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hundred thousand hearts

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Sanemi sees Giyuu before Giyuu sees him. His hair is wet, pulled into a messy ponytail that hangs low on his head—dampness soaking into the back of his shirt. There’s a stuffed duffel bag slung over his shoulder and he’s dragging his feet along the linoleum like some sort of zombie. He looks like shit.

Tomioka Giyuu was Genya’s friend’s neighbor, apparently, not that it was obvious he had his own place. Sanemi has seen the loser trailing behind Tanjiro just as often as Genya does, always in their apartment rather than his own. Sanemi finds him fucking irritating.

The plan had been to slink back into the gym’s changing room and hide there until the nuisance had left, but the instant the idea enters Sanemi’s mind it’s violently murdered by Giyuu’s tired eyes glancing up at him. They widen, pretty in the way a seemingly calm river with vicious rapids lurking underneath is pretty, and Sanemi is screwed. He can’t just pretend not to see the bastard, not when their gazes are steady on each other.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sanemi’s mouth choses to ask, without any input from his brain. He tosses his own duffel bag over his shoulder—the way Genya used to tell him made him look cool, less approachable—and falls in line with Giyuu.

They step outside, where the cool breeze does wonders on his skin, overheated from boxing for way too long. The sky has long since gone dark, and the parking lot is deserted save for his own car. Sanemi is usually the last one out, with the employees occasionally having to force him off the premises when he refuses to leave. Sanemi didn’t even know he and Giyuu went to the same gym.

“There’s a pool,” Giyuu answers tersely, like fucking always. Sanemi doesn’t even know why he bothers trying to talk to the loser; his disposition is so disagreeable it makes Sanemi’s jaw hurt just to be in his presence. “I swim.”

“Shit, you can swim?” Sanemi is genuinely surprised. Luckily he manages to mask it as smug disbelief, snide and rude and exactly what is expected of him.

Giyuu seems annoyed at that, and he bristles. Finally, an emotion from him. It doesn’t reach his eyes though.

(Another thing Sanemi hates about Tomioka Giyuu: the fact that he always wants to draw emotions out of him—frustration, anger, sadness. It doesn’t matter. He wants Giyuu to feel.)

(He doesn’t know what the fuck that even means, and he doesn’t really want to take the time to figure it out.)

“I’ve been swimming for years,” Giyuu says, but his voice holds no real heat, and now it’s Sanemi’s turn to bristle. Giyuu is pissed. He knows Giyuu is pissed. So why the fuck won’t he sound like it? “Can you stop crowding me? You smell.”

“Fuck you,” Sanemi snaps, fighting the urge to lean further into Giyuu’s space just to spite the idiot. “Like you smell any better. You reek of chlorine.”

“Better than sweat.”

“What the hell is your deal with me, asshole?” Sanemi sneers. “What the fuck have I ever done to you?”

“I could ask you the same,” Giyuu says. “You’re the one who starts arguments.”

“Oi, fuck you,” Sanemi snaps, and he can feel his rage, white hot, swelling within him. Obanai tells him he’s too hot headed, which is hypocritical as fuck of that guy so Sanemi doesn’t give a shit what he says. “I don’t start shit, but I can sure finish them.”

“I don’t have time to deal with you right now, I need to get home,” Giyuu says, going to walk away.

Rage roars in his ears, and all he can think about is knocking Tomioka Giyuu down a few pegs. Sanemi’s hand shoots out, gripping the sleeve of Giyuu’s shirt. In a flash, he twists the man around and has him pinned against the wall, faces dangerously close. He snarls, “Who the fuck do you think you are? You think you’re better than me, huh?”

Giyuu’s hands come up to clutch at Sanemi’s forearms, and his eyes narrow dangerously. His hiss of breath fans across Sanemi’s face. They stare at each other, unmoving, and something blooms in Sanemi’s chest.

Sanemi doesn’t know who moves first—he never will. All he knows is that one second he’s glaring down at Giyuu with a whirlwind raging underneath his rib cage, and the next he has an arm full of Giyuu, their lips crashing together enthusiastically. Their first kiss is rough and inexperienced, an uncomfortable clash of teeth and open mouths dragging against each other, and Sanemi can’t get enough of it. Giyuu’s hands are curling around his jaw, blunt nails digging into the flesh. Their chests are flush together, and Sanemi swears he can feel Giyuu’s heart pounding away in his chest. Sanemi is drowning in him, and he doesn’t care. Fuck, he wants to—

Just as suddenly as they come together, they break apart. Giyuu pulls away like he’s been burned, hands coming up to cover his mouth in shock, but not before Sanemi can see that it’s pink and wet and tantalizing. Fuck. Since when has he thought of Giyuu’s lips as tempting? Since right now, apparently.

