t put it past himself—finding a fucking bottle and trying to stuff himself with it, wishing it were Gyomei. Searching for the one widest in girth, longest in length. But he couldn’t find anything to compare with Gyomei’s size. And he would know. It wasn’t as if the Hashira hadn’t bumped into each other at the hot springs before. Hell, sometimes they met up at the hot springs while waiting for their katana replacements just to have a moment’s relaxation. And, just saying, Sanemi would’ve jumped on that goddamn dick the moment he saw it if they hadn’t had company. Okay, maybe he would’ve. But he was pretty sure Gyomei would object to it—which was the only thing keeping his towel wrapped tightly around his waist. He made sure to be the last to leave so that nobody could see the throbbing erection he’d acquired while eyeing Gyomei the whole time.
It was improper, he knew it. He really shouldn’t be doing this. Thinking this. Who did that with their coworker? But it wasn’t like he could stop it. His mind was reeling at the thought of Gyomei—begging to be fucked out. All he needed was some nice, rough, mind blowing sex to soothe his brain. Specifically from Gyomei. Because god-fucking- damn was Sanemi all but drooling at the thought. He would get on his knees and beg for Gyomei in front of the whole Corps if he could get him to rearrange his organs. Alright, maybe the whole
Corps was an overstatement—sure, he was going to die any moment, but he would not let go of his dignity just yet. Only for Gyomei. So maybe he should revoke that statement and fix it a little. He would beg for Gyomei in front of Giyuu. Because Giyuu wouldn’t talk, hopefully, and Sanemi could also just make a deal with him to be his friend or whatever.
But that was getting too technical. Because technically, all Sanemi really wanted was Gyomei—and he would plead for it if he had to. Which he surprisingly didn’t. Because somehow he did find himself in Gyomei’s room, overstuffed and senseless. As a goddamn cockwarm, for the moment.
He wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten here—his brain was jumbled up into a thousand pieces, a puzzle he could never remake. He only knew that, in no particular order, he had come to Gyomei’s house for training or something, had gotten a letter earlier, and had ended up here. Okay, he really didn’t know much. But Gyomei was so large, his hands so big, his cock so big, his body so—
And he was inside Sanemi, all but splitting him open. It had taken far too long to get to this point, Sanemi recalled. There had been a fair share of fingering—and even Gyomei’s fingers were huge, fuck— because Sanemi had been much too tight. Even with all the times he’d fucked himself with what he’d hoped could compare to Gyomei. Because, of course, nothing could compare to the overwhelmingly large intrusion of Gyomei’s cock. Earlier, when Sanemi had been doubled over Gyomei’s hand from the merest, gentle finger fucking, Gyomei had noted that there would need to be several more fingers before Sanemi could even begin to be opened enough. And even then, at two fingers, Sanemi had already been writhing, panting as he was slowly, carefully scissored open. So sitting here with Gyomei balls deep into him? Needless to say, his brain had long ago stopped working. Especially since Gyomei was pressed teasingly against Sanemi’s prostate and any small movement grazed it quite nicely. Not to mention the very obvious bulge in Sanemi’s stomach that he had to resist the urge pressing on.
He was sort of glad Gyomei couldn’t see, glad he wasn’t able to witness Sanemi in whatever state he was in. They were in front of a mirror, actually. Sanemi wasn’t sure why there was a mirror, but figured it must have something to do Mitsuri, given the little pink cat stickers along the edges. Perhaps it was decorative for the sake of (unlikely) visitors. But whatever the reason, it gave Sanemi a perfect view of his own, fucked out new fashion. He refused to look, however, unsure how he’d feel about it.
