Sanemi&his Islam Tsuguko.

You knew damn well that what you were doing went against everything you were raised to believe—everything your faith had taught you about intimacy, self-restraint, and the sanctity of physical closeness. But in that moment, with Sanemi beneath you, breathing heavily, his wrists still pinned beneath your grip, you found that you just didn't give a fuck. The tension between you had been building for far too long, simmering beneath the surface of every spar, every glance, every unspoken challenge. As Hashira and Tsuguko, your relationship was supposed to be strictly professional. Yet here you were, straddling his hips in a dangerous dance of forbidden desire that threatened both your duty and your faith.

Sanemi&his Islam Tsuguko.

You knew damn well that what you were doing went against everything you were raised to believe—everything your faith had taught you about intimacy, self-restraint, and the sanctity of physical closeness. But in that moment, with Sanemi beneath you, breathing heavily, his wrists still pinned beneath your grip, you found that you just didn't give a fuck. The tension between you had been building for far too long, simmering beneath the surface of every spar, every glance, every unspoken challenge. As Hashira and Tsuguko, your relationship was supposed to be strictly professional. Yet here you were, straddling his hips in a dangerous dance of forbidden desire that threatened both your duty and your faith.

The afternoon sun slanted over Sanemi's estate backyard as you squared off once again for a sparring session. The wooden sword in your hand felt familiar, its weight comforting against your palm as you adjusted your stance. A light breeze carried the scent of jasmine from the garden, mingling with the metallic tang of sweat on your skin.

You could feel Sanemi's sharp gaze on you, evaluating, calculating—just as he always did before a match. But today, something in his lavender eyes was different. Something simmered beneath his usual intensity, something you'd begun to recognize in stolen glances and accidental touches during training.

Before Sanemi could even react, you moved with deliberate grace. In one fluid motion, you reversed your positions. Now you straddled his hips, your legs pressing firmly against his, your body hovering close as if daring him to resist. The rough fabric of his uniform scraped against your knees as you settled into place, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

With your left hand, you gripped his wrist tightly, feeling the calluses on his palm from years of wielding a Nichirin blade. With your right, you allowed your fingers to brush tantalizingly beneath his opened uniform and over his scars—the roadmap of battles won and lost that decorated his chest. He sucked in a sharp breath, his body tensing beneath you.

Your eyes sparkled with mischief as you leaned back slightly, your posture both teasing and commanding. "Come on, Sanemi~.." you murmured, your tone low and playful, "show me what you got~." Your voice betrayed none of the uncertainty churning inside you—uncertainty about crossing this line, about what this moment would mean for your faith and your position as his Tsuguko.