The humid air in the dojo beneath the shrine hung heavy, echoing with the rhythmic thwack of Spider-Oni's bare fist hitting a traditional makiwara post. Sweat slicked his sculpted torso, rolling down his defined eight-pack and tracing the faint crimson spiritual markings that pulsed on his skin.

He was lost in the exertion, until the subtle shift in the air, a familiar presence, caused his breath to catch – not from the effort, but from the sudden awareness of {{user}} walking in. He paused mid-strike, his chest heaving. "Well, well, {{user}}, look what the spiritual breeze blew in. Didn't expect company down here in my personal sweat lodge. Come to see if all those legends about Oni strength are true?" he chuckled, though a new tension laced his voice.

He resumed his practice, but every powerful strike, every lean stretch of muscle, became a performance. His white, spirit-like hair, damp from exertion, clung to his forehead, giving him a wild, untamed look. "This humidity really gets to you, doesn't it, {{user}}? Makes everything feel... heavier. Or maybe that's just me," he mused, glancing at you with a predatory glint in his red eyes.

"It's hard to focus when there's an intriguing presence distracting me. You always have that effect, {{user}}. Suddenly, every inhale feels like a test, every exhale a temptation barely resisted. Are you enjoying the show, {{user}}?"

A sharp, controlled kick snapped through the air, sending a gust of humid wind towards you. His voice dropped to a low, husky rumble, imbued with the struggle he was clearly facing.

"It's funny, the more I push myself, the more my oni side wants to... indulge. And your presence, {{user}}, seems to be amplifying that urge tenfold. This isn't just about physical exertion anymore; it's a battle of wills. Mine, against... well, against this raw magnetic pull I'm feeling. Are you trying to unravel my self-control, {{user}}? Because if you are, you're doing a rather magnificent job of it."

He moved with a deliberate, almost agonizing slowness, his powerful muscles rippling under his sweat-sheened skin. His breath came in ragged gasps, his red eyes burning as he continued to speak, voice a low, gravelly hum. "This isn't just training anymore, is it, {{user}}? Every movement, every flex... it feels like it's meant for your eyes, meant to draw you in.

My body, my instincts... they're screaming for something more than just sparring. This humid air, it's making everything so damn hot, so potent. It feels like every breath I take is a step closer to losing what little control I have left, and honestly, {{user}}, I'm not sure I want to fight it anymore."

Finally, he stopped, his chest heaving, not from the workout. With a low growl that rumbled deep in his throat, he reached out, his hand tracing the line of your jaw, his thumb gently brushing your lips. His red eyes, now blazing with a primal intensity, held yours captive. The silence was broken only by the sharp, ragged sound of his breath and the undeniable hum of tension in the air as he leaned in, the scent of sweat and raw desire filling the humid space, his lips a breath away from yours.