The main reason they were currently so still, besides the fact that Sanemi would take years to adjust, was that Gyomei was working on paperwork. After they had settled into this position, Gyomei had mentioned something he had to get finished. It wasn’t so much of writing or reading—which neither Sanemi nor Gyomei could do—but more like sorting the papers. There were file papers—ripped ones must go to one pile, the others in another. They were all from old demon sightings, none they actually needed at the moment. But the Corps liked keeping old records because it was helpful for learning as much about demons as they could, and the ripped ones were to be repaired for future slayers who might need them. Given that Gyomei couldn’t help with other paperwork, he’d been put to this job. Which would sound pathetic, really. Except there were hundreds of papers to sort and it couldn’t be done very quickly, else the papers ripped. Also, nobody else cared to do it. So that’s what Gyomei was doing, filling the room with shuffling papers as he let Sanemi grow accustomed to what Inosuke could easily do whenever—organ rearranging.
The sound of the papers wasn’t the only noise in the quiet room, of course. Sanemi could hardly keep silent—or still—his itching need to always move very much backfiring at the moment. Usually it helped him be able to get back on his feet quickly, easily. Now it sent waves of pleasure, salted with pain, sweeping over him. Several times, he folded over, nearly knocking down Gyomei’s so carefully arranged piles of papers. He was a never ending source of gasps, tears he couldn’t hold back tumbling down his cheeks. If he was being honest, it wasn’t so much of the pain that had him crying but rather the intense need to fuck. His own cock, much smaller than Gyomei’s, was quite angry, leaking pre and pulsing a furious red as it bounced helplessly against Sanemi’s stomach.
The fact that Gyomei refused to fuck him until the pain mostly receded was tearing him far more than the dick he had nestled inside him. He would lie about the sting leaving if he could, but he knew better than to trust his voice now. Not after the small, pathetic pleads had been so overlayed with choked back sobs and humiliating whimpers. Gyomei had only pet him then, as if Sanemi were one of his cats. He’d told him to wait it out. Which, in the end, Sanemi had complied to, seeing how it did sort of, maybe hurt a tad bit. But now he wished they could go ahead and fuck because this was taking too long and whenever he moved himself more than casual adjusting, Gyomei would hold him down. He wouldn’t even do it with much pressure. And the gentleness of his touch had Sanemi keeling over on the spot. Imagine a 7-foot Hashira with his cock so deep in you that’s all you can feel. And then he handles you like you’re a newborn fawn. Sanemi couldn’t imagine any reason why he wouldn’t like Gyomei—and this wasn’t even sexual. Which, of course, he thinks while desperately trying to rut his hips against the table. But, hey! Even without a dick that would put the whole world to shame, Gyomei was still absolutely boyfriend material. Not to mention that his cock wasn’t the only thing so thought-process-fucked large. Sanemi could’ve cum a thousand times on Gyomei’s hands alone. He was so fucked. Literally, too.
But on a more (or less) serious note—Sanemi would never have guessed that he’d be stuck having to fantasize about the shit he wanted in the bedroom while being in the same goddamn position he wished for elsewhere. Why in the world did he have to resort to his imagination when he was sitting on the same dick he’d always hoped for? It was driving him crazy. He hated how patient Gyomei could be, even with that mouth-watering erection of his. Sanemi was quite in awe of the way Gyomei had handled being sucked in like who knows what—there couldn’t possibly be anything that was suctioned in as fast as Sanemi had clamped around Gyomei—and still wear that maddeningly calm façade of his. If it weren’t for the rock-hard cock (heh), Sanemi would've thought this bored Gyomei. But alas, there seemed little he could do but wait.
He wasn't sure how Gyomei was able to discern if Sanemi was ready or not. It wasn’t as if he could exactly relax into this—and even if he did, he would still be considerably tight so that it would be hard to tell if anything actually happened. It wasn’t until Sanemi registered Gyomei shifting slightly that he realized what the strategy was.