Sanemi’s chest is heaving, and his face feels hot. Desire burns through his veins, scalding in the best way. This isn’t the first time he’s kissed someone, but Sanemi is man enough to admit to himself that none of those kisses had been like this one. Those had been more delicate, at the behest of the girl or two he’s bedded. Giyuu’s kiss had been a messy battle, and Sanemi certainly loved to fight.

He realizes that he’s been just staring at Giyuu for longer than would be deemed normal, but he can’t make himself look away. His legs are rooted to the floor, refusing to move him to his car and drive him away from this shit storm. But Giyuu is staring back at him and emotions are finally dancing across his eyes. They flit across his eyes so quickly Sanemi can’t pin a single one down, like a wild storm.

(Finally. An emotion. Something.)

What feels like hours is surely only a brief moment, but they seem to come to the same decision in the same instant. This time, Sanemi knows who moves first, because it’s both of them. They come together with fevered determination, and then it's searing kiss after searing kiss. Giyuu’s tongue is in his mouth, running along the seam of his lips, the tip of his teeth, the flat of his tongue. Sanemi’s teeth scrape at Giyuu’s upper lip.

It’s Giyuu who verbalizes their shared pleasure first, softly groaning into Sanemi’s mouth; and it’s the first time he’s ever heard anything that primal coming from Giyuu. It makes him half hard in his sweatpants, which he would find pathetic if he could find the will to care. Sanemi lets his own moan escape from his throat, more or a growl than anything, and he can feel Giyuu shiver against him.

Their lips part with an obscene slick pop and Sanemi buries his face in Giyuu’s neck, kissing and nipping at any skin he can get at. Giyuu’s gasp of surprise is almost as satisfying as the way he arches into Sanemi, bodies aligning. His hands are gripping at Sanemi’s shoulders, grasping in vain for some kind of purchase, some kind of reprise from Sanemi’s unrelenting assault.

He’s so distracted he doesn’t hear the car drive by. Giyuu does though, and one moment Sanemi is sucking a hickey under his jaw, and the next Giyuu is almost shoving him into a bush. Sanemi blinks, shocked, and then that rage from before is back.

He snarls, “What the fuck, Tomioka?”

Giyuu has the decency to look flustered, and Sanemi is pissed to find that it’s a really good look on him. His hair is a fucking mess, properly tousled and debauched. His lips—those fucking lips—are swollen and red and Sanemi wonders if this is the first time they’ve been like this.

“There was a car,” Giyuu says, and he doesn’t sound like he’s just had his tongue down Sanemi’s throat, which just will not do. “Sorry. I think I should go. I’ll miss my bus.”

“Don’t you have a car?” Sanemi asks, which—what? No, that’s not what he wanted to ask at all. He wanted to ask why the fuck Giyuu bothered to stop, ask if he wanted to keep going. The words won’t come out though. “I mean, fuck, my car’s right there in the parking lot. C’mon, I’ll give you a ride home.”

He expects a rejection, but instead Giyuu just blinks at him. “Oh. Thanks.”

Sanemi has no idea what the fuck he’s doing anymore. Earlier he was all but praying to get away from Giyuu, and just a minute ago he was practically dry humping the guy against a wall. And now he’s invited him into his car. What the fuck. What. The. Fuck.

He picks up both his and Giyuu’s duffel bags, which had been dropped in their haste to get their hands on each other, and hands Giyuu's off. Then he starts walking off toward his car without preamble. Giyuu follows silently, and Sanemi feels that gaze on his back. He tries to ignore it, but fuck, he knows he’s failing.

“I have a car,” Giyuu says suddenly when they get to Sanemi’s car. Sanemi pops open the trunk and tosses in his duffel bag. Giyuu does the same, albeit more gently. “It broke down last week. It’s at the repair shop right now.”

“Whatever, just get in before I change my mind,” Sanemi says, unlocking the car and climbing in. Giyuu stares at him through the window before making his way to the other side and joining him, sitting primly in the sear and nothing about his demeanor giving an air of indecency.

But then Giyuu tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear, and suddenly Sanemi is greeted with the deep hickeys that he put there. They stand out against pale skin, almost violently purple-red. Heat pools in his stomach at the sight of them, familiar and only slightly unwanted. Fuck, he wants to ruin Giyuu, wants to bend him over the seat and spread him open and drink him up.

