nana

He knew that the moment you had asked him to accompany him to the mall to buy presents for your best friend’s baby shower, his dick twitching at the prospect of seeing you run your hands over baby clothes. Earlier that week he had already seen you fawn over your baby nephew, holding him close to your chest and bouncing him up and down, all wide smiles and laughter that sounded poetic to him.

Murata Fuma was a fucked man everytime he thought about having children with you, laying you down on your bed and drilling you with his cock all damn night, pumping you full of his cum and waking up the next morning to go to the gynaecologist.

“Not green enough.” He chuckled, leaning against the shelf as you scanned your eyes with laser precision through all the shades of green of baby clothes neatly folded in front of you.

“Well, can’t say I trust you, baby.” You laughed, reaching to the very back of the shelf, “If it was up to you, we’d be shopping for Pokemon baby toys.”

“Hey, gotta get them in young.” Fuma shrugged his shoulders, crossing his arms and feigning deep thought as you pulled out an olive green shirt the size of his biceps, “Perfectly green enough.”

“I know right?” You smiled at him, looking down at the cloth in your hand with shining, triumphant eyes, “God, I hope she likes this.” 

“Of course she will, darling.” Fuma stepped forward slowly, filling your senses with his cologne, “You picked it out didn't you?” His hands came up to your waist, eyes fixed on your lips as he ran a tongue over his. 

Fuma stepped closer until the shelf behind you pressed lightly against your back, the tiny green shirt still clutched in your hands. You barely had time to raise an eyebrow before he leaned in.

“Fuma—” you started. But his lips met yours first.

Warm, oh so warm and certain, like he already knew you were going to laugh about it a second later. His hand stayed at your waist, steadying you as he kissed you, gentle but lingering enough that your protest turned into a muffled giggle against his mouth.

You pushed lightly at his chest. “We’re in public,” You whispered, breathless and amused.

“And?” He pulled back just a fraction, close enough that you could still feel the warmth of his breath, “Can I not kiss my darling wife in public?” The playful look in his eyes made your resolve wobble.

You shook your head, trying to look annoyed, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. For a moment you simply looked at him and something about the closeness, the familiar comfort of it, pulled you right back.

Before you could overthink it, you leaned forward again. This time the kiss was yours, soft and unhurried, your lips brushing his as if you were testing the moment rather than stealing it. His hand tightened slightly at your waist in quiet surprise, and he leaned into it instinctively, deepening the warmth of the kiss. You tasted faintly like the honey he’d put on your pancakes earlier in the morning.

When you finally pulled away, your cheeks were warm and your heart was beating a little faster than it should have been for a quiet aisle full of baby clothes. The moment sparked a memory so vividly that it made you smile.

The first time you had ever kissed each other was on your third date, You could still see the scene in your mind—your apartment lit softly by the ikea lamps you got on sale, the city lights outside the window flickering against the glass. A half-finished glass of wine sat on the table between you while the two of you talked about everything and nothing and the newest pokemon cards.

He had been sitting beside you on the couch, turning the stem of his wine glass slowly in his fingers, pretending to be calm but clearly working up the courage to do something. You had noticed of course—call it a lover’s intuition.

And when he finally leaned in that night, the kiss had been messy as messy could be, teeth accidentally bumping into each other, you almost biting his lips off and a glass of spilled wine. 

But here you were, years later, wedding band on your finger and his wine stained shirt sitting somewhere at the back of your closet. 

How beautiful a thing love was, you thought, even after all these years, kissing him felt exactly the same.

“You wanna go checkout?” You smiled, pressing your forehead to his. Fuma laughed softly.

“Five minutes more.” 

___________________

Spring had arrived softly that year.

The air in the backyard carried the faint sweetness of blooming jasmine and freshly cut grass, sunlight filtering through the branches of a large maple tree that stretched comfortably across the yard. Someone had strung delicate pastel ribbons between the branches, and they fluttered lazily whenever the breeze passed through.

Tables were arranged across the lawn with soft cream tablecloths, each one decorated with small glass jars filled with pale pink roses and sprigs of baby’s breath. A long wooden table near the patio held the gifts—colorful boxes stacked in cheerful towers. Somewhere near the fence, a group of guests laughed over plastic cups of lemonade and iced tea.

It was the kind of afternoon that felt warm without being heavy, the perfect afternoon for a baby shower.

And the perfect afternoon for Fuma to internally combust whenever he saw you.

You had chosen a soft pastel summer dress for the occasion, the color somewhere between blush pink and pale peach, the fabric light enough to move gently whenever the wind touched it. The hem reached your lower thigh, brushing lightly against your legs as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other.

Your hair caught the sunlight every time you turned your head, strands glowing gold for just a second before settling again. You sat beside the mother to be—your best friend—talking excitedly with animated gestures, your hands moving as laughter erupted.

Even from across the yard, Fuma could hear the brightness in your voice. He leaned casually against the wooden railing of the deck, a plastic cup of lemonade in his hand that he had completely forgotten to drink. His attention was fixed entirely on you, watching the way you smiled when your friend showed you a tiny pair of baby socks.

Something about it made his chest feel tight.

“Man.” The voice beside him cut through his thoughts. Yudai appeared at his shoulder, arms folded as he followed Fuma’s line of sight across the yard. It took him about half a second to realize exactly what his friend had been staring at.

“You look ridiculous.” Yudai snorted, looking ridiculous with a flower crown on his head.

“What?” Fuma said absentmindedly, not moving his eyes away from you.

“You,” Yudai said, pointing directly at his face, “look like a wide eyed idiot.”

That earned him a small huff of laughter from Fuma. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” Yudai continued, leaning his elbows on the railing. “You’ve been standing here staring at her for ten minutes like she’s the last person on earth.”

“That obvious?” Fuma finally looked at him. Yudai stared at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

“Oh my god, it’s worse than I thought.”

Across the yard, you had crouched down beside the stroller someone had brought as a decoration display, picking up a tiny stuffed bear and holding it up with a delighted smile. Your friend said something excitedly, and the two of you dissolved into laughter.

Fuma turned his attention back to you without even realizing he had done it. The sight made something warm, like coffee steam, settle in his chest.

“Oh wow,” Yudai said slowly, noticing immediately, “How close is your heart to giving out right now?”

Fuma sighed heavily, “Extremely.” The admission slipped out more easily than he expected. Yudai tilted his head, studying him.

“You know,” He said thoughtfully, “I used to think you were exaggerating when you talked about her.”

“What do you mean?” Fuma frowned, turning his attention to his older friend now.

“I mean,” Yudai gestured toward the yard, “the way you talk about her sometimes? I figured it was just normal relationship stuff.” He paused to adjust his falling crown, “But that look on your face right now?” he added with a grin. “That’s like……the exact same expression every male lead in a romance anime makes.”

Fuma leaned back against the railing, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah.” He admitted quietly.

“You’re not even going to deny it?” Yudai blinked, the only time he’d ever seen his friend like this was at an eevee convention.

“What’s the point?” Fuma said, “I didn't marry her for nothing, you know.” His gaze drifted back to you again. You were still laughing with your friend, holding the tiny stuffed bear to your chest, the sunlight catching the soft folds of your dress, making the pastel fabric glow softly.

For a moment you looked angelic.

“I just….love her so much.” Fuma exhaled slowly.

“And?” Yudai’s brow arched.

Fuma watched as you stood up again, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear while listening to someone else talk.

“She’d be such a good mom,” He murmured, almost to himself. Yudai followed his gaze again.

“You’re thinking about that already?” He said, nudging his shoulder.

“It’s been two years already.” Fuma shrugged slightly, “Is that too fast?”

Yudai studied his friend carefully, watching the way his eyes went all droopy and drunk every time his gaze landed on you. 

“You’ve got it down bad, man.” A giggle came from Yudai. 

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Fuma chuckled under his breath.

For a moment they stood there in silence, the sounds of the party drifting through the yard—laughter, soft music playing from a speaker near the patio, the clinking of glasses.

“You should tell her.” Yudai nudged him with his elbow.

“Tell her what?” Fuma blinked at him.

“That.” Yudai said simply.

“What do you mean, ‘that’?” Fuma frowned.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Yudai replied. “If you’re standing here thinking about having kids with her, maybe you should actually say something.”

Fuma hesitated. The idea made his stomach twist slightly. You two hadn't had a proper conversation about kids before getting married—he knew it was an immature thing to do, but love always seemed to make time seem like an ephemeral thing, passing by like the honest wind. And he would rather die than put that burden on you.

“She might think it’s weird.” He said, gaze flickering down to the grass.

“Why?”

“It’s a baby shower.”

“Exactly, you stupid man.”

Fuma blinked at him as Yudai sighed and gestured toward the yard again, clearly done with the lack of romantic tropes in his best friend’s life. 

“You’re literally surrounded by baby decorations, gifts, and people talking about parenting. If there’s ever a moment to say something about wanting a future together, this is probably it.”

Fuma glanced back toward you. You had moved closer to the gift table now, examining the olive green baby shirt you had picked out together. The sight made him smile automatically. You looked so proud of that tiny shirt.

And suddenly, without warning, the thought appeared again. A family with you. You laughing in a backyard like this again someday, except the baby everyone was celebrating would be yours. The idea sent a strange mix of excitement and nervousness rushing through him.

“Oooh you’re thinking about it.” Yudai teased, his voice a pitch higher as he giggled at the expression on Fuma’s face, “Go tell her, already!”

Across the yard, you turned slightly, scanning the guests as if searching for someone. For a brief moment, your eyes met, your face lighting up instantly as you waved to him. Fuma felt his heart stumble in his chest as he raised his hand in return without thinking.

“She’s looking at you like you hung the moon,” Yudai said casually.

“You’re exaggerating.” Fuma laughed softly.

“I’m really not.” He nudged Fuma again. “Seriously. Go.”

Fuma looked at you one more time. You were still smiling at him, waiting for him to come over. And suddenly the world felt like the simplest thing ever—just you two in it, sitting atop clouds and drinking lemonade wrapped up in each other’s arms.

“Alright,” He said, “But I’m doing it when we get home.” 

“That’s my guy.” Yudai grinned, triumphantly pushing up his crown.

Fuma pushed himself off the railing, setting his untouched drink down on the deck table. As he stepped onto the grass and began walking toward you, the sounds of the party seemed to fade slightly into the background. The only thing he could really focus on was the way your smile grew wider the closer he got.

Love was a simple thing really, or at least the definition of it was.

Every version of it always started with you.

_________________

You stepped through the front door of your home, the faint scent of baby powder and cake from the baby shower still clinging to your clothes. The afternoon had been sweet—eating cake and getting pumped with lemonade as you cooed over baby clothes with your friends. It was one of those rare moments when the world felt like something more than gray matter.

But now, exhaustion tugged at you, and you kicked off your shoes, heading straight for the bathroom. Fuma had left before you did, tugged away by a work call which he apologised at least fifteen times for before you placed your hand on his and told him gently that it was alright.

He was already home; you'd seen his car in the driveway, but the house was quiet, save for the distant hum of the refrigerator.

The hot water cascaded over your skin in the shower, washing away the day's stickiness. You lathered up with your favorite lavender soap, letting the steam fill the small space. By the time you stepped out, wrapping a towel around yourself, the sun was dipping lower outside the window.

You dried off and slipped into your lace camisole and matching panties—soft, sheer fabric that hugged your curves, the delicate patterns whispering against your skin, perfectly comfortable for a lazy evening, you thought, as you padded into the kitchen to make yourself a snack.

Chopping fruits at the counter, you absentmindedly hummed a tune, unaware of the absolute storm brewing behind you. You were completely absorbed in your task, blissfully unaware of his presence.

Fuma stood in the doorway of the kitchen, admiring you from behind. The soft glow of the setting sun cast a warm light across your silhouette, highlighting the curves of your hips. 

He stepped closer, his eyes roaming over your body, taking in every detail. The way the soft lace of your camisole clung to your skin, the way the sheer fabric revealed tantalizing glimpses of what lay beneath. He felt a surge of desire, a hunger that grew with each passing moment.

It had been like this ever since the afternoon, ever since the moment you leaned into his touch when he wrapped his arm around your waist to tug you closer whilst you both ate cake. The way you had teasingly sucked on his thumb when he reached to wipe cream off of your lips sent blood rushing everywhere in his body.

His footsteps were silent until they weren't. Suddenly, his presence loomed behind you, heat radiating from his body like a furnace. 

“Oh.” You made a soft noise as the smell of soft cotton filled your senses, “Hi baby. Want some strawberries?” You held up a piece to him.

Your husband didn't answer you, his lips finding your neck instead. He began to trail soft kisses along your skin, starting at your collarbone and working his way up. Each kiss sent a shiver down your spine, your body responding to his touch instinctively.

“Alright then, more for me I guess.” You chuckled, used to being bombed with his love randomly at times like this. As he continued to explore your neck with his lips, his hands began to roam, slipping under the hem of your camisole to caress the smooth skin of your stomach. His touch was gentle at first, but as the heat between you grew, his kisses became more urgent, more demanding.

“Fuma, sweetheart, you alright?” You asked, tilting your head back. Before you could turn, his hands gripped your hips, pulling you back against him. His breath was hot against your neck, ragged and urgent. 

He nipped at your earlobe, sending another wave of pleasure through you. His hands moved higher, cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened beneath his touch.

You let out a soft moan, your head falling back against his shoulder, lost in the sensation of his touch. He took advantage of your position, his lips finding the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, and he began to suck and nibble at the skin, leaving a trail of red marks in his wake.

“You’re so beautiful.” Fuma sighed, lips brushing your ear, “Too damn beautiful." Fierce, open-mouthed pressed along the curve of your throat, teeth grazing just enough to send shivers racing down your spine.

Your body arched against him, your hips pressing back into his own. His hands continued to explore, one moving down to slip beneath the waistband of your panties, his fingers brushing against your most intimate area.

You gasped, the knife clattering to the cutting board as your hands braced against the counter. Fuma's worship was consuming; his mouth trailed lower, sucking at the sensitive spot below your jaw.

His arousal pressed hard against your ass through his jeans, unyielding and insistent. He nipped at your shoulder, pushing the strap of your top aside to expose more flesh, his tongue laving over the mark he'd made.

The intensity built like a wildfire, you tried to steady yourself, but Fuma spun you around, backing you against the kitchen wall with a thud that rattled a nearby cabinet. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with lust, as he caged you in—forearms braced on either side of your head. 