Really, he hadn’t noticed the shifting so much as the shaky whimper that had left him when Gyomei moved. But hearing it leave his lips, and actually paying attention enough to see that the movement had been completely controlled and not at all subtle, finally opened his eyes—which had actually been closed beforehand, without his own knowledge. No doubt Gyomei had probably been gently moving Sanemi every now and then, listening or feeling for his reactions. He’d probably squeezed out many of Sanemi’s pathetic whines earlier while Sanemi had been too fucked-out to notice. Perhaps he’d been waiting for Sanemi to return to semi-full consciousness or something, because Gyomei paused and the papers in his hands were placed onto the table. Sanemi’s heart raced a thousand miles. This better be fucking it.
“Shinazugawa?” he asked. His voice was quiet and deep and sent a slice of heaven down to Sanemi’s cock. Previously, the room had been relatively silent, so despite the softness of Gyomei’s tone, it still slipped out moderately loudly. He seemed to realize this and bent down slightly, his chest pressing to Sanemi’s back. The next time he spoke, his lips were teasing Sanemi’s ear, his voice nearing a whisper. “Do you feel better?”
Sanemi shivered, choking back a groan. “Ye-es,” he managed. He was suddenly very conscious of the way his ass tightened unconsciously when Gyomei spoke. He forced himself to relax.
Gyomei’s hum reverberated through both of them. “Are you sure?” He was so full of genuine concern and all his coddling was making Sanemi’s head spin. “I don’t want it to hurt for you.”
“Please,” Sanemi mumbled. It was getting harder to speak. Despite managing to gain some control over his reeling mind, his tongue was refusing to work and his throat was hoarse from… well, he wasn’t sure. At the very least, his mouth was dry and he wanted to kiss Gyomei very badly. And, he might add, while being fucked to the point he passed out. But he wasn’t quite sure how much of this he wanted to put in words to Gyomei. Even if his cock was in Sanemi at the moment, he could still feel the secondhand embarrassment for himself burning his cheeks. He wasn’t sure how it was secondhand, maybe because he hadn’t actually said anything, or maybe because he was so goddamn desperate that all he could think was that he wanted to fuck. He chose the latter.
Meanwhile, Gyomei was speaking. Sanemi had no idea what he’d said, but he pretended to be listening as he finally zoned back into the one sided conversation.
“—missions. I’m aware, as you asked earlier, that you want it… ‘hard’. But I’m worried about the after effects. You are strong, and you adapt well, but it’s still a… stretch,” Gyomei explained. It seemed to be an attempt at a joke.
Sanemi nodded, trusting the action to be felt. “I’ll be fine… I can handle it. I don’t have any missions tomorrow that require a lot of movement. Just patrol,” he assured him. He cringed internally at how much his voice cracked. At least he didn’t cut himself off half way through.
Gyomei nodded back. Sanemi had the feeling that this had already been discussed in the one person conversation from a couple minutes prior. He should really stop not listening.
“Very well. But if you think it becomes too much, please communicate it with me. Do you remember the safe word?” Gyomei’s hands slipped down to cup Sanemi’s, squeezing them gently.
Sanemi nodded. They had had a light discussion about everything before stripping, laying out some boundaries. Sanemi couldn’t even remember what they’d said, but he could recall the word easily. They had settled on ‘katana,’ which could’ve been simple except they had added little details about how they used katanas to protect themselves from things they didn’t like—demons—and then it had gotten all metaphorical. But that was beside the point. Yes, he did remember it.
Satisfied, Gyomei carefully pushed the table and papers away from the futon they sat on—having pulled it over to work with earlier. Then he guided Sanemi’s chin up, in a gentle but demanding way so that he was forced to look up—immediately seeing himself in the mirror that sat against the wall in front of them. On instinct, Sanemi’s eyes latched onto himself. Quickly, he averted his gaze upon realizing Gyomei’s intention, but he’d already seem enough. And he was suddenly very glad Gyomei couldn’t see because there was no way he’d let him fuck if he saw him in this state.
Sanemi’s hair had become a beautifully disarrayed bird’s nest, his bangs sticking to his forehead from sweat. His face was flushed a deep red, but not quite rivaling his cock which had scattered pre all over his stomach. Ah, his stomach. With that little bulge, making itself known to the whole world. His legs were spread wide apart, which he hadn’t even realized, as if he was inviting something. Someone. And he looked so fucking desperate for that someone. God, please let Gyomei fuck him.