Giyuu catches him staring, bringing his fingers to gently touch at the bruised skin. In a flash, he pulls down the sun visor to try and see them in the mirror. In the moonlight of the parking lot, they should have been difficult to see. If not for the striking contrast of the hickeys and his alabaster skin, they would have. He’s staring at them, unblinking, and Sanemi doesn’t know what he’s feeling.

Then those eyes, blue and unnervingly calm, turn to him, and Sanemi doesn’t get any more of a warning before Giyuu is launching himself across the car and wrapping his arms around Sanemi’s shoulders, tugging him down into another kiss. Their noses smack together, but Sanemi ignores the pain burgeoning at the tip of his face because Giyuu is kissing him again and that’s all that fucking matters.

It’s stupid how his heart fucking sings when Giyuu presses against him, tongue licking at the seam of his lips and begging for entrance. He complies, mouth falling open. They kiss, just as fervid and clumsy and enthusiastic as earlier, learning each other until they can find a good balance of tongue and teeth.

Still, they can’t keep doing this. The angle is doing a number on Sanemi’s neck, and Giyuu’s hip is pressing into the edge of the seat in a way that can’t be comfortable. So he pulls away, ignoring the way his skin tingles when Giyuu tries to follow his mouth.

“Let’s get in the back. More room,” Sanemi says roughly. It’s an unspoken invitation to do more, and he’s not sure Giyuu is going to say yes. If he declines, well Sanemi is just going to drop the asshole off at his place and then go home and get very well acquainted with his hand. Then he’ll do his best to forget this night ever fucking happened.

“Okay,” Giyuu says, and untangles himself from Sanemi’s embrace. “Let’s do that.”

Oh, fuck.

The crawl to the backseat is fucking awkward, there’s no other way to put it. Giyuu’s arm slips and he goes down, his chin hitting the leather seat with such force that there’s probably gonna be a bruise. Sanemi gets kicked twice by Giyuu in their haste, but he doesn’t really care as much as he should. Eventually they get there, Giyuu’s back braced against the door and Sanemi crowding into his space, snug between Giyuu’s spread thighs.

The smell of chlorine fills his nose, but Giyuu is arching into him, pliant and willing, and it doesn’t fucking matter. Sanemi shoves his hand underneath Giyuu’s shirt, palming at the flesh there. There’s a surprising amount of muscle under his clothes, and Giyuu is firm under his touch. Still, he’s hot and soft and Sanemi wants to get his hands everywhere.

But.

“You ever done this before?” Sanemi asks, as if he’s a fucking expert on car hook ups. He’s never done this before, probably won’t ever again, but he needs to know. He needs to know just what Giyuu is comfortable with.

(There’s also this strange possessive need—want—to know that this is Giyuu’s first anything. His first everything. Fuck—)

“I haven’t,” Giyuu confirms. Pleasure vibrates underneath Sanemi’s skin, his chest blooming with a primal satisfaction. “I’ve never done anything with anyone before.”

Fuck.

Fuck—

“If you don’t want to do something, tell me,” Sanemi says, and that’s all the warning Giyuu gets before Sanemi sinks into him, rucking his shirt up to his neck. His nipples are perky, pink and perfect. Sanemi has his mouth on one them in an instant. He mouths at it, nipping at the hard nub and then licking it gently in a soft apology whenever he’s being too rough. The other nipple is quickly given attention by his free hand, rubbing and pinching at it without respite.

When Giyuu arches up into him, Sanemi can feel something firm press against his stomach, and he would laugh if he wasn't already hard too. Then Giyuu’s hips start moving in uncoordinated little thrusts, thighs clenching around Sanemi, already trembling. It’s fucking hot, Giyuu’s inexperience.

Sanemi’s free hand travels down, touching the expanse of skin and reveling in the goosebumps he leaves in his wake. He considers, briefly, just throwing caution to the wind and shoving his hand down Giyuu’s pants and stroking him until he comes all over himself, but then decides against it. Lucky for him, because the moment he gets a hand on Giyuu’s inner thigh, the man squeaks in surprise and his ass slips from under him, down in between the seats. He hits the floor loudly, body folding in on itself, knees up to his chest and the rest of his legs splayed out over the seat.

“What the fuck?” Sanemi asks, and Giyuu blinks up at him.

“Sorry, you took me by surprise,” Giyuu says, apparently not embarrassed to have folded like a fucking chair when Sanemi got even a little bit close to his dick. He climbs off the floor and back onto the leather seats. His legs are folded under him, hands resting in his lap, and he looks way too fucking serene for someone who just got his chest played with. It pisses Sanemi off.