“So beautiful, darling.” He repeated, crashing his lips to yours in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, devouring you, “Looked so perfect today.” His hands roamed, one sliding up to cup your breast through the lace, thumb circling your nipple until it peaked hard and aching. He broke the kiss only to drop to his knees, his gaze locked on yours, feral and reverent.

“Fuma…” You sighed as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, glancing up once to make sure you’re alright. When you gave him a small nod, he yanked them down your thighs in one swift motion.

You had no idea just what had gotten into your husband today—he was never one to initiate sex, always waiting for your approval and arousal and following through. A gentleman, in many ways.

There was nothing gentleman-ly in the way Fuma gripped your thighs now, his strength unyielding, and hoisted your legs over his broad shoulders, god his strength turned you on so much. 

The idea that this man could you probably crush you between his arms with one gentle squeeze, and yet here he was, worshiping your pussy like it was his only diety—werent you the luckiest woman on earth? Your back pressed flat against the wall, the rough texture scraping lightly as he buried his face between your legs.

His mouth was ravenous, sweet tongue flat and broad, he licked a long stripe up your slit, savoring your taste with a guttural moan that vibrated through you. “So sweet for me, darling.” Fuma praised, words muffled as he delved deeper. 

He sucked your clit between his lips, flicking it with the tip of his tongue, relentless in his assault, as you practically rode his face. Your hands flew to his hair, tugging at the dark strands as the pleasure coiled tight in your belly. Fuma's grip tightened, holding you open, his nose bumping your mound with each eager thrust of his tongue inside you.

He ate you like a man starved, alternating between broad laps that coated his chin with your arousal and precise circles around your swollen nub. One hand slid up your inner thigh, fingers teasing your entrance before plunging two inside, curling them against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. It was his favourite spot, the way it made his pretty wife shake in his grasp always made his dick twitch.

“Fuma!” You cried out, hips bucking involuntarily, “Right there, right—ahh fuckkkk…” Fuma pinned you firmer, devouring every drop as your thighs trembled over his shoulders.

“Relax, baby.” He urged, “Let go for me, that’s a good girl.”

The pressure built until it snapped—your orgasm crashed over you, walls clenching around your husband’s fingers as you flooded his mouth, body arching off the wall. You cried out his name, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm. He held you close as you rode out the waves of pleasure, his own breathing ragged as he watched you come undone in his arms.

When it was over, he pulled back slightly, looking up at you with his beautiful eyes. “Are you alright, darling?”

“That was….” You breathed, as he lowered your legs gently and rose, “What horny demon possessed you today, my dearest husband?”

“I’ve been asking the same question.” Fuma chuckled, claiming your mouth in a deep kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, “It's just….” 

Fuma stopped in his tracks as he saw the way you looked at him, wide, loving eyes that held nothing but trust in them. God he felt so stupid, he could have just told you what he wanted. But—akin to a spoiled child—he had to go and fulfill his whims, and now he didn't know how to breach the subject.

“What happened baby?” You tilted your head, reaching a hand up to cup his cheek. Fuma melted into your palm, closing his eyes for a brief second, letting himself get lost in the cotton of your touch. 

“You know how we were at the baby shower?”

“Uh huh.” You said, suppressing a giggle. 

“And you know how we went to shop for baby clothes the other day?” 

“Baby—”

“I want to do that again.” Fuma pressed a soft kiss to your palm, “I want to do that all over again, but—” His hold on your waist tightened, as if to ground himself, “—I want to do that for our family.”

When you married Fuma, a little voice in your head had told you that this would be the man you’d spent the rest of your life with, and it had asked you, are you sure? And you had answered back, yes. If life was three seconds, three days, three months or thirty years long, this man would be the person you’d spend the rest of it with. To run through dandelion fields, to talk about everything and nothing all at once under a starry sky, to celebrate the poetry of life with. 

“Our family?” You repeated softly. 

Fuma nodded once, though the movement was small. “Yeah.” His heart was beating fast now, faster than he would have liked, suddenly looking far less confident than he had a moment ago. “I mean—not right this second,” He added quickly. “I’m not trying to rush you or anything like that.”

You couldn’t help the small smile that appeared on your face at that. Your husband looked like a child in trouble.

“But…” He continued, searching for the right words. “Standing there today, watching you with your friend, seeing how excited you were about everything…” He glanced down briefly, then back at you again. “You’d be amazing.” He said quietly.

“Amazing?” Your expression softened.

“A mom.” The word seemed to surprise the both of you. Fuma laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck again.

“See, this is why I didn’t plan to say this out loud.” He muttered, the tips of his ears turning faintly red.

“You’re doing great so far.” You laughed softly. He looked at you carefully, trying to read your expression.

“I just—” He paused, then tried again. “When I think about the future, you’re always there, every version of it.” You didn’t interrupt him this time. “And today just made it… clearer, I guess,” He finished.

Fuma reached up to brush a strand of your hair back behind your ears, another shuddering breath from him as he saw how damn beautiful you were. Two years of marriage and he still couldn't help but feel like a stupid 20 year old boy everytime he looked at you.

“You really thought about this a lot, didn’t you?” You asked

“A little.”

“Fuma.” You raised a brow.

“Okay.” He admitted. “A lot.”

That made you laugh again. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly when he heard it. Then you reached up again, your hand returning to his cheek.

“And what if I said—” You smiled sheepishly, “—I thought about it too?”

Fuma didn't know if it was relief or something else that washed over him at your words.

“Say sike right now.”

“Oh god Fuma.” You laughed, slapping his chest, “What has Maki been teaching you?” You laughed with him for a second before sighing and smiling softly, “If I’m being a hundred percent honest…the thought has come into my mind a few times, especially whenever you held a baby.” You ran a tongue over your lips, “You look exceptionally dashing when you do that.”

“Dashing?”  Fuma cocked a brow, eyes flickering to your lips, “Go on.” 

“Well,” You continued, “It’s been two years already.” Your hand reached down slowly, “And we’re both logical adults.” You palmed his cock, “And we’re both very horny right now.” He was already so hard beneath your touch, “And I don’t think I can sleep without another orgasm tonight." 

Whatever Fuma did in his past life to get you in this one, he was thankful he did it. He let out a soft groan as you palmed his cock straining through his pants. God you were such a perfect fucking wife.

“You’re sure darling?” Fuma asked, “It’s a really big decision you know.” 

“Good that I make really nice decisions then hm?” You squeezed his hard length through his pants, a playful smile on your lips, “Need you so bad Fuma.” You rocked your hips against his, fluttering your lashes. 

Fuma groaned at your words, his hips thrusting forward involuntarily into your touch. "You're going to be the death of me."

With that, he scooped you up into his arms, carrying you off to the bedroom with a determined stride. The mattress dipped under his weight as he laid you down, the lace camisole still clinging to your sweat-damp skin, his eyes roaming over your body with a hungry gaze. Two years of marriage and he was still putty beneath the power of your gorgeous face.

Fuma crawled onto the bed, covering your body with his own. He kissed you deeply, his tongue delving into your mouth to claim you—though you were already his. His hands roamed over your body, caressing every inch of your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

Your husband took a moment to admire your chest, running his thumbs over your hardened nipples. You gasped at the contact, arching your back to press yourself further into his touch.

Fuma stripped quickly—shirt tossed aside, sweats kicked off—revealing his toned body, cock thick and straining, tip red hot and angry. He slowly (very very agonizingly slowly) settled between your thighs, propping himself on one elbow while his free hand traced lazy patterns over your hip. 

“You’re so beautiful, darling." He breathed, repeating the same praise for the fifteenth time that evening, eyes tracing every inch with worshipful intensity. His fingers dipped lower, gathering your lingering wetness before circling your entrance teasingly.

Slowly, so slowly, he pushed one thick finger inside you, watching your face as your pussy stretched around the intrusion. 

“So damn tight….gonna have to work her open first, yeah?” Fuma pumped it in and out, deliberate strokes that had you mewling, the earlier orgasm leaving you hypersensitive. He added a second finger, scissoring them gently, stretching your walls with patient precision. 

Fuma leaned down, kissing your collarbone, then your breasts, sucking a nipple through the lace until it was soaked and translucent. “I love you, my darling.” he murmured against your skin, his voice a mix of ferocity and adoration, “My everything, sweetheart.” 

“Fuma—feel so good…..fuck!” His fingers curled inside you, stroking that inner ridge over and over, building the heat anew.

You writhed beneath him, hands clutching the sheets, as he worked you open—three fingers now, thrusting deep, preparing you for what was to come. The room filled with the wet sounds of his fingers fucking you, your moans echoing off the walls.

He kept the pace languid, draaawing out every sensation, his free hand pinning your wrist above your head in a gentle hold. 

“Taking me so good, my darling.” Fuma’s eyes never left yours, passionate and intense, as another climax built, slower this time, like the coming of a spring, “Let go for me, go on.”

When it hit, it washed through you in waves, your pussy fluttering around his fingers, pulling him deeper. Your husband groaned, withdrawing at last, his cock twitching against your thigh. 

“Alright, baby?” Fuma asked, gentle faze tracing over your twitching body. Cute, he thought, she’s shaking from just my fingers.

“Fumaaa…” You whined, bringing your hand up to stroke his jaw, looking at him though half lidded eyes, “Want your cock, please?” 

Your husband was a….large man. Compared to others atleast, fucking hell was he built like a truck—one of the many reasons you married him. He was big in every aspect, broad shoulders and chest, thick fucking fingers (the fluid dripping down your thighs was proof it only took one deep plunge to make you cum), and perhaps the fattest cock you had ever seen in your life. 

And by god did it fill his ego to the brim to see you struggle to take him. 

His pretty little wife.

“Ready darling?” Your husband asked, all formal, as if anything was formal about that dick, positioning himself. 

“Just put it in already.” You huffed, wrapping your legs round his waist to bring him closer. You needed him right now. 

“So impatient baby.” He chuckled, tilting his head, “And if it doesn't fit? You know it never fits in the first try.” 

Technically speaking, your husband was correct. Two damn years and you could never take him all in the first go. He had to make you cum at least three times to get you wet enough. But speaking from your horny brain, you did not give a fuck.

“I’ll make it fit.” You said, voice breathy, “Please, Fuma? I’ll be your good girl, I swear.” He groaned at your words, his hips twitching forward slightly as if seeking more of your touch. 

“Well, who am I to deny such a pretty girl?” He purred, hovering above you, his cock heavy and throbbing against your slick folds, the broad head nudging your entrance.  You moaned at the contact, your hips bucking up as if it were a conditioned reflex. 

You could feel the stretch already, just from that initial press, your pussy still fluttering from the slow fingering that had left you open and aching for more. Fuma gripped the base of his cock, guiding it with deliberate slowness, but as he pushed forward, only the tip breached you before resistance met him—your walls clenching tight around the intrusion, too snug even after all his preparation.

Fuma let out a cocky laugh as he took his time, savoring the feeling of your right heat as he slooowly pushed inside. He groaned, low and frustrated, his hips twitching as he tried to sink deeper.

“So fucking small.” Fuma rasped, eyes locking onto yours with a mix of lust and amusement, “Pussy’s so damn small—pretty thing can’t even take half of me, yeah?” 

“F-Fuma slow down!” You gasped, your hands reaching for him, your nails digging into his shoulders as you held on for dear life, “Fuck—hah oh god Fuma too much!” 

“Tch tch.” Your husband clicked his tongue, “I don’t think I’m the problem here darling.” He leaned down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth, “You’re just—” thrust, “too” thrust, “small.” Your body shook like a dandelion in the wind as he forced his fat fucking cock into you, “Fuck she’s gripping me—ahh—like she wants to keep me out.” He rocked forward again, forcing another inch inside, but your body rebelled, muscles fluttering and squeezing in protest, “Does she want me out, my darling?”

You whimpered, hands fisting the sheets, the burn of the stretch mingling with sharp pleasure. Fuma chuckled darkly, pulling back just enough to let you breathe before thrusting shallowly, teasing your entrance with the thick ridge of his cockhead.

“Look at you, all worked up and still too tight for your husband.” His free hand trailed up your thigh, thumb pressing into the soft flesh as he watched your face contort—lips parted, brows furrowed in that exquisite mix of pain and need. “What am I supposed to do with a wife who milks me like this? Can't even fit all the way in without—fuck—a fight.” Fuma loved this part, the way your body yielded inch by inch, proving how perfectly you were made for him, even if it took effort.

You arched your back, trying to ease him in, but he held your hips steady, controlling the pace. “Calm down sweetheart.” His voice was gravelly, “You said you’ll make it fit, so we’re going to make it fit.”

He pumped in and out of that shallow depth, the wet slide of your arousal coating him, but he couldn't bury himself fully—not yet. Frustration edged his teasing, his breaths coming harsher as he ground against you, clit catching the friction of his pubic bone on each nudge.

Finally, the playfulness snapped. With a feral growl, Fuma's hands clamped onto your thighs, fingers digging into the meat of them hard enough to bruise.

He pulled your legs up roughly, folding them back against your chest in one swift motion—the mating press that pinned you open and vulnerable beneath him. Your knees nearly touched your shoulders, pussy splayed wide and exposed, the angle forcing your walls to part just enough. 

“Theeere we go.” Fuma grunted, satisfaction lacing his tone as he aligned himself again. “Now you'll take it all, like the good girl you are.”

Surging forward, his cock speared into you in a single, brutal thrust, bottoming out with a slap of skin on skin. You cried out, the fullness overwhelming—his girth splitting you wide, the head of his dick kissing your cervix in a deep, unyielding press. 

It burned, god did it fucking burn, the stretch bordering on too much, but the pleasure crashed in right after, your pussy clenching greedily around his length. Fuma didn't give you time to adjust; he pulled back almost to the tip and slammed back in, setting a punishing rhythm that rocked your body against the mattress.

“Fuck, yes—feel that? How deep I am now?” He panted, hips snapping forward relentlessly, each thrust driving him balls deep into your core. 

The position kept you locked in place, unable to escape the onslaught, your thighs quivering from the strain as he folded you tighter. His weight bore down, chest pressing your legs further, turning you into a pliant vessel for his cock. He fucked you hard, the bed creaking under the force, your pussy squelching around him with every plunge—wet, obscene sounds filling the room alongside your moans and his grunts.

Sweat slicked his skin, dripping onto your chest as he rutted into you like an animal, chasing that primal need that had been resting in his chest ever since he saw you with a baby in your arms.