“Are you looking at yourself, Shinazugawa?”
By some unspoken curse, Sanemi shook his head. Mentally cursing himself, he quickly added, “I don’t… want to.”
“I want you to.”
Sanemi wished Gyomei would stop being so goddamn hot for no reason.
“Why?”
Instead of answering, Gyomei leaned forward and pressed his lips to Sanemi’s neck. He stayed there for a moment, allowing Sanemi to get used to the slight shift. Then he spoke, his voice muffled against skin.
“I cannot see you. I want you to see everything for me. Tell me how you look,” Gyomei said. A guttural moan trembled in Sanemi’s throat at that. Fucking fuck, fuck, fuck.
“I don’t- I’m-“ Sanemi could not speak. He’d go mute by the end of this.
“Please,” Gyomei added. “Sanemi.”
His given name was spoken with the husky, murmured voice while they were alone in a room, not even inches apart, not a sight of clothing to restrict their touch. Sanemi nearly came from that alone. He only just managed to choke back the whine that rose in throat. But Gyomei seemed to notice it and the smile in his words was evident.
“Tell me how you look and I’ll begin,” Gyomei promised. He’ll begin. Begin to fuck Sanemi. Please.
Only a moment of hesitance this time. “I don’t know how to… Where to start.” Sanemi resisted the urge to just initiate everything, knowing full well Gyomei could stop him with a pinky.
“Your face.”
Sanemi bit his lip. “Uhm. My eyes are purple-ish.”
“Purple?”
“Like… a gray-purple. Like twilight—the moment between dusk and night. Does that make sense?” Sanemi asked uncertainly. He didn’t know how to explain colors.
Praise could go without words—and they did now as Gyomei rewarded him with a slow, sensual grind. Sanemi instantly became putty, hands flying out and clutching Gyomei’s arms. He was melting. They had only just started, but the time spent waiting—perhaps a million years, give or take—had been such a torture that this small glimpse of everything he’s wanted since had him keeling over. Undoubtedly, he would pass out from the mere pleasure soon enough.
“Keep going,” Gyomei encouraged.
Sanemi took a moment—a long one, though Gyomei waited patiently. Then he willed himself to look back up at the mirror. His eyes had become half-lidded, barely able to support themself. He wanted dearly for Gyomei to continue. But he would have to first.
“H…hair? It’s… white. Like snow,” Sanemi mumbled. “Like clouds.” And cum. God, he needed to cum.
“It’s quite warm,” Gyomei remarked. “Unlike snow.”
“W…well, it’s not actually snow,” Sanemi agreed. He went to add something, only to cut himself with the most pathetic mewl as Gyomei slid out of him slightly, lifting him off his lap. He tried to sink back down, but Gyomei wouldn’t let him until he kept talking. Even so, Sanemi’s eyes were shut tight. His legs were shaking already. He couldn’t speak. Fuck.
“What about your skin?” Gyomei asked softly. “What is it like?”
“H…has… It’s just… scars,” Sanemi squeaked. “You wouldn’t… like it.”
Gyomei considered this. “I am quite sure I’d love every part of you,” he assured him. Then he plunged back into Sanemi with one swift motion.
Something akin to a stuttering, sobbing wail racked Sanemi’s body. His back arched, shoulders pressed against Gyomei’s chest. His head was thrown back in ecstasy, fingernails digging into whatever he managed to grasp.
“ Fuck ,” he cried, his voice cracking. “Fuck, please, please . Himejima.”
“What color is your skin?” Gyomei said against Sanemi’s neck. “I believe everything has a color, yes?”
“Himejima… Please…” There was no way Sanemi could respond. Tears streamed down his cheeks at the lack of movement, ass clenching desperately around Gyomei.