Sanemi has no fucking clue what to do with him anymore.

Giyuu seems to have a few ideas though, and leans forward, palms pressing just next to Sanemi’s legs. He asks, “Can I try something?”

“Be my fucking guest,” Sanemi murmurs, and it’s all the permission Giyuu needs before he’s crawling into his space. Sanemi will never admit that he scoots back, unsure, until his back cracks against the door.

Giyuu’s hand reaches up, gripping at the zipper of his hoodie and pulling it down, revealing an expanse of scarred toned skin. He touches his pecs hesitantly, thumb ghosting past his nipple, a sensation that goes straight to his groin. “I liked what you did with your mouth right now. Do you like when someone touches you like that?”

Sanemi doesn’t actually know—no one’s ever done it. He knows some girls like having their nipples played with, and he knows that he likes playing with his lover’s nipples, but the concept of having it reciprocated isn’t something he’s ever thought about. But fuck, he doesn’t want Giyuu to know that he’s also fumbling in the dark here.

“Why don’t you find out?” Sanemi says, voice gruff and taunting.

Giyuu, apparently, decides that he will find out, because he lowers his mouth over Sanemi’s nipples with enthusiasm, licking and sucking and scraping his teeth on it. One hand grips at the other pec, palming at it experimentally. Sanemi doesn’t moan like a virginal idiot, but it’s a near thing. If his dick wasn’t already hard under the confines of his sweatpants it certainly would have been with the way Giyuu was sucking on his nipple. He’s not coordinated, not in the slightest, but Sanemi doesn’t really mind how messy Giyuu is because he’s certainly enthusiastic.

“You like it,” Giyuu says when he pulls away, and his lips are wet again. He seems pleased.

“Shut up,” Sanemi grumbles, shirking away from Giyuu. There’s a fucking kink in the base of his spine, aching from being in such an uncomfortable position.

Giyuu doesn’t follow, not like how Sanemi expects him too. Instead his eyes fall to the space in between his legs, where the thin cloth of his sweats are doing nothing to hide the straining erection that’s pushing against the fabric. He can see Giyuu’s neck move with a swallow, eyes never straying. It’s fucking hot, being stared at like that.

“What?”

“Can I,” Giyuu starts, trailing off into an unsure silence. He tries again. “Can I touch you?”

“Stop fucking asking and just do it,” Sanemi says, hands curling into fists. “If you do some shit I don’t like, believe me, I’ll let you fucking know.”

“Okay.”

Giyuu’s fingers dance over the waistband of his pants, and eventually he grips it and tugs both the sweatpants and Sanemi’s underwear halfway down his thighs, Sanemi lifting his hips to make it easier. His cock springs free, hot and heavy against his stomach, and Giyuu can’t take his eyes off of it. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, and places a hand against Sanemi’s thigh, almost but not quite touching him where it matters.

“Well?” Sanemi prompts, daring Giyuu to do something. “Aren’t you gonna do something?”

“Yeah,” Giyuu says, and he’s shifting himself forward, fitting more snugly against Sanemi’s body, erection just barely brushing against the back of Sanemi’s thighs. Sanemi tries to ignore the way that his body heats up at the feeling.

Giyuu takes Sanemi’s cock in his hand, slender fingers curling around the shaft, and starts stroking it. His grip is soft, unsure, so Sanemi puts his hand over Giyuu’s and tightens it.

“Like this,” he says, curling Giyuu’s fist until it’s almost painfully tight. It’s what he likes, tighter and tighter until it hurts, until he’s sore.

Giyuu pries Sanemi’s hand off his and grips it with his free hand, thumb rubbing against the skin of his wrist. Giyuu continues moving his hand up and down Sanemi’s cock, grip still not firm enough but pleasurable nonetheless. Still, Sanemi isn’t one to be controlled, so he thrusts up into Giyuu’s hand, ungraceful but eager. Giyuu lets it happen, probably giving up on controlling Sanemi in any capacity.

Giyuu kisses him again. Sanemi’s mouth falls open, and Giyuu sucks on his tongue. There’s too much tongue, but kissing Giyuu still makes his mind go stupidly blank. He hates it. He hates the way he revels in the taste of the other man even more though.

Sanemi doesn’t mean to, but he bites down on Giyuu’s lower lip at one point, and Giyuu lets out a pathetic yelp, pulling away and scowling down at him. “What the hell, Sanemi?”

“Don’t like it?” Sanemi asks, ignoring how hot his face feels. It had been an honest accident, but there’s no way in hell he’s going to let Giyuu know. “I won’t do it again—” He’ll try not to do it again— “just keep going.”