“Gonna fill you up.” He mumbled into your ear, lips brushing the shell as he nipped at your lobe, “Pump you so full—hah you’re so tight baby. You want that sweetheart? Wanna have our kids?”

“Fuma!” His words sent heat flooding your veins, your walls fluttering around his pistoning cock, pulling him deeper as if your body agreed, “Fuma fuck! Yes yes yes!” All your senses were gone at this point. 

He shifted his angle slightly, grinding against that sensitive spot inside you with each thrust, the friction on your clit from his body adding layers of sensation. You were lost in it, head thrown back, nails raking down his back as pleasure built relentlessly. Fuma's pace never faltered—rough, demanding, fucking you into oblivion as promised. 

“Take it darling.” His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing firm circles, pushing you toward the edge, “Take every fucking drop—ahhh god you’re squeezing me so tight.” 

The first orgasm hit you like a freight train, ripping through your core as your pussy spasmed around his cock, milking him in tight pulses. You screamed his name, vision blurring, body convulsing in the tight fold of the mating press. 

Fuma groaned, feeling you clamp down, but he didn't stop—thrusting through it, prolonging the waves until you were sobbing from the intensity. “One more, darling, just one more, I promise.” 

He kept pounding, the overstimulation making every slide of his cock electric, your sensitivity heightening the drag of his veins against your walls. His free hand gripped your hip, holding you steady as he chased his own release, but he focused on you—thumb pressing harder on your clit, hips rolling to hit that spot over and over.

“Fuck baby, go on—milk me dry. Show me how much you want our kids.” The words, combined with the relentless fucking, coiled the tension anew, faster this time, your body already primed.

You shattered a second time, orgasm crashing harder, your pussy gushing around him, soaking his balls as you clenched and released in rhythmic waves. Fuma cursed, the vice of your walls tipping him over. 

With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, cock pulsing as he came—hot spurts of cum flooding your depths, painting your womb white. He ground against you, ensuring every drop stayed inside, his growl vibrating through your joined bodies. 

“Full…….so fucking full for me.”  Fuma had no idea what he was saying, dick and mind already milked to the brim, collapsing forward slightly, still folded over you as aftershocks rippled through both of you.

He stayed like that for long minutes, cock softening inside your bred pussy, plugging his cum deep. Only when your breaths evened did he ease your legs down, kissing your forehead softly as he pulled out.

“Shit.” You sighed as you felt him ease out, leaving you empty. Fuma cupped your cheek in his palm, tilting your face to look at you properly.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Emotionally or physically?” You chuckled, fighting the urge to fall asleep right there and then, “Because emotionally, I won’t accept anything else other than all that for sex after this.”

“All that?” Fuma chuckled, sliding down next to you, warmth radiating off his body, “You sure we’ll even be able to have sex after all that?” 

“Oh shut up.” You laughed, tossing one leg over his to tangle yourself in his grasp, “It takes people at least three attempts to get pregnant.”

“We can be an exception darling.” Fuma laughed, melting into your touch as the lady of the night pulled you both into her arms. 

The two faint lines two weeks later proved you to be the exception, indeed. 

fin. 

After a long day of practicing for the new comeback and messing around with the boys, all Fuma really wanted to do was come home to you. Being able to lie in bed with you, exchange a few kisses, and have your laugh bless his ears; that was exactly what he had planned, or so he thought he did.

Once he arrived home and opened the door, the smell of a warm cooked meal greeted him first. He took off his shoes and set his things down by the door, forgotten for now. He followed the delicious smell, where he found you in the kitchen, quietly humming to yourself as you plated his meal. “Well, aren't I just lucky? Hello, bunny”, Fuma said softly as he approached you and enveloped you from behind. You jumped a little in your spot, almost letting the pan you had slip a bit out of your hold. You let out a small gasp, one that caused him to press himself a little closer to you. “Fuma, why didn’t you let me know you were home? I could have dropped the meal I’m making!” you playfully scolded him before turning your head to the side, meeting him halfway for a small peck on the lips.

After dinner, Fuma helped you clean up the kitchen by putting any leftovers in the fridge and washing the dirty dishes; the least he could do after you made him dinner. While he did so, you sat on the kitchen counter next to him, exchanging stories about each other's day. Towards the end of cleaning, the two of you decided to have a movie night to end the day. As you went into the living room to pick the movie, Fuma headed into the shower to wash away the sweat and stress from a long day of practicing.

Fuma came out of the shower not too long after you finally decided on a movie. He went from wearing his practice clothes, which were joggers with a Diesel shirt, to a regular white T-shirt and sweats. You were matching because you had stolen one of his white shirts earlier in the day and paired it with your pajama shorts. ”What are we watching, bun?’, he asked as he found his place next to you on the couch before effortlessly repositioning you onto his lap. “Hmm, I decided on a thriller. I heard many good things about this movie, and I thought we could watch it together!” you said excitedly and smiled up at him. Fuma knew you couldn’t handle any thriller or horror movies since you always hid against him or jumped at any moment. However, he didn’t want to discourage you from watching the film, especially since you gave him such a precious smile. “Okay then, bun. Start the movie up, let’s see what this is about”, he said as he wrapped his arms around your waist and placed a small kiss on your temple.

During the movie, you had your moments where you would get frightened and jump a little; unfortunately for Fuma, you were still on his lap. He found it hard to focus as you kept squirming against him; he had to keep himself composed for your sake. The more you moved, the more he tightened his grip around your waist, but not enough to hurt you or make you notice, since you were so focused on the movie. He felt his cock twitch and harden a bit, but he tried his best to ignore it and focus on the film. You were still so oblivious to how he was feeling and the thoughts he had running through his head.

Once the movie ended, you let out such a big sigh of relief. “You know, that movie wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be”, you said as you stretched your arms above your head. You turned to Fuma and observed his figure as he had his head thrown back against the couch, eyes closed while he took slow breaths in and out. “Honey, are you okay? Did you not like the movie?” you said with concern laced in your voice. Fuma opened his eyes again and gave you a smile of reassurance before carefully sitting straight back up and lifting you in his arms, removing you both from the couch. “I’m fine, I guess I’m just a little tired from today”, he harmlessly lied, his aching cock still trying to successfully pitch a tent in his pants. “We should go to bed; it’s getting late. I know we both have busy schedules tomorrow too”, he advised while leading you both into your shared bedroom.

He gently laid you on the bed before joining you by your side, doing this as he hoped you didn’t notice the little problem that you had created for him earlier. It was such a nice night, and he had no intention of wanting to ruin it right now. He was tired as well and wanted to lie in bed with you to end the night. Fuma had his chest against your back and again wrapped himself around you like he’s been all night; he just enjoyed being in your space, and you never minded it. You being much smaller than him also meant you were the perfect people to hold when going to bed, but also perfect to manhandle and move you into any position he wanted you in. You both let out a few more words and shared kisses before saying your goodnights before closing your eyes, letting the darkness and tiredness take over.

———————————————————————————

Fuma woke up in the middle of the night and looked over at his phone on the nightstand. The numbers showing it was 3 a.m. shone in his face. He let out a little yawn as he rubbed his eyes. As he became more conscious of his surroundings, he noticed the aching that was still bothering him. He couldn’t ignore it this time around. He let out a frustrated sigh and threw his head against his pillow. He couldn’t go back to sleep like this and contemplated rubbing one out in the bathroom. Before he could get up and follow through with his plan, he looked over at your sleeping figure. He had known your body enough to know you were knocked out cold. He admired you for a few moments before an even naughtier idea crept into his head.

He pulled away from you slightly so he wouldn't be pressed up against your sleeping form before he pulled down his sweats, letting his cock spring out in freedom. He shivered a little bit as the cool air hit his now throbbing cock. Fuma wasn’t too long, but he did have a lot of girth on him. He mumbled a small curse word as he gripped his shaft tightly from the base before starting to stroke slowly, trying his best not to wake you up. Fuma carefully flipped to his side and slowly hooked his fingers on the waistband of your pajama shorts. He pulled your bottom down, exposing your wet core. “Fuck”, he whispered quietly to himself. He wondered why you were already so wet, but he quickly remembered how needy you were before he left to practice this morning, not having time to pleasure you due to his busy schedule. How he would have loved to bend you over this morning and breed your needy hole, but he could make up for it now. He bit his bottom lip as he carefully aligned his cock with your soaked entrance. He rubbed his tip against your soaked folds for a few seconds before he slowly inserted himself in. A soft moan escaped his mouth from the warm feeling of your tight cunt wrapped around his cock. He restrained himself enough to stay in that position for a few moments so he could enjoy the feeling, but also be sure you wouldn't wake up.

After a few small moments, he began to thrust into you slowly, trying his best to keep himself calm as he fucked into you. This was much better than his hand, but knowing how bad he wanted it, he might cum sooner than he thought. You and Fuma have been dating for almost a year now and have slept with each other multiple times. However, no matter how many times he’s been inside you, you always still feel so tight around him like it’s the first. His hand gripped your waist softly as the other made its way under his borrowed shirt and to one of your breasts, gripping it gently as he kept going with his pace. He was able to hear a change in your breathing as you started to move around slightly. He stopped his thrusting and watched you, seeing you relax again after a few moments. He continued his thrusts right after, but made them a little faster as he thrust into you with slight desperation from everything he pent up earlier. He could start to hear their skin softly slapping together and his quiet, blissful moans leaving his lips as he continued to get off from your sleeping figure.

After a while of playing with your hard nipples and fucking your sopping wet cunt he felt himself build up from all the pleasure. You felt so good around him; even in your sleep, your body reacted so well for him. Your cunt tightened around him every few thrusts, your nipples perfectly perked up, and the way your hips occasionally met his. He couldn't really hold back anymore and quickened his pace, not caring if you woke up. His greed of needing his release took over. He made sure to angle himself right so he could hit the correct spot, the spot that would send you into orbit. Wanting to make you cum in your sleep, he thrusted selfishly as he kept hitting the spot repeatedly inside of you, noticing your legs starting to shake. His hand made its way down to your clit and rubbed it softly to help you cum, becoming such a needy mess for him. His actions kept going for a while until your legs finally stopped shaking, your cunt tightened around him for the last time, and a small sigh left your lips. Fuma felt a new sensation on his fingers and cock, a familiar sticky substance. He pulled his hand away and noticed how you finally came all over him. He smirked as he realized he succeeded and put his fingers into his mouth and savored the sweet taste of you, something he could never get enough of.

like the wine.

whenever the two of you had dinner at home and he opened a bottle, he would pour himself a normal glass and then carefully measure out the tiniest splash into yours—barely enough to cover the bottom. the first few times you had simply laughed and reached for the bottle yourself, but his hand had covered yours, warm and firm, and he had given you that same soft look.

“you’re still so young, baby. i don’t want you getting dizzy.”

he said it like it was obvious. like of course a twenty-one-year-old needed someone older to decide how much alcohol she could handle. after a while you stopped reaching. you just accepted the thimbleful and the way he watched you drink it, eyes fond, as if you were something fragile he was carefully managing.

he did the same with almost everything.

he treated you like something delicate. something that needed managing. he cut your food smaller when he cooked, the way someone might for a child who still struggled with big pieces. e reminded you to take the vitamins he insisted on you taking every morning, standing in the bathroom doorway until he watched you swallow them.

he checked the temperature of the bathwater before he let you get in. he laid out your clothes in the morning on days he knew you had early classes, soft things he liked seeing you in, and if you reached for something different he’d only tilt his head and say, “that one’s too thin for the weather, sweetheart. wear what i picked.” and you would. because it was easier. because the alternative—pushing back, insisting you could choose for yourself—always made that quiet, patient look settle over his face, the one that made you feel like you were being difficult for no reason.

he made independence feel like a tantrum.

tonight was no different.

you stepped through the door after a long day of group critiques, shoulders aching from carrying your portfolio case. the apartment smelled like garlic and soy—something warm and home-cooked. fuma stood at the kitchen island in a soft black sweater, sleeves pushed to his elbows, tall frame relaxed but attentive the second he heard the door.

“welcome home,” he said, voice low and steady. his eyes swept over you once, cataloging the tired slump of your posture, the way your fingers fidgeted with your bag strap. “you’re late. i was about to text.”

“i stayed to help with the exhibition setup,” you mumbled, setting your things down. “it’s fine, really.”

he crossed the room in three strides—long legs, broad shoulders, the kind of height that made you tilt your head back to meet his gaze even when you were standing. his hand came up to cup the side of your neck, thumb stroking just under your ear.

“you don’t have to explain yourself to me,” he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “but next time, let me know. i don’t like not knowing where you are.”

it wasn’t a request.

you nodded anyway, because the warmth of his palm and the quiet certainty in his tone always made your stomach flutter in that complicated way—safe and small at the same time.

“go shower,” he said, already steering you toward the hallway with a gentle hand on your lower back. “i ran the water for you. it’s the temperature you like.”

of course he had. the bathroom was warm and steamy when you stepped inside, pajamas neatly folded on the counter—soft cotton shorts and one of the oversized shirts he preferred you in at home. you stared at them for a second, then left them there. the hot water felt good on your aching shoulders. when you finally stepped out, you pulled on just a thin tank top and clean panties, too tired to bother with anything else, and padded barefoot back into the living room.

fuma looked up from where he was plating dinner. his gaze dropped, lingered, then narrowed slightly.

“what are you wearing?”

the question was soft. almost mild. it still made your stomach dip.

“i was hot after the shower,” you said, shifting on your feet. “it’s fine—”

“baby.” he set the plates down and walked over, already reaching for you. “you’ll get cold.” before you could protest he had one of his old university sweatshirts in hand—soft, faded, sleeves far too long—and was pulling it over your head. you lifted your arms automatically. the hem fell to mid-thigh. he adjusted the collar with careful fingers, then rested both hands on your shoulders and looked down at you, expression fond and faintly scolding all at once. “there. better. you know better than to walk around like that. you’ll catch a chill.”

you hadn’t argued.

dinner was quiet. he cut the meat on your plate into smaller pieces without commenting on it, fed you a few bites when he decided you weren’t eating enough, and watched you the entire time with that soft, satisfied look he always got when you let him take care of things. when the plates were empty you stood on instinct, gathering them the way you always used to.

“i’ve got it,” you said, already turning toward the kitchen.

fuma’s hand closed gently around your wrist before you could take a second step.

“leave them.” his voice was calm. fond. absolute. “i’ll do them later.”