“Eyes like twilight. Hair like snow. Tell me more.”
Sanemi was babbling, trying and failing to be coherent more than the pleads he managed. But Gyomei wouldn’t continue without hearing him speak. So Sanemi tried. He managed to peek at himself through the mirror, trying to conjure something in his mind to put a picture into Gyomei’s. Even so, all he could think was that the bulge in his stomach was back. He was starting to hope it never left. Or maybe he was being delirious.
“Like… Like a peach,” Sanemi said quietly. No, maybe not a peach. Then, what? “Autumn? But lighter. Orange. Light, light orange. Peach in snow.”
Gyomei hummed. “Peaches? Peaches are soft… and small. Sweet.” He kissed Sanemi’s neck. He began to move his hips in a tantalizingly slow manner. Even so, it worked wonders. Sanemi was so fucked.
At least he didn’t continue pressing him for imagery, instead allowing Sanemi to fall apart in his hands as he ground against him in undulating motions. It was hard to tell if he was teasing him, only allowing him small tastes, or if he was just trying to be gentle. Either way, Sanemi still managed to be reduced to nothing more than a wrecked mess on the verge of cumming, his whines and cries echoing in the room. Try as he might, his pleads for the pace to increase either went ignored or never made it past his lips, lost in the storm of the filthiest moans. Masturbating couldn’t even hold a candle to how fucking good this felt.
Pleasure was an understatement. Sanemi’s senses seemed both heightened and torn from his body. All he knew was that he would never be able to cum from anything after this. Gyomei was out of this fucking world. Any coherent thought had been swept from Sanemi’s mind, scrambled words and phrases barely registered. Gyomei was speaking, he realized after a moment. But he couldn’t understand. He was sure his eyes rolled back into oblivion when a particularly strong thrust had his head thrown back, colliding with Gyomei’s shoulder. Sounds were long gone—he could feel the vibrations of his sobs rolling off his tongue, knew that he was subconsciously clenching onto Gyomei, unwilling to let go, but he could hear nothing except Gyomei chanting his name. He wasn’t even sure if it was his imagination, if he was remembering when ‘Sanemi’ was spoken upon those sacred lips or if it was actually happening. All he could comprehend was that he was reaching his climax, writhing in Gyomei’s strong grasp. Somehow, someway, he managed to communicate with Gyomei, sharp and short words coming out to warn him.
“Gonna- Gonna cum,” he was gasping. Pleading, almost.
Gyomei encouraged him through it, one hand on Sanemi’s waist and the other coming around to pump his cock which seemed miniature, almost, compared to his hand. Sanemi was all but screaming his ecstasy, tears streaming down his face as his cum came out in jerky spurts along his thighs. His orgasm felt prolonged, almost ages before he slumped against Gyomei’s steady, toned body. He knew Gyomei hadn’t cum yet, had probably been waiting for Sanemi too, but even so there was no movement to continue. Perhaps he thought Sanemi was in no state to keep going. Despite the urge to deny this, Sanemi found himself completely and utterly limp. At some point, he had left breathing control far away and was panting, gasping for breath. Gyomei simply massaged him, his thighs, his ass, pressing chaste kisses along his shoulder blade. How ironic that he could be so sweet and gentle like this right after fucking every thought from Sanemi’s mind.
After a long moment of this, Gyomei asked, “Are you alright?”
Sanemi nodded, if only sparingly. He would be fine eventually. “Mmh…” was all he managed to say. But Gyomei seemed satisfied with it.
“We must get you cleaned up,” Gyomei said idly. “I’ll prepare a warm bath.”
Everything in Sanemi screamed no, but he was tired, his voice unwilling to work. At least, he thought, Gyomei wasn’t moving yet. He must be allowing Sanemi to relax first, probably not wanting to jostle him around too much. So they sat, quietly, listening to each other’s breaths—and the stark contrast of them. It was as if Sanemi was the most unfit person in the world who had just run a marathon.