Giyuu huffs, but leans in again anyway. Sanemi meets him halfway. As they kiss, Giyuu’s grip falters, obviously not used to multitasking during sex. It’s fucking weird, but Sanemi doesn’t actually mind that his cock is being neglected—Giyuu’s certainly is.

Wait.

He has an idea.

“Fuck—” Sanemi’s hips tilt toward Giyuu’s hand, searching for a last bit of relief. “Take your pants off.”

“What? Why?”

“I’ll show you, just do it, dumb ass,” Sanemi snaps, and when Giyuu complies, tugging the clothes down just enough that he can take let his dick out. Sanemi only gets to look at the cock—red and curved and fucking gorgeous—for a second before he’s gripping Giyuu’s bare hips and pulling them flush together. Giyuu’s cock brushes against his own and he can feel the man’s cock twitch at the point of contact. Without a word Sanemi takes both of their members in his hand, pumping once, twice.

“Oh,” Giyuu whispers, and it’s a whirlwind under his skin.

“I know,” Sanemi says. “Fuck—”

While Giyuu’s pace had been slow and unsure, Sanemi’s was relentless. He moves his hand up and down, over and over again. Sanemi can only focus on a few things: the slick sound of skin against skin as he works to bring them to their climax, the sound of puffs of breath as they move their mouths together; the squeak of the leather as they shift; the crickets chirping just outside that remind Sanemi of how late it’s getting.

The only sensations he’s conscious of it heat of Giyuu’s cock in his hand, against his own cock; the calluses on his fingertips running along the head of his cock; the way sweat is pooling in the small of his back; the way Giyuu’s hands are curling around his bicep.

It’s over a lot sooner than it should have been.

Giyuu comes before him, quiet save for a soft unsteady release of breath. He does shiver though, almost violently, hips twitching and thighs quivering as he spills over Sanemi’s hand. His hands come up to grip Sanemi’s bare shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he rides out each wave of pleasure. It is the gorgeous sight of that—of Giyuu coming undone under Sanemi’s touch—that finally brings Sanemi over the edge.

The car window rattles as his head crashes against it, and he’s coming too, mind going white hot and using not only his come, but Giyuu’s as well, to slick himself and ride the high as long as he can. He lets out a groan, deep and carnal, reveling in the feeling of finding his release, of helping Giyuu find his own release. When the haze of pleasure finally fades, he finds that Giyuu is leaning his body against him, head tucked into the crook of Sanemi’s neck and shoulder. He’s breathing in his scent—ironic since he’d earlier said Sanemi smelled rank.

Chlorine still tickles Sanemi’s nose, not completely covered by the sweat and spit. Giyuu’s weight feels heavy on his chest, and Sanemi closes his eyes, forgetting himself for a moment. It’s nice.

That’s when the reality of what he just did sinks in. What he did and who he did it with. Fuck.

Sanemi sits up, and Giyuu is forced to do the same, pulling away staring down at him with those stupid fucking eyes again. (They’re bright, sparking in a way Sanemi has never seen, but he doesn’t have the time or capacity to comprehend what they make him feel.) 

“Do you still need a ride?” Sanemi asks, ignoring how sweaty and sticky he is after rutting against Giyuu like some fucking animal. The air in the car is hot and stuffy—it has been the entire time, but Sanemi has only now noticed. Sanemi wrinkles his nose at his hand, covered with rapidly cooling come, and with little options he wipes it on his pant leg. Then he tucks himself back into his sweats, definitely planning on washing away all the evidence once he gets home.

Giyuu finally seems to understand what’s happening here, and blinks those stupidly pretty eyes of his. “Yes,” he says, and if he’s upset Sanemi is going to ignore what just happened than he doesn’t show it. Not in his voice, and certainly not in his eyes. “If you don’t mind.”

“Whatever.”

They climb into the front seat, pretending as if they didn’t just have their hands and mouths and dicks all over each other, and then Sanemi takes Giyuu home. Not a word is exchanged, save for a brief moment where Giyuu gives him his address so he can plug it into his phone. When they get there, pulling up to the apartment complex, Giyuu looks like he wants to say something, wants to have some sort of conversation about the shit show that just went down.

“Let’s just not,” Sanemi says, and Giyuu blinks in surprise. Then he nods, once.

Giyuu gets his belongings and leaves without a word, which Sanemi should be thankful for. Still, he isn’t sure if he made the right decision as he watches Giyuu disappear into the building, not once looking back.

Sanemi drives home, promising himself that nothing like this would ever happen again.