“i can help—”

“baby.” just that one word, quiet and patient, and the rest of the sentence died in your throat. he tugged you back down beside him, then stood and took the plates from your hands himself. “you’re still tired from today. i can see it. go get ready for bed. i’ll be right there.”

you hesitated in the doorway of the kitchen, watching him rinse the plates under the water. the urge to insist, to prove you could at least do this one small thing, flickered and died the way it always did.

then you walked toward his bedroom.

well—your shared bedroom.

three months into the relationship fuma had insisted you lived with him now. it hadn’t felt like an insistence at the time. that was the thing. he never made it feel like one.

it had started with the nights you stayed over turning into most nights. then all of them. your lease had been coming up for renewal and you’d mentioned, offhand, that you were thinking about looking for a cheaper place closer to campus. fuma had gone quiet for a moment, then set his coffee down and looked at you with that soft, thoughtful expression he used when he was about to decide something for both of you.

“or you could just stay here,” he’d said, like it was the most obvious solution in the world. “you already spend every night here anyway. your things are already half moved in. why keep paying rent for a place you barely use? plus im close enough to your campus. i can just drive you.”

you’d tried to push back—gently, carefully. you’d talked about wanting your own space, about not wanting to rush things. he’d listened patiently, nodded in all the right places, then taken your hand and stroked his thumb over your knuckles.

“baby,” he’d said, voice low and warm, “you’re exhausted all the time trying to balance classes and that tiny apartment and everything else. i see it. let me make this easier for you. you don’t have to do everything alone anymore.” he’d leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“i want you here. i like taking care of you. is that so bad?”

when you’d still hesitated, he’d started handling the practical parts himself. called your landlord to ask about breaking the lease early (he’d covered the fees without telling you until after). packed the rest of your things over one quiet weekend while you were in class. by the time you’d come home that friday, your old apartment was empty and your clothes were already hanging in his closet, arranged the way he preferred them.

“see?” he’d said when he found you standing in the doorway of what used to be your place, staring at the bare walls. “much simpler. no more rushing between two places. no more worrying about bills you don’t need to pay. just home.”

he’d made it sound like relief. like the only logical choice. and maybe it had been, in a way. living with him was easier. the fridge was always full. the rent was never something you had to think about. he handled the utilities, the groceries, the laundry schedule. all you had to do was exist inside the soft, carefully managed space he built around you.

but sometimes, late at night, you still thought about how quickly it had happened. how little real choice you’d been given. how the alternative—pushing back harder, insisting on keeping your own place—had felt like rejecting him, not just the arrangement.

you never pushed back harder.

now the bedroom felt like the most natural place in the world to walk into. his scent was everywhere—clean laundry and the faint trace of his cologne. the bed was already turned down. he always did that before you got home.

you sat on the edge of the mattress and waited.

a few minutes later fuma appeared in the doorway, drying his hands on a dish towel. he tossed it aside and crossed the room, tall frame filling the space the way it always did. he stopped in front of you and looked down, expression soft.

“arms up.”

you lifted them without thinking. he peeled the sweatshirt off you in one smooth motion, leaving you in just the thin tank top and panties. his gaze dragged over you slowly, heavy and warm, before he sat down and tugged you forward until you were straddling his lap where he’d sat on the bed. you felt so small like this—his hands spanning your waist, your thighs barely able to bracket his hips, the top of your head only reaching his chin even when you were sitting up straight.

“there we go,” he said quietly, brushing your hair back from your face. “i missed you today,” he said against your temple.

“you saw me this morning,” you whispered, smiling a little.

“still missed you.” his nose brushed yours. “come here.”

the kiss started slow, the way all his kisses did—patient, thorough, like he had all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth. you melted into it the way you always did, hands sliding up his chest to clutch at his sweater. he tasted like the tea he drank after dinner. he smelled like cedar and clean laundry and something that was just him.

when he deepened it, tongue sliding against yours, a soft sound escaped your throat. his hands tightened on your waist, even like this, he was taller—bigger. 

“you’re so small in my hands,” he murmured, almost to himself, palms spanning your ribcage. one hand slid up under your thin tank top, his hands slightly chilled against your warmer skin, until his thumb brushed the underside of your breast. “always so soft for me.”

you shivered. his other hand stayed at your lower back, keeping you pressed close. the kiss turned hungrier—slow but insistent, his tongue stroking deep, teeth catching your lower lip just enough to sting. you rocked forward without meaning to, the friction against the front of his pants making heat pool low in your belly.

fuma made a quiet, approving sound and pulled back just enough to look at you. his eyes were dark, focused entirely on your flushed face.

“you’ve been so good lately,” he said, voice lower now. “letting me take care of you. not fighting me when i know what’s best.”

your breath caught. there was something in the way he said it—gentle, but edged with quiet satisfaction. like he was praising a pet that had finally stopped tugging the leash.

“i…” you swallowed. “fuma, i—”

he kissed you again before you could finish, swallowing whatever nervous words were trying to form. his hand under your top moved higher, cupping your breast fully now, thumb circling your nipple until it tightened. you gasped into his mouth. he took the opportunity to lick deeper, one large hand sliding down to grip your hip and rock you more deliberately against the growing hardness beneath you.

when his fingers finally dipped beneath the waistband of your soft lounge pants, you tensed.

“wait,” you breathed, pulling back slightly. your hands rested on his shoulders. “fuma… i’ve never— i mean, the other guys i dated, we never really… i’m still…”

“i know.” his voice was calm. patient. the same tone he used when he explained why you shouldn’t take the late train or why he had already handled your rent for the month. “i know you’re still a virgin, baby. that’s why i’ve waited.”

his fingers didn’t stop. they slipped lower, over the cotton of your panties, pressing gently against the damp spot that had already formed. your hips jerked.

“you’re wet,” he observed softly, almost clinically. “even though you’re nervous. your body knows what it needs.”

you shook your head, cheeks burning. “i don’t know if i’m ready for… everything.”

“i’m not asking for everything tonight.” his free hand came up to cradle the back of your head, keeping your forehead pressed to his. “just let me touch you. let me make you feel good. you trust me, don’t you?”

you did. that was the problem. you trusted him more than you trusted yourself most days.

his fingers pushed your panties aside and found you slick and warm. the first slow stroke over your clit made your breath stutter. he watched your face the entire time—every flutter of your lashes, every small sound you couldn’t quite swallow.

he kissed you slow. deep. the kind of kiss that left no room for thought. one hand slid up your back, fingers spreading wide between your shoulder blades, while the other settled heavy on your thigh and squeezed. you made a small sound against his mouth and he swallowed it, tilting his head to kiss you harder, like he was teaching your mouth how to move against his.

when he finally pulled back you were already dazed, lips tingling. he looked pleased.

“lie down for me.”

you did. he followed, stretching out beside you and pulling you into his chest until you were half on top of him, one of his legs hooked over both of yours to keep you there. his hand drifted down your side, slow and proprietary, until it settled on the curve of your ass and squeezed.

“you know i love you right?” he murmured against your hair. “i do this because i love you.” his fingers slipped under the waistband of your panties, just resting there against bare skin. 

you nodded.

it’s all you could do.

fuma’s eyes softened with quiet satisfaction, the way they always did when you stopped fighting him. his hand slid fully beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers gliding through the slick heat between your legs with slow, deliberate strokes.

“there we go,” he murmured against your lips, voice low and warm. “good girl. just let me take care of you.”

he kissed you again—deeper this time, tongue stroking into your mouth like he had all the time in the world to claim it. one large hand stayed between your thighs, two thick fingers circling your clit with patient pressure while the other cradled the back of your head, keeping you close. you whimpered into the kiss, hips twitching involuntarily against his hand.

you try to rock down against his hand—you want more friction, you think—but his arm around your waist tightens, holding you still.

“none of that,” he says, almost chiding. “just sit there and let me take care of it.”

your face burns. you nod again.

he kisses the corner of your mouth while his finger circles your clit, slow and patient. you’ve never been touched like this by anyone who actually knew what they were doing. your two previous boyfriends had been your age, awkward, quick. fuma is none of those things. he’s deliberate. he watches every tiny reaction on your face like he’s studying you.

“fuu—”

“shh.” he kissed the top of your head, fingers pressing a little firmer. “i’ve got you. just stay still and let me.”

you quieted down again, only letting the soft sound of your wetness fill the room along withe the occasional whimper or whine.

fuma made a low, approving sound and stroked through the slickness, gathering it, before pressing the tip of one finger against your entrance.

you tensed immediately.

“easy,” he soothed, voice soft and steady. “breathe. i’m going slow.”

“fuma—i don’t know if im ready—”

the words came out small and shaky, more breath than voice. your body had already gone tight around the tip of his finger, the unfamiliar stretch making your eyes sting.

for half a second, something sharper flickered across fuma’s face.

his hand on the back of your head tightened—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that you couldn’t turn away. his finger pushed in a fraction deeper than before, the sudden increase in pressure making you flinch.

“don’t start that,” he said, voice still quiet but edged with something harder. “not after everything i do for you.”

the words landed heavy. then, just as quickly, the edge vanished. his grip loosened. his thumb resumed those slow, soothing circles against your scalp. when he spoke again, the softness was back, warm and patient, like the brief flash of steel had never happened.

“i’m sorry, baby.” he pressed a gentle kiss to your temple, almost apologetic. “i didn’t mean to snap. you just… you scare me sometimes when you talk like that. like you’re going to pull away from me.” his finger stayed right where it was—just past the first knuckle—while his thumb kept rubbing careful circles over your clit. “i’ve taken care of you for eight months. i moved you in so you wouldn’t have to struggle alone. i cook for you, i drive you everywhere, i make sure you’re warm and fed and safe. and the second things get a little intense, you tell me you’re not ready?”

he sounded hurt. softly, carefully hurt.

that cracked something in you. so your words came out broken, slightly fearful of hurting the feelings of your sweet doting boyfriend.

“i know—and—mm’ sorry— it just—ah—it—it hurts a little…sorry—”

“i know, baby.” his voice stays calm, almost tender. “it’s supposed to hurt a bit the first time. its because you’re so small… so tight around my fingers.” he presses a kiss to the corner of your eye where a tear has started to gather. “you can take it. i know you can.”

you want to believe him. you do believe him. he’s older. he’s done this before. he knows your body better than you do.

his finger sinks the rest of the way in, slow and deliberate, until the heel of his hand presses against you. the stretch burns—a deep, unfamiliar pressure that makes your breath catch and your eyes water. you whimper, hips twitching, but fuma’s arm tightens around your waist, holding you still against him.

“breathe,” he murmurs against your hair. “just breathe for me. that’s it… good girl.”

he stays buried to the knuckle for a long moment, letting you feel every thick inch of him inside you, before he starts to move. slow, careful thrusts of his finger, curling just enough to make your thighs tremble. the wet sound of it is soft and obscene in the quiet bedroom. every time he pushes back in you feel the burn flare again, sharp enough that another tear slips free.

“s'—still hurts,” you hiccup, voice small and shaky.

for a second the room goes very quiet and you’ve realize you’ve said the wrong thing.

fuma’s finger stills deep inside you. his whole body goes still against yours. when he speaks, the softness is gone—just for a moment, just enough to make your stomach drop.

“don’t.”

the word is low. sharp. not loud, but edged in a way that makes your pulse jump.

he pulls back just far enough to look down at you, expression tight, jaw set. “don’t say it like that. like i’m hurting you on purpose. like i’m not being careful with you.” his thumb presses harder against your clit, almost punishing, and the sudden spike of sensation makes you flinch. “i’ve been nothing but gentle. i’ve gone so slow for you. and you’re still looking at me like i’m the bad guy for touching what’s mine.”

the hurt in his voice is back almost immediately, softer, wounded, but the edge underneath it doesn’t fully leave.

“i’m sorry, baby.” he leans in and presses a firm kiss to your forehead, then another to the corner of your wet eye. “i didn’t mean to snap. you just… you scare me when you talk like that. like you’re going to pull away. like everything i’ve done for you isn’t enough the second it gets a little uncomfortable.”

his finger stays buried to the knuckle the entire time. he doesn’t pull out. he doesn’t ease up. he just keeps you pinned there, full and stretched and trembling, while his free hand strokes your hair like he’s comforting a child who’s being difficult.

“it’s supposed to hurt a little the first time,” he says against your temple, almost scolding. “you’re so small. so tight around me. that’s not my fault, baby. that’s just how your body is. and i’m the one who’s being patient enough to work you open properly instead of just taking what i want.”

his thumb circles your clit in steady, relentless pressure while his finger curls inside you, searching, pressing, making your thighs shake.

“you can take it,” he murmurs. “i know you can. you’re just scared because no one ever taught you how. those boys never stayed long enough to show you. but i will. even when you cry. even when you try to tell me it’s too much.”

he presses a soft, almost tender kiss to your wet cheek.

“so stop looking at me like that. it hurts me, bunny. just breathe. let me take care of you the way i’m supposed to.”

you try. you really do. you force a shaky breath in through your nose and let it out slow the way he’s taught you on nights when your thoughts get too loud. but the stretch is still there—thick and insistent—and every time his finger drags back out and sinks in again the burn flares sharp enough that your eyes keep watering.

“i—i’m trying,” you whisper, the words coming out thin and apologetic. “it just… it feels like a lot—”

“i know it does.” his voice is calm again, almost soothing, but there’s something firmer underneath it now. something that doesn’t leave room for more excuses. “that’s why i’m going slow. that’s why i’m being so careful with you. but if you keep tensing up every time i move, it’s only going to hurt more. you understand that, right?”

he doesn’t wait for an answer.

a second finger presses against your entrance beside the first, blunt and patient. you feel the moment the tip of it starts to push in and your whole body tries to curl away on instinct. fuma’s arm tightens around your waist immediately, holding you still against his chest like you’re something that might slip away if he loosens his grip.

“bunny.” the pet name is soft, but the way he says it makes your stomach twist. “don’t pull away from me. not when i’m trying to help you.”

“i wasn’t—”

“you were.” he kisses the top of your head, almost forgiving, while the second finger sinks in another half-inch. the stretch is sharper this time—thicker, fuller—and a small broken sound leaves your throat before you can stop it. “see? this is what happens when you fight it. your body gets all tight and scared and then everything feels worse. but if you just relax and let me take care of you…”

he pushes the rest of the way in with one slow, steady press until both fingers are buried to the knuckle. the heel of his hand grinds lightly against your clit as he does it. the burn is deep and overwhelming and your eyes squeeze shut as another tear slips free.

fuma makes a low, approving sound in his chest.

a tear slips down your cheek. then another. you’re not sure if it’s from the discomfort or from how overwhelming it all is — how full you feel, how exposed, how completely he’s in control. fuma watches the tears with something dark and warm in his eyes.

