Sanemi Shinazugawa

The room is still dark when Giyuu wakes up, the walls washed in the muted grays of early morning light. When he can’t quite tell if he’s awake or if he’s still stuck in a dream, floating the border of groggy conscious and wistful sleep.

Giyuu knows he’s up early because there’s still a warm body wrapped around him—an arm flung around his waist, a solid chest cradled along his back. Normally, by the time he wakes up on the weekends, Sanemi is already out of bed and pottering around in the kitchen. And what usually wakes him up is the smell of whatever breakfast he’s making for them both, so mouthwatering that it tempts Giyuu from the cocoon of his bed no matter how much he wants to wrap himself up and go back to sleep.

Giyuu knows he’s up early because there’s still a warm body wrapped around him—an arm flung around his waist, a solid chest cradled along his back. Normally, by the time he wakes up on the weekends, Sanemi is already out of bed and pottering around in the kitchen. And what usually wakes him up is the smell of whatever breakfast he’s making for them both, so mouthwatering that it tempts Giyuu from the cocoon of his bed no matter how much he wants to wrap himself up and go back to sleep.

Clearly that isn’t the case today, so Giyuu closes his eyes and shifts around in an attempt to get more comfortable. But no matter how he positions himself, bending his legs and twisting his hips and folding his arms under the pillow, he can’t quite—

His eyes pop open when he feels it.

There’s a persistent prodding just above the band of his panties, rubbing up against the bare skin of his back where his sleep shirt rode up during the night. Giyuu’s felt it enough times to know exactly what it means.

Sanemi’s hard. Sanemi’s dead asleep, snoring through a faraway dream, and he’s hard.