After a while, Gyomei began to move. His intentions weren’t clear at first, but when he began to lift Sanemi from his cock ever so slowly, it became obvious what he was doing. And Sanemi did not like it.
Hit by a sudden surge of desperation—that seemed to pass as momentary strength—Sanemi clenched as tightly as he could onto Gyomei. That alone stimulated a whine in his overused throat and Gyomei stopped, confused.
“Shinazugawa?”
Sanemi struggled to speak, wriggling in Gyomei’s grasp until he was let back down, sinking onto his cock again. His sigh was laced with shaky whimpers, his eyes closing as he relaxed, slumping against Gyomei. When he regained the strength to form words in his mind, he tried offering them to the air, hoping he was still coherent despite how fucked his throat was.
“No…t done,” he mumbled. “You’ve not… You still haft’a cum.”
Understanding seemed to dawn on Gyomei. “It’s alright. You’re in no state to continue.”
He wasn’t quite sure if it was from fury or whatever, not very in control of himself anymore, but Sanemi managed to sit up. His eyes remained stubbornly closed, but he still turned, gasping as Gyomei’s cock rubbed along his walls. That, at least, got his eyes to open for a second. Enough so he could lock his knees on either side of Gyomei, straddling him and saying, as firmly as he could, “I still… can. Keep going. Please.”
He wasn’t making any sense, that he knew. But he hoped his intention made it through. He wouldn’t stop until they’d both cum. Also, he still wanted to fuck.
Gyomei sighed. “Shinazugawa-“
“Sanemi.”
“Sanemi,” he echoes. “I believe I’ve exerted your body too much. Even if patrolling doesn’t require much strength, the ability to stand is… essential. And your legs are shaking.”
Sanemi bit his lip. But he wanted it! He needed it! Please . Yet he couldn’t get the words out, voice long gone. And Gyomei noticed. He knew. Seemed to think Sanemi had resigned himself to this terrible fate too, because he started moving again, trying to get him off. But Sanemi was so goddamn desperate, he wouldn’t allow it. Actual tears pricked his eyes as he clung onto Gyomei like a koala, pushing all his strength into the action. Gyomei tensed slightly, exasperated at Sanemi’s insistence.
“Shina- Sanemi… You need to rest,” he tried. His attempts would stay utterly and completely futile. Sanemi would see to that.
Finally, after several long moments of no movement from either man, Gyomei gave in. He probably had underestimated the strength of pure determination. And the feeling of being high and delirious with pleasure. You’d be surprised what having a cock in your ass could do. Unless that was just Sanemi. Probably just Sanemi.
“Fine. But if anything hurt or you show signs of being unable to continue—“
“I know,” Sanemi rasped. “‘Katana,’ I know .”
Gyomei let out a breath. “What do you want?”
“Fuck me.”
A soft laugh. “Be more specific, Sanemi. If you want something, you need to communicate it.”
Sanemi frowned. His eyes cracked open. He remembered he was on top of Gyomei and found himself sitting up slightly to admire his body. He hadn’t been looking before, relying completely on touch. But now that he was facing him, he could finally appreciate Gyomei’s build. It encouraged him and he shifted, lifting his hips slightly and letting a broken pant roll down his tongue. There wasn’t much he could add to his pleads except, “Want it hard. Faster tha-han before.”
Gyomei was amused. He tugged Sanemi up slightly, bringing him into a kiss. They hadn’t kissed prior, having immediately jumped into sex, so Sanemi had no idea what to expect. Surprisingly, Gyomei was almost a shy kisser, his tongue staying firmly inside his mouth until Sanemi nudged past his lips with his own. It became heated, their saliva unrecognizable from one another’s. When they parted, Gyomei was flushed, apparently surprised at how far the kiss had gone. Despite having just fucked the life force out of Sanemi. Oh, well. Made him more enchanting.
“Do you want it in this position?” Gyomei asked, hands cradling Sanemi’s thighs.