“there you go,” he murmurs, almost proud. “crying so pretty for me. it’s okay. let it out.”

he keeps moving his fingers, slow and steady, scissoring them gently to open you up. the burn fades into a strange, heavy fullness that makes your stomach clench. every time he curls them, a shaky little sound escapes you. you try to close your legs on instinct and he immediately uses his free hand to press your thigh back open.

“keep them spread,” he says quietly. “i need to see how you’re doing. be good.”

you obey even though your face is wet and your breath is hitching. he rewards you by pressing his thumb to your clit at the same time, rubbing slow circles while his fingers work inside you. the mix of ache and pleasure makes fresh tears spill.

“f-fuma… i… i don’t know if i can—”

“yes you can.” he kisses the tears off your cheeks, one by one. “you’re doing so well. my perfect girl. just a little more and i’ll let you come.”

you let his fingers pump in and out of your heat in that same slow, deliberate rhythm, curling just enough on every inward stroke to make your thighs tremble. you let him kiss your tears away, soft and almost tender, like he’s rewarding you for crying pretty. you let him nibble at your lips until they part on a shaky breath, and then you let his tongue slide into your mouth the same way his fingers are working between your legs—deep, claiming, unhurried.

he swallows every small sound you make.

when he finally pulls back just enough to speak, his voice is warm against your mouth.

“that’s my good girl,” he murmurs. “look at you. all wet and open and shaking for me. you don’t even have to think about it, bunny. your body already knows who it belongs to.”

his fingers thrust a little deeper, a little firmer, and the wet sound of it fills the quiet space between your shared breaths. the stretch still burns, but the burn is starting to blur into something heavier, something that makes your stomach tighten and your toes curl against the sheets. you try to turn your face away when another tear slips free, but he catches your chin with his free hand and keeps you looking at him

“don’t hide from me,” he says softly. almost scolding. “i want to see. i want to watch what it looks like when you finally stop fighting and just take what i’m giving you.”

the pressure behind your navel coils tighter. your breath comes in short, uneven little pants against his mouth. you can feel how close you are—how inevitable it suddenly feels—and the realization makes something panicked flutter in your chest.

“fuma—” you try, voice cracking.

“shh.” he kisses the corner of your mouth, then the wet track of another tear. “i’ve got you. you’re right there, baby. i can feel it. just let go for me. you’ve been so good… so soft… so easy tonight. don’t ruin it by overthinking at the end.”

his thumb presses harder against your clit, rubbing tight, relentless circles while his fingers curl and thrust in that same steady rhythm. the dual sensation rips a broken little sound out of your throat. your hips try to jerk again and he holds you down without effort, keeping you exactly where he wants you—pinned, full, trembling, and completely at his mercy.

“come on,” he coaxes, voice low and almost gentle. “come for me. show me you trust me to take care of you. even when it hurts. even when it’s a lot. that’s what good girls do, bunny. they let their 父ちゃん make them feel good.”

you don’t even process what he’d referred to himself as.

your orgasm rolls over you sudden and almost violent. your whole body seizes up around his fingers and you cry out—a broken, wet sound—while tears keep sliding down your face. the pleasure is sharp and overwhelming, tangled up with the lingering burn and the helpless way your walls flutter and clench around him. he doesn’t stop moving through it. he works you through every pulse, every shaky aftershock, murmuring soft praise against your wet cheeks like he’s soothing a crying child.

“that’s it… that’s my girl… just like that. look how pretty you come for 父ちゃん. look how well you take it when you stop fighting.”

the title hits you late—after the worst of the climax has already wrecked you. your mind stumbles over it, dazed and oversensitive, while his fingers keep slowly thrusting inside you, milking every last tremor out of your body.

父ちゃん.

papa.

something hot and complicated twists low in your stomach. you should feel sick. you should feel the urge to push him away and tell him not to call himself that. instead your walls flutter around his fingers again, another weak little aftershock rolling through you.

“that’s it… good girl… look at you coming on my fingers. so sweet. so messy for me.”

when it finally ebbs, you’re trembling and sniffling, face buried in his neck. he slowly eases his fingers out and you whimper at the loss, at the faint sting left behind. he brings his hand up and sucks his fingers clean while you watch, dazed.

then he cups your face with both hands, thumbs wiping away the tears that won’t stop falling.

“see?” he says softly, almost smiling. “i told you i’d take care of everything.”

you nod against his palms, still hiccuping little breaths. your body feels wrung out and strangely empty. you’re pretty sure you’re still crying a little and you don’t even know why anymore.

fuma pulls you fully against his chest, letting you curl up small in his lap while he strokes your hair.

“you did so well for me tonight,” he says into your hair. “i’m proud of you.”

you cling to his shirt. “it… it really hurt at first.”

“i know.” he kisses the top of your head. “but it’ll get easier. i’ll help you practice. we’ll go slow. i’ll decide when you’re ready for more.”

you should probably feel uneasy about that. about how he’s already deciding the timeline of your body. but all you feel is warm and small and looked after. he’s older. he knows what’s best. he always has.

“okay,” you whisper.

fuma’s arms tighten around you.

“that’s my little girl.”

© lunenet 2026 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱.  𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾  𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌  𝖺𝗋𝖾  𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅  𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽.  𝗎𝗇𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽  𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽𝗎𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇,  𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇,  𝗆𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇,  𝗈𝗋  𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇  𝗂𝗌  𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗁𝗂𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲𝘀 & 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁𝘀 𝗿 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱!

the first time you asked him, the words felt foreign on your tongue, like they belonged to someone else. 

the apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city outside. you were sitting on the edge of your shared bed in nothing but one of fuma’s oversized shirts, knees drawn up. fuma stood by the dresser, unbuttoning his shirt after a long day, his reflection tired in the mirror.

“can i ask you for something,” you asked quietly.

he glanced over his shoulder, offering that soft, familiar half-smile. “anything.” his voice was warm, a little hoarse from practice. he turned fully toward you, shirt hanging open over his chest, waiting.

you swallowed hard. the numbness had been swallowing you alive for weeks now—everything gray, distant, muted. you loved fuma, you had for years and you weren't planning to stop. that love was the only steady thing in your life, the one bright thread you refused to let fray. but even love felt muffled lately, like it was happening to someone else.

his kisses felt like static. his “i love you”s landed somewhere outside your body. you needed sharpness. you needed proof you were still here.

“slap me,” you whispered. “hard.”

fuma’s expression froze. the smile dropped instantly. “what?”

“please, fuma. hit me.”

he stared at you like you’d spoken another language. for a long moment he didn’t move, then he crossed the room in three quick strides and knelt in front of you, hands gently resting on your bare thighs. “baby… no. why would you ask me that?” his thumbs stroked soothing circles on your skin, like he could rub the request away. “did something happen today? talk to me.”

he crossed the room in three strides and knelt before you, big hands warm on your bare thighs, thumbs stroking like he could erase the request with touch alone. his eyes searched yours, wide and horrified. he argued. he paced. he tried to fold you into his chest instead, murmuring soft japanese against your hair like a prayer. but your tears kept falling, your voice kept breaking—“i need to feel something, i need you to make me real”—until his resistance splintered.

the slap came sudden and brutal—his palm cracking hard across your cheek, snapping your head to the side. the sting was immediate, white-hot, blooming into a deep throb. blood touched your tongue.

for one perfect second the world narrowed to that sting and the emptiness inside you exhaled.

then the moment shattered. 

then fuma made a sound like something inside him had torn open. he dropped to his knees again, yanking you against him so tight you felt his heartbeat slamming against your ribs.

“shit—fuck, i’m sorry. i’m so fucking sorry, baby.” his voice cracked raw. one hand cradled your burning face with impossible gentleness while the other locked around your waist like you might vanish. “i didn’t mean to—god, look at you. i’m sorry.”

you stayed pressed against him, the heat of the slap pulsing in time with your heartbeat. for the first time in weeks, you felt anchored—real, solid, undeniably his. the tears on your face were barley from the pain of being slapped, they flowed as relief washed over you.

fuma didn’t feel that relief though. he felt the opposite. your heart slowed, his thumped aggressively against his chest as he rocked you slowly on the edge of the bed, pressing frantic kisses to your temple, your hair, the corner of your mouth that tasted like copper. 

he kept whispering apologies in that low, wrecked voice. “i hate that. i hate that i did that to you. you’re supposed to be safe with me…i love you. i love you so much. ever again, okay? never.”

but you only pressed your swollen cheek to his heartbeat and whispered, “thank you.”

he didn’t let go for a long time. that night he held you tighter than usual, his body curled protectively around yours even in sleep, like he was afraid his hands might betray him again if he loosened his grip

it didn’t stay “just once.”

the numbness always crawled back—gray mornings, silent dinners, nights when even his body moving inside yours felt miles away. every time it did you asked again. at first he fought harder. kissed you breathless, tried to drown the need in pleasure. but your tears, your desperate whispers of “i need you to make me feel,” always broke him. each time he gave in, the line blurred a little more. 

slaps became harder. his fist found your thighs and stomach. his belt left stinging stripes across your ass when you begged for it. and always—always—came the aftermath: him gathering you up like broken glass, rocking you for hours, kissing every mark while his voice cracked with guilt.

“i love you,” he’d whisper against your bruised skin, tears sometimes slipping down his own cheeks. “but i hate what i’m becoming for you.”

you loved him more for the guilt. it made the pain feel like love. it made the violence feel like devotion.

months passed. the bruises multiplied. you learned to angle your body so the marks stayed hidden under clothes. fuma learned exactly how hard he could go without sending you to the hospital. his eyes grew darker, more exhausted. he started staying in the shower longer, scrubbing his hands like he could wash the violence off them. but he never truly said no.

one night it went too far. his hand stayed around your throat long after you tapped out, and the world went black. when you woke, fuma was pale and shaking, tears streaming down his face as he checked your breathing over and over.

“i almost killed you,” he choked out, pulling you into his lap. his arms trembled. “baby, we can’t… i can’t keep doing this to you.”

you stayed there in his lap, the room still spinning slow like it hadn’t decided whether to keep you or let you fall again. his arms were shaking around you—big, careful arms that had just tried to end you and now held you like you were made of smoke. the handprints on your throat burned quiet, a necklace of proof. you traced them with two fingers, slow, almost reverent.

“but i felt everything,” you whispered again, softer this time, like maybe if you said it gentle enough he’d understand.

fuma’s breath hitched against your hair. he didn’t answer right away. just rocked you, barely, the way you rock something broken you’re scared will shatter worse if you stop. his shirt was damp where your cheek pressed—tears, his, not yours. you could taste salt and the faint copper still clinging to the corner of your mouth.

he pulled back just enough to look at you. eyes red-rimmed, exhausted, the soft brown you loved gone dark with something heavier. guilt sat on him like a second skin. you watched it settle deeper every time his gaze dropped to the marks blooming across your neck.

“you stopped breathing,” he said, voice raw as an open wound. “for a minute—maybe longer, i don’t know. i thought… i thought you were gone. really gone.”

his thumb brushed the edge of one bruise, so careful it almost didn’t hurt. almost. you leaned into the touch anyway, chasing the sting.

“i can’t,” he whispered. “i can’t keep doing this to you. to us.”

you felt the words before you heard them—something inside your chest cracking open wider than any slap or belt or fist ever could. the numbness was already creeping back in, gray fingers curling around the edges of the high you’d just ridden. you reached for his wrist, wrapped your fingers around it like you could anchor him here, keep him from slipping away the way the feeling always did.

“fuma—”

“no.”

the word came out quiet. final. not angry, just tired in a way that made your stomach drop slow. he gently pried your hand off his wrist and set it on your own thigh, like he couldn’t trust himself to hold you anymore. then he stood up, slow, leaving you on the bed alone for the first time in months without his body curled around the hurt he’d made.

he crossed to the dresser—the same spot he’d been standing when this all started—and stared at his reflection like it belonged to a stranger. shirt still half-open, shoulders curved in like the weight of every mark he’d ever left on you had finally landed.

“i’m not doing it anymore.”

the sentence landed flat between you. no tremor. no room for begging. just the door closing, soft and absolute.

you sat there in his oversized shirt, knees drawn up again just like the first night, only now the faint smell of him was faded between the smell of fear and the end of something. 

the bruises on your thighs ached in time with your pulse. you wanted to tell him they were beautiful. you wanted to beg him to make them darker, to prove you were still here, still his, still real. but the words stuck somewhere behind the sudden hollow in your throat.

fuma turned back to you. his eyes were wet but his jaw was set, the same jaw that had clenched every time he gave in before. he looked like he was breaking and holding himself together with nothing but guilt and love twisted too tight.

“i love you,” he said, voice cracking on the last word. “more than anything. but i won’t be the thing that kills you. not even if you ask me to.”

he didn’t come back to the bed that night. 

the sound of your sobs filling the shared bedroom felt like knives through his heart. they leaked into the living room—where he slept on the couch. or maybe he didn’t sleep at all. you didn’t know. you only knew the space between you had grown teeth overnight, sharp and waiting.

you curled into the sheets that still smelled like both of you, like sweat and salt and the ghost of his hands, and the emptiness pressed in heavier than any bruise he’d ever left. the bruises on your thighs pulsed in time with the ache behind your ribs. you pressed your face into the pillow where his head should have been and let the tears come until they ran dry, until the quiet felt louder than the city outside.

morning came gray and thin, light slipping through the blinds like it was sorry to be here. you dragged yourself up and caught your reflection in the mirror—eyes swollen, skin pale and drained, like the rot had finally crawled to the surface. 

the handprints on your throat had darkened into deep violet fingerprints, a map of almost. you traced them once, slow, then let your hand fall. no makeup. no hiding. just you, hollowed out and raw.

you moved through the apartment like a ghost wearing your own skin. fuma was already in the kitchen, back to you, shoulders tight under the same half-buttoned shirt from last night. 

the low grind of the coffee maker filled the silence—no words, no glances, no soft half-smile to stitch the night back together. the air between you felt thick enough to choke on. he poured water, measured grounds, every motion careful and distant, like touching anything too hard might break what was left.

you stood in the doorway for a long minute, knees weak, the oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder like it didn’t belong to you anymore. the numbness was back, wider now, swallowing the edges of everything. but underneath it something sharper twisted—fear, small and frantic, clawing up your throat.

you crossed the room on bare feet, silent. when you reached him you didn’t speak. you just pressed yourself against his back, arms sliding around his waist, cheek to his spine where his heart beat too steady, too guarded. he stiffened for half a breath, then exhaled like it hurt. the coffee maker gurgled on, indifferent.

your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding on like if you let go he might dissolve. the words came out small, cracked, barely louder than the drip of coffee into the pot.

“are you going to leave me?”

the words hung there, fragile and heavy all at once. you felt him breathe in sharp, felt the way his hands paused on the counter, knuckles whitening. no answer right away. just the warmth of his body against yours and the terrible quiet stretching longer than it should.

fuma’s head dropped forward, just a fraction. his voice, when it finally came, was low and wrecked and soft as falling ash.

“i don’t know.”

your arms tightened around his waist for half a second, fingers digging into fabric like you could hold the answer inside him, keep it from slipping away. then your knees buckled.

you slid down his back, slow at first, then all the way to the floor in a crumpled heap. the oversized shirt rode up your thighs, brushing over the fading bruises like a whisper of everything you were losing. your forehead pressed to the cool tile behind his heels and the sobs tore out of you raw, ugly, unstoppable.

“i’m sorry,” you choked out, voice cracking open. “i’m so sorry—fuma, please—”

the words came between gasps, wet and desperate, spilling over the kitchen floor like they’d been waiting under your skin for months. you curled smaller, arms wrapping around your own middle now, trying to hold the pieces of yourself together while the rot bloomed wider, hungrier. 

tears burned hot down your cheeks.

“i’ll do better,” you whispered, fierce and small all at once. “i swear. i’ll get therapy—i’ll go every day if you want, i’ll talk to someone, i’ll fix whatever’s wrong with me. just… don’t leave. please don’t leave.”

your shoulders shook with it, sobs folding you in half until your cheek rested against the cold floor. you could see his bare feet through the blur of tears—steady, unmoving. 

you could see his bare feet through the blur of tears—steady, unmoving.

the tile bled cold into your skin, a slow seep that matched the hollow blooming wider behind your ribs. you kept whispering anyway, the words fracturing on every inhale, raw and small and useless. “i’m sorry… i’ll do better… therapy, every day, i swear—”

your fingers curled tighter around nothing, nails scraping the floor like you could dig the rot out of yourself if you just tried hard enough. the oversized shirt twisted around your thighs, brushing over the ghosts of bruises that no longer sang loud enough to keep you here. 

the coffee maker clicked off behind you with a final, indifferent sigh. everything else kept going. only you stayed broken on the floor.

fuma’s breath caught above you. you felt it more than heard it—a hitch, a crack, the sound of something in him fraying at the edges. his feet shifted once, small, uncertain.

 then he was kneeling, slow as winter settling in, knees hitting the tile with a dull sound that echoed in your chest. his hand hovered over your shoulder before it landed, feather-light, like he was afraid the weight of his palm might leave another mark you’d beg him to make darker.

“hey,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, softening the edges. “breathe, baby. just… breathe.”

you collapsed further into the sound of him, forehead pressing harder against the floor, sobs folding you smaller until you were nothing but a crumpled promise at his feet. the tears wouldn’t stop.

“i’ll fix it,” you gasped between the waves. “i’ll be good. no more asking for the hurt. i’ll go to therapy, i’ll talk until it stops rotting, just—don’t leave. please, fuma, don’t leave me like this.”

his hand slid down your back, slow circles that felt like apology and goodbye twisted into the same touch. you could feel the tremor in his fingers, the way guilt sat heavy on him again, heavier now because you were the one breaking in the light of morning. 

he didn’t pull you up. not yet. he just stayed there on the floor with you, shoulder brushing yours, the warmth of him the only thing keeping the gray from swallowing everything whole.

fuma’s thumb brushed a tear from your temple, so careful it ached worse than any slap.

“i’m here,” he said finally, the words falling like ash, soft and heavy. “i’m still here.”

but the way his voice cracked on the last syllable told you the door wasn’t closed all the way.

not yet.

and you held on tighter, promising the empty air and the cold floor and the man above you that you would learn how to be soft without the sharp edges, even if the rot in your chest already knew better.

therapy was hard. 

you sat in a too-bright room twice a week with a woman who asked gentle questions that felt like scalpels anyway. you told her about the numbness. about the way love only ever felt real when it hurt. about fuma’s hands—how they used to be the only thing sharp enough to cut through the gray and now they only hovered, afraid. 

you cried in that chair more than you ever cried when you begged for hurt. ugly, snotty cries that left your throat raw in a way no slap ever had. the therapist called it progress. you called it peeling the rot back one layer at a time and finding more rot underneath. 

you worked on holding two truths at once. ‘i needed the pain to feel real and i am allowed to feel real without it.’you cried the first few times, ugly and snotty, but the rot loosened its grip a little more with every set of eye movements. like someone was gently pulling the thorns out one by one without making you bleed fresh.

you learned how to accept the flicker of hunger that still passed through like a ghost. how to accept that softness could be enough. that real love was not abuse disguised. that healthy relationships were nothing to fear.

fuma waited in the car every time. engine off, hands on the wheel like he was still driving even when he wasn’t. he never asked what you talked about. you never offered. but sometimes on the ride home his fingers would brush your knee—careful, weightless—and you’d feel the old hunger flare low in your stomach, the quiet want for him to grip harder, to leave something behind. you swallowed it every time. promised the silence you were getting better.

fuma went to therapy too. 

his therapist called it secondary trauma. you heard him murmur the words once, late at night when he thought you were asleep, testing them out loud like they might fit better in the dark. 

secondary. like the hurt he gave you had ricocheted back and lodged somewhere behind his ribs, sharp and permanent. you lay there beside him, eyes closed, listening to the way his voice cracked on the syllables, and the rot in your chest twisted with guilt. 

he worked on how to say no, how to not submit even if you crumble, how to hold his ground because hurting you when you wanted it was just as bad as doing it when you didn’t. he did chair work sometimes, switching seats to talk to the version of himself who had given in every time you begged.

therapy was hard for him the same way it was hard for you. he came home some evenings with red eyes and a jaw set so tight you could see the muscle jumping. he’d pull you close anyway—gentle, always gentle now—and bury his face in your hair like the scent of you could remind him he hadn’t become the monster he was terrified of turning into. 

the apartment grew softer around the edges. no more marks blooming under your clothes like secret flowers. no more belt stripes or fist-shaped shadows. instead there were nights he held you through your tears without trying to fix them with pain. nights you held him through his without asking him to hurt you so you could feel something. 

the numbness still crept in, gray and patient, but it met resistance now—his careful fingers tracing your spine, your voice saying i’m here instead of hit me.

one evening he came back from his session quieter than usual. you were on the couch, knees drawn up under the same oversized shirt that still smelled like both of you. he dropped his keys, crossed the room, and knelt in front of you the way he had that first night—only this time there was no horror in his eyes, just exhaustion and something that looked almost like hope wearing thin.

his hands rested on your bare thighs, thumbs stroking the same slow circles, but they didn’t feel like they were erasing anything anymore. they felt like they were learning you all over again.

“i told him about the choking,” he said, voice low and rough. “about how i almost—how i could have—”

he stopped. swallowed. you reached down and threaded your fingers through his hair, gentle the way he’d taught you to be with yourself.

“he said it wasn’t my fault,” fuma whispered finally, the words scraping out like they’d been caught in his throat for weeks. “but it still feels like mine. every mark i left… every time you asked and i gave in. i keep seeing your face when you passed out. the way your eyes went empty. and i can’t—”

“i’m sorry i made you carry it,” you whispered, the words slipping out soft as ash. your fingers kept moving through his hair, slow, careful, tracing the shape of his skull like you could map the places where the guilt lived. 

“i never wanted you to hurt like that. i just… i didn’t know how else to feel real.”

fuma lifted his head just enough to look at you. his eyes were wet, the soft brown you fell in love with years ago now rimmed red from the kind of crying therapy dragged out of him. he didn’t speak right away. just searched your face the way he used to search for permission before every slap, every belt, every press of his palm against your throat.

then his hand slid up your thigh, higher, stopping just below the hem of the oversized shirt. no pressure. no promise of pain. just warmth. steady. the kind that didn’t leave marks but still anchored you all the same.

“we’re both carrying it now,” he said, voice quieter than the city outside. “you in your chair twice a week. me in mine. and maybe… maybe that’s how we stop it from rotting everything we’ve built.”

you stayed like that for a long time—him kneeling between your knees, you with your fingers in his hair, the apartment wrapped around you both like a held breath. no sharp edges. no blood on your tongue. just the two of you learning how to sit in the quiet without needing it to hurt.

four years later.

you both had moved.

the lingering memories of the hurt tainted the space you lived in. the walls had drunk too much of your sobs and his guilt. they tasted like copper even on good days. so one gray morning fuma looked at you across the breakfast table, eyes soft but certain, and said, “a fresh start.”

just that. no long explanation. no promises wrapped in pretty paper.

you drove away from everything you’d known with the windows down and his hand on your thigh—not gripping, not bruising, just resting there like a quiet vow. the city blurred past in streaks of light and concrete, and the rot in your chest stayed small and silent for once, as if it too needed new air.

the new place is smaller. brighter. windows that let the sun spill across the floor in wide, forgiving pools instead of thin blades of afternoon gray. no ghosts on the walls. no memories pressed into the mattress like bruises that never quite faded. you painted the bedroom a soft, washed-out pink because fuma let you choose, and when you finished he pulled you close right there in the drop-cloth mess and kissed your temple like the color itself could heal something.

four years.

the rot is still there, but it’s quieter now, almost polite. a thin scar you sometimes run your thumb over in the shower, checking if it still sings. it doesn’t. not the way it used to. therapy ended for both of you last spring—gradual, mutual, like two people learning to walk without crutches at the same time. fuma still goes back once a month just to check the wiring. you do too. but mostly you live here, in this new light, where love doesn’t need to leave marks to feel real.

he comes home from work tonight the way he always does now—bag dropped by the door, shoes kicked off, hair damp and curling at the ends. you’re on the couch with your knees tucked under the same faded oversized shirt you refuse to throw away. he crosses the room without a word, folds himself down beside you, head finding your lap.

his hand settles on your thigh. solid. warm. thumb tracing the same slow circles that once felt like apology and now feel natural.

“missed this,” he murmurs against your stomach, voice low and rough. “missed you.

you thread your fingers through his hair—longer now, blonder and softer—and you don’t pull. you never do anymore. the roughness in your bones has quieted, turned to something smoother, like river stone worn down by years of the same careful water. it still sits there, that old shape, but it doesn’t cut when you move.

the old hunger flickers sometimes, faint as a match struck underwater, but it passes. you let it. he feels it anyway and his grip tightens just enough to say i see you, and that ‘we don’t need that here.’

outside the new windows the city hums different—higher, lighter, unfamiliar. inside, the quiet stretches easy between you, no teeth in it anymore. you lean down, press your lips to the top of his head, and the words slip out soft as the light across the floor.

“thank you for the fresh start—and for never giving up on me.”

fuma lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. the soft brown is still there, no longer haunted, just tired in the way good days leave you. he smiles, small and sure, the kind that doesn’t crack anymore.

“thank you for not giving up on yourself,” he finishes, the words slipping out like breath he’s been holding for four quiet years. “and for choosing the soft parts even when the sharp ones still whispered your name. for letting me learn how to hold you again without leaving proof.”

you feel the words land soft against your skin, warm as the late light pooling across the pink walls, and something inside your chest loosens the way it used to only after a slap—except this time there’s no sting, no copper on your tongue, just the slow exhale of four years learning how to love softness. 

and the nights remain like that, as years pass—the rot lessens to almost nothing and you’ve finally learned to be mostly okay. the craving for hurt no longer lingers, it no longer lives in your brain and in your chest. it’s replaced by the craving of just love. love that fuma will gladly give you.

“we made it,” he whispered. “the rot didn’t win.”

you knew there was something wrong with you. maybe it was etched into you by the various relationships you had been in—sharp words, colder hands, love that only ever felt real when it left marks. or maybe it was just something that was bound to be, a quiet rot blooming in your chest long before anyone touched you.

the first time you asked him, the words felt foreign on your tongue, like they belonged to someone else. 

the apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city outside. you were sitting on the edge of your shared bed in nothing but one of fuma’s oversized shirts, knees drawn up. fuma stood by the dresser, unbuttoning his shirt after a long day, his reflection tired in the mirror.

“can i ask you for something,” you asked quietly.

he glanced over his shoulder, offering that soft, familiar half-smile. “anything.” his voice was warm, a little hoarse from practice. he turned fully toward you, shirt hanging open over his chest, waiting.

you swallowed hard. the numbness had been swallowing you alive for weeks now—everything gray, distant, muted. you loved fuma, you had for years and you weren't planning to stop. that love was the only steady thing in your life, the one bright thread you refused to let fray. but even love felt muffled lately, like it was happening to someone else.

his kisses felt like static. his “i love you”s landed somewhere outside your body. you needed sharpness. you needed proof you were still here.

“slap me,” you whispered. “hard.”

fuma’s expression froze. the smile dropped instantly. “what?”

“please, fuma. hit me.”

he stared at you like you’d spoken another language. for a long moment he didn’t move, then he crossed the room in three quick strides and knelt in front of you, hands gently resting on your bare thighs. “baby… no. why would you ask me that?” his thumbs stroked soothing circles on your skin, like he could rub the request away. “did something happen today? talk to me.”

he crossed the room in three strides and knelt before you, big hands warm on your bare thighs, thumbs stroking like he could erase the request with touch alone. his eyes searched yours, wide and horrified. he argued. he paced. he tried to fold you into his chest instead, murmuring soft japanese against your hair like a prayer. but your tears kept falling, your voice kept breaking—“i need to feel something, i need you to make me real”—until his resistance splintered.

the slap came sudden and brutal—his palm cracking hard across your cheek, snapping your head to the side. the sting was immediate, white-hot, blooming into a deep throb. blood touched your tongue.

for one perfect second the world narrowed to that sting and the emptiness inside you exhaled.

then the moment shattered. 

then fuma made a sound like something inside him had torn open. he dropped to his knees again, yanking you against him so tight you felt his heartbeat slamming against your ribs.