Sanemi thought for a moment. Though, really, his thoughts were more like flashes of the ways he’d imagined himself getting fucked beforehand. After a quick deduction that saying it aloud was embarrassing, he instead guided Gyomei down onto his back so he lay flat on the futon. Before any questions were asked, Sanemi eased himself up slowly, trembling slightly as he did so. For a moment, he simply gazed at Gyomei, wondering how the man would feel if every wish and thought he’d had towards him were made public. Then, as the head of Gyomei’s cock snagged on his hole, Sanemi paused. He took in deep a breath, using one hand to spread himself and the other as support. Then he sunk down in one go.
If he hadn’t lost his voice before, he certainly would now. A strangled sort of cry ripped from his throat as he bottomed out, his eyes rolling back in his head. He felt like his entire body shook and he wondered if he had cum from that alone. But he had little time to dwell on that because, despite his previous reluctance, Gyomei had given into the command of fucking him with as much vigor as he fought demons, his hips already rising to collide with Sanemi’s ass. At the very least, Gyomei let a low groan tumble from him. The sound spurred Sanemi on. His body was most likely as limp as a wet towel, but he let adrenaline help him ride Gyomei, trying as hard as he could to move in undulating motions. Eventually, however, Gyomei took the lead, bouncing Sanemi on his cock and murmuring praises lost in the hoarse cries that flew through the air. It could’ve been years, could’ve been seconds, before Sanemi could take it no longer, the pleasure and pain that melted into one continuously strumming through him at a pace so wanton and filthy it wasn’t to be spoken of again. He barely registered his name being hissed from Gyomei’s lips as his eyes became permanently glued to the back of his head, his mind going blank. Consciousness was a luxury he didn’t need.
—
The world was warm and wet and big. Sanemi opened his eyes. Oh. He was in the bath, his whole body up to his chin was soaking in the most pleasing warmth. But he was aching all over, now that he thought about it. Particularly his ass. He wished to turn around, but wasn’t quite sure if that would do anything more than drown him. His eyes flicked up and he realized Gyomei had entered the room with a robe and a towel in hand. Silently, Gyomei knelt by the bath and began to skim his hands over Sanemi’s body, cleaning him. Because he seemed oblivious to the fact that Sanemi had awoken, he decided to give him some pointers.
“Himejima,” he mumbled. Well, he tried to. Instead, all that came out was a rough croak. He winced at it. He would need to take some tea later.
At least it did its job because Gyomei’s focus snapped, startled. “You’re awake? How long have you been…?” He seemed to realize Sanemi couldn’t speak. He sighed. “Never mind. I hope you do not mind me washing you… I didn’t realize you would wake up so quickly. I intended to put you to bed.”
Sanemi decided Gyomei was definitely boyfriend material. He was so goddamn good in bed and he was so fucking sweet elsewhere. Actually, sex didn’t stop him from being an angel at all. Hadn’t he sent Sanemi to heaven and beyond?
As an attempt to respond, Sanemi managed to drag a limp hand onto Gyomei’s in appreciation. Gyomei smiled, seeming to take that as invitation to continue washing him. He began to incorporate slow massaging into his movement, probably trying to help Sanemi regain feeling in his limbs. They didn’t speak, letting their breathing and the quiet sound of moving water fill the room. By the time Gyomei had thoroughly cleaned every inch of Sanemi, he’d nearly fallen back asleep, relaxing at the protective touch.
Gyomei stood, getting the towel and lifting Sanemi out of the bath. He patted him down before placing the towel on the floor and helping him sit. Then he got the robe and, after some struggle, they managed to get it onto Sanemi. Gyomei picked him up again, holding him like he was some child in need of coddling and carried him to the futon. The sheets had been changed, the bed made, and Sanemi was slipped under the covers. Gyomei petted him affectionately and it didn’t take long until Sanemi fell asleep again. The last thing he knew was Gyomei’s warmth engulfing him as he drifted off into what must’ve been the deepest sleep he’d had in years.