“shit—fuck, i’m sorry. i’m so fucking sorry, baby.” his voice cracked raw. one hand cradled your burning face with impossible gentleness while the other locked around your waist like you might vanish. “i didn’t mean to—god, look at you. i’m sorry.”

you stayed pressed against him, the heat of the slap pulsing in time with your heartbeat. for the first time in weeks, you felt anchored—real, solid, undeniably his. the tears on your face were barley from the pain of being slapped, they flowed as relief washed over you.

fuma didn’t feel that relief though. he felt the opposite. your heart slowed, his thumped aggressively against his chest as he rocked you slowly on the edge of the bed, pressing frantic kisses to your temple, your hair, the corner of your mouth that tasted like copper. 

he kept whispering apologies in that low, wrecked voice. “i hate that. i hate that i did that to you. you’re supposed to be safe with me…i love you. i love you so much. ever again, okay? never.”

but you only pressed your swollen cheek to his heartbeat and whispered, “thank you.”

he didn’t let go for a long time. that night he held you tighter than usual, his body curled protectively around yours even in sleep, like he was afraid his hands might betray him again if he loosened his grip

it didn’t stay “just once.”

the numbness always crawled back—gray mornings, silent dinners, nights when even his body moving inside yours felt miles away. every time it did you asked again. at first he fought harder. kissed you breathless, tried to drown the need in pleasure. but your tears, your desperate whispers of “i need you to make me feel,” always broke him. each time he gave in, the line blurred a little more. 

slaps became harder. his fist found your thighs and stomach. his belt left stinging stripes across your ass when you begged for it. and always—always—came the aftermath: him gathering you up like broken glass, rocking you for hours, kissing every mark while his voice cracked with guilt.

“i love you,” he’d whisper against your bruised skin, tears sometimes slipping down his own cheeks. “but i hate what i’m becoming for you.”

you loved him more for the guilt. it made the pain feel like love. it made the violence feel like devotion.

months passed. the bruises multiplied. you learned to angle your body so the marks stayed hidden under clothes. fuma learned exactly how hard he could go without sending you to the hospital. his eyes grew darker, more exhausted. he started staying in the shower longer, scrubbing his hands like he could wash the violence off them. but he never truly said no.

one night it went too far. his hand stayed around your throat long after you tapped out, and the world went black. when you woke, fuma was pale and shaking, tears streaming down his face as he checked your breathing over and over.

“i almost killed you,” he choked out, pulling you into his lap. his arms trembled. “baby, we can’t… i can’t keep doing this to you.”

you stayed there in his lap, the room still spinning slow like it hadn’t decided whether to keep you or let you fall again. his arms were shaking around you—big, careful arms that had just tried to end you and now held you like you were made of smoke. the handprints on your throat burned quiet, a necklace of proof. you traced them with two fingers, slow, almost reverent.

“but i felt everything,” you whispered again, softer this time, like maybe if you said it gentle enough he’d understand.

fuma’s breath hitched against your hair. he didn’t answer right away. just rocked you, barely, the way you rock something broken you’re scared will shatter worse if you stop. his shirt was damp where your cheek pressed—tears, his, not yours. you could taste salt and the faint copper still clinging to the corner of your mouth.

he pulled back just enough to look at you. eyes red-rimmed, exhausted, the soft brown you loved gone dark with something heavier. guilt sat on him like a second skin. you watched it settle deeper every time his gaze dropped to the marks blooming across your neck.

“you stopped breathing,” he said, voice raw as an open wound. “for a minute—maybe longer, i don’t know. i thought… i thought you were gone. really gone.”

his thumb brushed the edge of one bruise, so careful it almost didn’t hurt. almost. you leaned into the touch anyway, chasing the sting.

“i can’t,” he whispered. “i can’t keep doing this to you. to us.”

you felt the words before you heard them—something inside your chest cracking open wider than any slap or belt or fist ever could. the numbness was already creeping back in, gray fingers curling around the edges of the high you’d just ridden. you reached for his wrist, wrapped your fingers around it like you could anchor him here, keep him from slipping away the way the feeling always did.

“fuma—”

“no.”

the word came out quiet. final. not angry, just tired in a way that made your stomach drop slow. he gently pried your hand off his wrist and set it on your own thigh, like he couldn’t trust himself to hold you anymore. then he stood up, slow, leaving you on the bed alone for the first time in months without his body curled around the hurt he’d made.

he crossed to the dresser—the same spot he’d been standing when this all started—and stared at his reflection like it belonged to a stranger. shirt still half-open, shoulders curved in like the weight of every mark he’d ever left on you had finally landed.

“i’m not doing it anymore.”

the sentence landed flat between you. no tremor. no room for begging. just the door closing, soft and absolute.

you sat there in his oversized shirt, knees drawn up again just like the first night, only now the faint smell of him was faded between the smell of fear and the end of something. 

the bruises on your thighs ached in time with your pulse. you wanted to tell him they were beautiful. you wanted to beg him to make them darker, to prove you were still here, still his, still real. but the words stuck somewhere behind the sudden hollow in your throat.

fuma turned back to you. his eyes were wet but his jaw was set, the same jaw that had clenched every time he gave in before. he looked like he was breaking and holding himself together with nothing but guilt and love twisted too tight.

“i love you,” he said, voice cracking on the last word. “more than anything. but i won’t be the thing that kills you. not even if you ask me to.”

he didn’t come back to the bed that night. 

the sound of your sobs filling the shared bedroom felt like knives through his heart. they leaked into the living room—where he slept on the couch. or maybe he didn’t sleep at all. you didn’t know. you only knew the space between you had grown teeth overnight, sharp and waiting.

you curled into the sheets that still smelled like both of you, like sweat and salt and the ghost of his hands, and the emptiness pressed in heavier than any bruise he’d ever left. the bruises on your thighs pulsed in time with the ache behind your ribs. you pressed your face into the pillow where his head should have been and let the tears come until they ran dry, until the quiet felt louder than the city outside.

morning came gray and thin, light slipping through the blinds like it was sorry to be here. you dragged yourself up and caught your reflection in the mirror—eyes swollen, skin pale and drained, like the rot had finally crawled to the surface. 

the handprints on your throat had darkened into deep violet fingerprints, a map of almost. you traced them once, slow, then let your hand fall. no makeup. no hiding. just you, hollowed out and raw.

you moved through the apartment like a ghost wearing your own skin. fuma was already in the kitchen, back to you, shoulders tight under the same half-buttoned shirt from last night. 

the low grind of the coffee maker filled the silence—no words, no glances, no soft half-smile to stitch the night back together. the air between you felt thick enough to choke on. he poured water, measured grounds, every motion careful and distant, like touching anything too hard might break what was left.

you stood in the doorway for a long minute, knees weak, the oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder like it didn’t belong to you anymore. the numbness was back, wider now, swallowing the edges of everything. but underneath it something sharper twisted—fear, small and frantic, clawing up your throat.

you crossed the room on bare feet, silent. when you reached him you didn’t speak. you just pressed yourself against his back, arms sliding around his waist, cheek to his spine where his heart beat too steady, too guarded. he stiffened for half a breath, then exhaled like it hurt. the coffee maker gurgled on, indifferent.

your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding on like if you let go he might dissolve. the words came out small, cracked, barely louder than the drip of coffee into the pot.

“are you going to leave me?”

the words hung there, fragile and heavy all at once. you felt him breathe in sharp, felt the way his hands paused on the counter, knuckles whitening. no answer right away. just the warmth of his body against yours and the terrible quiet stretching longer than it should.

fuma’s head dropped forward, just a fraction. his voice, when it finally came, was low and wrecked and soft as falling ash.

“i don’t know.”

your arms tightened around his waist for half a second, fingers digging into fabric like you could hold the answer inside him, keep it from slipping away. then your knees buckled.

you slid down his back, slow at first, then all the way to the floor in a crumpled heap. the oversized shirt rode up your thighs, brushing over the fading bruises like a whisper of everything you were losing. your forehead pressed to the cool tile behind his heels and the sobs tore out of you raw, ugly, unstoppable.

“i’m sorry,” you choked out, voice cracking open. “i’m so sorry—fuma, please—”

the words came between gasps, wet and desperate, spilling over the kitchen floor like they’d been waiting under your skin for months. you curled smaller, arms wrapping around your own middle now, trying to hold the pieces of yourself together while the rot bloomed wider, hungrier. 

tears burned hot down your cheeks.

“i’ll do better,” you whispered, fierce and small all at once. “i swear. i’ll get therapy—i’ll go every day if you want, i’ll talk to someone, i’ll fix whatever’s wrong with me. just… don’t leave. please don’t leave.”

your shoulders shook with it, sobs folding you in half until your cheek rested against the cold floor. you could see his bare feet through the blur of tears—steady, unmoving. 

you could see his bare feet through the blur of tears—steady, unmoving.

the tile bled cold into your skin, a slow seep that matched the hollow blooming wider behind your ribs. you kept whispering anyway, the words fracturing on every inhale, raw and small and useless. “i’m sorry… i’ll do better… therapy, every day, i swear—”

your fingers curled tighter around nothing, nails scraping the floor like you could dig the rot out of yourself if you just tried hard enough. the oversized shirt twisted around your thighs, brushing over the ghosts of bruises that no longer sang loud enough to keep you here. 

the coffee maker clicked off behind you with a final, indifferent sigh. everything else kept going. only you stayed broken on the floor.

fuma’s breath caught above you. you felt it more than heard it—a hitch, a crack, the sound of something in him fraying at the edges. his feet shifted once, small, uncertain.

 then he was kneeling, slow as winter settling in, knees hitting the tile with a dull sound that echoed in your chest. his hand hovered over your shoulder before it landed, feather-light, like he was afraid the weight of his palm might leave another mark you’d beg him to make darker.

“hey,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, softening the edges. “breathe, baby. just… breathe.”

you collapsed further into the sound of him, forehead pressing harder against the floor, sobs folding you smaller until you were nothing but a crumpled promise at his feet. the tears wouldn’t stop.

“i’ll fix it,” you gasped between the waves. “i’ll be good. no more asking for the hurt. i’ll go to therapy, i’ll talk until it stops rotting, just—don’t leave. please, fuma, don’t leave me like this.”

his hand slid down your back, slow circles that felt like apology and goodbye twisted into the same touch. you could feel the tremor in his fingers, the way guilt sat heavy on him again, heavier now because you were the one breaking in the light of morning. 

he didn’t pull you up. not yet. he just stayed there on the floor with you, shoulder brushing yours, the warmth of him the only thing keeping the gray from swallowing everything whole.

fuma’s thumb brushed a tear from your temple, so careful it ached worse than any slap.

“i’m here,” he said finally, the words falling like ash, soft and heavy. “i’m still here.”

but the way his voice cracked on the last syllable told you the door wasn’t closed all the way.

not yet.

and you held on tighter, promising the empty air and the cold floor and the man above you that you would learn how to be soft without the sharp edges, even if the rot in your chest already knew better.

therapy was hard. 

you sat in a too-bright room twice a week with a woman who asked gentle questions that felt like scalpels anyway. you told her about the numbness. about the way love only ever felt real when it hurt. about fuma’s hands—how they used to be the only thing sharp enough to cut through the gray and now they only hovered, afraid. 

you cried in that chair more than you ever cried when you begged for hurt. ugly, snotty cries that left your throat raw in a way no slap ever had. the therapist called it progress. you called it peeling the rot back one layer at a time and finding more rot underneath. 

you worked on holding two truths at once. ‘i needed the pain to feel real and i am allowed to feel real without it.’you cried the first few times, ugly and snotty, but the rot loosened its grip a little more with every set of eye movements. like someone was gently pulling the thorns out one by one without making you bleed fresh.

you learned how to accept the flicker of hunger that still passed through like a ghost. how to accept that softness could be enough. that real love was not abuse disguised. that healthy relationships were nothing to fear.

fuma waited in the car every time. engine off, hands on the wheel like he was still driving even when he wasn’t. he never asked what you talked about. you never offered. but sometimes on the ride home his fingers would brush your knee—careful, weightless—and you’d feel the old hunger flare low in your stomach, the quiet want for him to grip harder, to leave something behind. you swallowed it every time. promised the silence you were getting better.

fuma went to therapy too. 

his therapist called it secondary trauma. you heard him murmur the words once, late at night when he thought you were asleep, testing them out loud like they might fit better in the dark. 

secondary. like the hurt he gave you had ricocheted back and lodged somewhere behind his ribs, sharp and permanent. you lay there beside him, eyes closed, listening to the way his voice cracked on the syllables, and the rot in your chest twisted with guilt. 

he worked on how to say no, how to not submit even if you crumble, how to hold his ground because hurting you when you wanted it was just as bad as doing it when you didn’t. he did chair work sometimes, switching seats to talk to the version of himself who had given in every time you begged.

therapy was hard for him the same way it was hard for you. he came home some evenings with red eyes and a jaw set so tight you could see the muscle jumping. he’d pull you close anyway—gentle, always gentle now—and bury his face in your hair like the scent of you could remind him he hadn’t become the monster he was terrified of turning into. 

the apartment grew softer around the edges. no more marks blooming under your clothes like secret flowers. no more belt stripes or fist-shaped shadows. instead there were nights he held you through your tears without trying to fix them with pain. nights you held him through his without asking him to hurt you so you could feel something. 

the numbness still crept in, gray and patient, but it met resistance now—his careful fingers tracing your spine, your voice saying i’m here instead of hit me.

one evening he came back from his session quieter than usual. you were on the couch, knees drawn up under the same oversized shirt that still smelled like both of you. he dropped his keys, crossed the room, and knelt in front of you the way he had that first night—only this time there was no horror in his eyes, just exhaustion and something that looked almost like hope wearing thin.

his hands rested on your bare thighs, thumbs stroking the same slow circles, but they didn’t feel like they were erasing anything anymore. they felt like they were learning you all over again.

“i told him about the choking,” he said, voice low and rough. “about how i almost—how i could have—”

he stopped. swallowed. you reached down and threaded your fingers through his hair, gentle the way he’d taught you to be with yourself.

“he said it wasn’t my fault,” fuma whispered finally, the words scraping out like they’d been caught in his throat for weeks. “but it still feels like mine. every mark i left… every time you asked and i gave in. i keep seeing your face when you passed out. the way your eyes went empty. and i can’t—”

“i’m sorry i made you carry it,” you whispered, the words slipping out soft as ash. your fingers kept moving through his hair, slow, careful, tracing the shape of his skull like you could map the places where the guilt lived. 

“i never wanted you to hurt like that. i just… i didn’t know how else to feel real.”

fuma lifted his head just enough to look at you. his eyes were wet, the soft brown you fell in love with years ago now rimmed red from the kind of crying therapy dragged out of him. he didn’t speak right away. just searched your face the way he used to search for permission before every slap, every belt, every press of his palm against your throat.

then his hand slid up your thigh, higher, stopping just below the hem of the oversized shirt. no pressure. no promise of pain. just warmth. steady. the kind that didn’t leave marks but still anchored you all the same.

“we’re both carrying it now,” he said, voice quieter than the city outside. “you in your chair twice a week. me in mine. and maybe… maybe that’s how we stop it from rotting everything we’ve built.”

you stayed like that for a long time—him kneeling between your knees, you with your fingers in his hair, the apartment wrapped around you both like a held breath. no sharp edges. no blood on your tongue. just the two of you learning how to sit in the quiet without needing it to hurt.

four years later.

you both had moved.

the lingering memories of the hurt tainted the space you lived in. the walls had drunk too much of your sobs and his guilt. they tasted like copper even on good days. so one gray morning fuma looked at you across the breakfast table, eyes soft but certain, and said, “a fresh start.”

just that. no long explanation. no promises wrapped in pretty paper.

you drove away from everything you’d known with the windows down and his hand on your thigh—not gripping, not bruising, just resting there like a quiet vow. the city blurred past in streaks of light and concrete, and the rot in your chest stayed small and silent for once, as if it too needed new air.

the new place is smaller. brighter. windows that let the sun spill across the floor in wide, forgiving pools instead of thin blades of afternoon gray. no ghosts on the walls. no memories pressed into the mattress like bruises that never quite faded. you painted the bedroom a soft, washed-out pink because fuma let you choose, and when you finished he pulled you close right there in the drop-cloth mess and kissed your temple like the color itself could heal something.

four years.

the rot is still there, but it’s quieter now, almost polite. a thin scar you sometimes run your thumb over in the shower, checking if it still sings. it doesn’t. not the way it used to. therapy ended for both of you last spring—gradual, mutual, like two people learning to walk without crutches at the same time. fuma still goes back once a month just to check the wiring. you do too. but mostly you live here, in this new light, where love doesn’t need to leave marks to feel real.

he comes home from work tonight the way he always does now—bag dropped by the door, shoes kicked off, hair damp and curling at the ends. you’re on the couch with your knees tucked under the same faded oversized shirt you refuse to throw away. he crosses the room without a word, folds himself down beside you, head finding your lap.

his hand settles on your thigh. solid. warm. thumb tracing the same slow circles that once felt like apology and now feel natural.

“missed this,” he murmurs against your stomach, voice low and rough. “missed you.

you thread your fingers through his hair—longer now, blonder and softer—and you don’t pull. you never do anymore. the roughness in your bones has quieted, turned to something smoother, like river stone worn down by years of the same careful water. it still sits there, that old shape, but it doesn’t cut when you move.

the old hunger flickers sometimes, faint as a match struck underwater, but it passes. you let it. he feels it anyway and his grip tightens just enough to say i see you, and that ‘we don’t need that here.’

outside the new windows the city hums different—higher, lighter, unfamiliar. inside, the quiet stretches easy between you, no teeth in it anymore. you lean down, press your lips to the top of his head, and the words slip out soft as the light across the floor.

“thank you for the fresh start—and for never giving up on me.”

fuma lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. the soft brown is still there, no longer haunted, just tired in the way good days leave you. he smiles, small and sure, the kind that doesn’t crack anymore.

“thank you for not giving up on yourself,” he finishes, the words slipping out like breath he’s been holding for four quiet years. “and for choosing the soft parts even when the sharp ones still whispered your name. for letting me learn how to hold you again without leaving proof.”

you feel the words land soft against your skin, warm as the late light pooling across the pink walls, and something inside your chest loosens the way it used to only after a slap—except this time there’s no sting, no copper on your tongue, just the slow exhale of four years learning how to love softness. 

and the nights remain like that, as years pass—the rot lessens to almost nothing and you’ve finally learned to be mostly okay. the craving for hurt no longer lingers, it no longer lives in your brain and in your chest. it’s replaced by the craving of just love. love that fuma will gladly give you.

“we made it,” he whispered. “the rot didn’t win.”

you knew there was something wrong with you. maybe it was etched into you by the various relationships you had been in—sharp words, colder hands, love that only ever felt real when it left marks. or maybe it was just something that was bound to be, a quiet rot blooming in your chest long before anyone touched you.

the first time you asked him, the words felt foreign on your tongue, like they belonged to someone else. 

the apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city outside. you were sitting on the edge of your shared bed in nothing but one of fuma’s oversized shirts, knees drawn up. fuma stood by the dresser, unbuttoning his shirt after a long day, his reflection tired in the mirror.

“can i ask you for something,” you asked quietly.

he glanced over his shoulder, offering that soft, familiar half-smile. “anything.” his voice was warm, a little hoarse from practice. he turned fully toward you, shirt hanging open over his chest, waiting.

you swallowed hard. the numbness had been swallowing you alive for weeks now—everything gray, distant, muted. you loved fuma, you had for years and you weren't planning to stop. that love was the only steady thing in your life, the one bright thread you refused to let fray. but even love felt muffled lately, like it was happening to someone else.

his kisses felt like static. his “i love you”s landed somewhere outside your body. you needed sharpness. you needed proof you were still here.

“slap me,” you whispered. “hard.”

fuma’s expression froze. the smile dropped instantly. “what?”

“please, fuma. hit me.”

he stared at you like you’d spoken another language. for a long moment he didn’t move, then he crossed the room in three quick strides and knelt in front of you, hands gently resting on your bare thighs. “baby… no. why would you ask me that?” his thumbs stroked soothing circles on your skin, like he could rub the request away. “did something happen today? talk to me.”

he crossed the room in three strides and knelt before you, big hands warm on your bare thighs, thumbs stroking like he could erase the request with touch alone. his eyes searched yours, wide and horrified. he argued. he paced. he tried to fold you into his chest instead, murmuring soft japanese against your hair like a prayer. but your tears kept falling, your voice kept breaking—“i need to feel something, i need you to make me real”—until his resistance splintered.

the slap came sudden and brutal—his palm cracking hard across your cheek, snapping your head to the side. the sting was immediate, white-hot, blooming into a deep throb. blood touched your tongue.

for one perfect second the world narrowed to that sting and the emptiness inside you exhaled.

then the moment shattered. 

then fuma made a sound like something inside him had torn open. he dropped to his knees again, yanking you against him so tight you felt his heartbeat slamming against your ribs.

“shit—fuck, i’m sorry. i’m so fucking sorry, baby.” his voice cracked raw. one hand cradled your burning face with impossible gentleness while the other locked around your waist like you might vanish. “i didn’t mean to—god, look at you. i’m sorry.”

you stayed pressed against him, the heat of the slap pulsing in time with your heartbeat. for the first time in weeks, you felt anchored—real, solid, undeniably his. the tears on your face were barley from the pain of being slapped, they flowed as relief washed over you.

fuma didn’t feel that relief though. he felt the opposite. your heart slowed, his thumped aggressively against his chest as he rocked you slowly on the edge of the bed, pressing frantic kisses to your temple, your hair, the corner of your mouth that tasted like copper. 

he kept whispering apologies in that low, wrecked voice. “i hate that. i hate that i did that to you. you’re supposed to be safe with me…i love you. i love you so much. ever again, okay? never.”

but you only pressed your swollen cheek to his heartbeat and whispered, “thank you.”

he didn’t let go for a long time. that night he held you tighter than usual, his body curled protectively around yours even in sleep, like he was afraid his hands might betray him again if he loosened his grip

it didn’t stay “just once.”

the numbness always crawled back—gray mornings, silent dinners, nights when even his body moving inside yours felt miles away. every time it did you asked again. at first he fought harder. kissed you breathless, tried to drown the need in pleasure. but your tears, your desperate whispers of “i need you to make me feel,” always broke him. each time he gave in, the line blurred a little more. 

slaps became harder. his fist found your thighs and stomach. his belt left stinging stripes across your ass when you begged for it. and always—always—came the aftermath: him gathering you up like broken glass, rocking you for hours, kissing every mark while his voice cracked with guilt.

“i love you,” he’d whisper against your bruised skin, tears sometimes slipping down his own cheeks. “but i hate what i’m becoming for you.”

you loved him more for the guilt. it made the pain feel like love. it made the violence feel like devotion.

months passed. the bruises multiplied. you learned to angle your body so the marks stayed hidden under clothes. fuma learned exactly how hard he could go without sending you to the hospital. his eyes grew darker, more exhausted. he started staying in the shower longer, scrubbing his hands like he could wash the violence off them. but he never truly said no.

one night it went too far. his hand stayed around your throat long after you tapped out, and the world went black. when you woke, fuma was pale and shaking, tears streaming down his face as he checked your breathing over and over.

“i almost killed you,” he choked out, pulling you into his lap. his arms trembled. “baby, we can’t… i can’t keep doing this to you.”

you stayed there in his lap, the room still spinning slow like it hadn’t decided whether to keep you or let you fall again. his arms were shaking around you—big, careful arms that had just tried to end you and now held you like you were made of smoke. the handprints on your throat burned quiet, a necklace of proof. you traced them with two fingers, slow, almost reverent.

“but i felt everything,” you whispered again, softer this time, like maybe if you said it gentle enough he’d understand.

fuma’s breath hitched against your hair. he didn’t answer right away. just rocked you, barely, the way you rock something broken you’re scared will shatter worse if you stop. his shirt was damp where your cheek pressed—tears, his, not yours. you could taste salt and the faint copper still clinging to the corner of your mouth.

he pulled back just enough to look at you. eyes red-rimmed, exhausted, the soft brown you loved gone dark with something heavier. guilt sat on him like a second skin. you watched it settle deeper every time his gaze dropped to the marks blooming across your neck.

“you stopped breathing,” he said, voice raw as an open wound. “for a minute—maybe longer, i don’t know. i thought… i thought you were gone. really gone.”

his thumb brushed the edge of one bruise, so careful it almost didn’t hurt. almost. you leaned into the touch anyway, chasing the sting.

“i can’t,” he whispered. “i can’t keep doing this to you. to us.”

you felt the words before you heard them—something inside your chest cracking open wider than any slap or belt or fist ever could. the numbness was already creeping back in, gray fingers curling around the edges of the high you’d just ridden. you reached for his wrist, wrapped your fingers around it like you could anchor him here, keep him from slipping away the way the feeling always did.

“fuma—”

“no.”

the word came out quiet. final. not angry, just tired in a way that made your stomach drop slow. he gently pried your hand off his wrist and set it on your own thigh, like he couldn’t trust himself to hold you anymore. then he stood up, slow, leaving you on the bed alone for the first time in months without his body curled around the hurt he’d made.

he crossed to the dresser—the same spot he’d been standing when this all started—and stared at his reflection like it belonged to a stranger. shirt still half-open, shoulders curved in like the weight of every mark he’d ever left on you had finally landed.

“i’m not doing it anymore.”

the sentence landed flat between you. no tremor. no room for begging. just the door closing, soft and absolute.

you sat there in his oversized shirt, knees drawn up again just like the first night, only now the faint smell of him was faded between the smell of fear and the end of something. 

the bruises on your thighs ached in time with your pulse. you wanted to tell him they were beautiful. you wanted to beg him to make them darker, to prove you were still here, still his, still real. but the words stuck somewhere behind the sudden hollow in your throat.

fuma turned back to you. his eyes were wet but his jaw was set, the same jaw that had clenched every time he gave in before. he looked like he was breaking and holding himself together with nothing but guilt and love twisted too tight.

“i love you,” he said, voice cracking on the last word. “more than anything. but i won’t be the thing that kills you. not even if you ask me to.”

he didn’t come back to the bed that night. 

the sound of your sobs filling the shared bedroom felt like knives through his heart. they leaked into the living room—where he slept on the couch. or maybe he didn’t sleep at all. you didn’t know. you only knew the space between you had grown teeth overnight, sharp and waiting.

you curled into the sheets that still smelled like both of you, like sweat and salt and the ghost of his hands, and the emptiness pressed in heavier than any bruise he’d ever left. the bruises on your thighs pulsed in time with the ache behind your ribs. you pressed your face into the pillow where his head should have been and let the tears come until they ran dry, until the quiet felt louder than the city outside.

morning came gray and thin, light slipping through the blinds like it was sorry to be here. you dragged yourself up and caught your reflection in the mirror—eyes swollen, skin pale and drained, like the rot had finally crawled to the surface. 

the handprints on your throat had darkened into deep violet fingerprints, a map of almost. you traced them once, slow, then let your hand fall. no makeup. no hiding. just you, hollowed out and raw.

you moved through the apartment like a ghost wearing your own skin. fuma was already in the kitchen, back to you, shoulders tight under the same half-buttoned shirt from last night. 

the low grind of the coffee maker filled the silence—no words, no glances, no soft half-smile to stitch the night back together. the air between you felt thick enough to choke on. he poured water, measured grounds, every motion careful and distant, like touching anything too hard might break what was left.

you stood in the doorway for a long minute, knees weak, the oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder like it didn’t belong to you anymore. the numbness was back, wider now, swallowing the edges of everything. but underneath it something sharper twisted—fear, small and frantic, clawing up your throat.

you crossed the room on bare feet, silent. when you reached him you didn’t speak. you just pressed yourself against his back, arms sliding around his waist, cheek to his spine where his heart beat too steady, too guarded. he stiffened for half a breath, then exhaled like it hurt. the coffee maker gurgled on, indifferent.

your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding on like if you let go he might dissolve. the words came out small, cracked, barely louder than the drip of coffee into the pot.

“are you going to leave me?”

the words hung there, fragile and heavy all at once. you felt him breathe in sharp, felt the way his hands paused on the counter, knuckles whitening. no answer right away. just the warmth of his body against yours and the terrible quiet stretching longer than it should.

fuma’s head dropped forward, just a fraction. his voice, when it finally came, was low and wrecked and soft as falling ash.

“i don’t know.”

your arms tightened around his waist for half a second, fingers digging into fabric like you could hold the answer inside him, keep it from slipping away. then your knees buckled.

you slid down his back, slow at first, then all the way to the floor in a crumpled heap. the oversized shirt rode up your thighs, brushing over the fading bruises like a whisper of everything you were losing. your forehead pressed to the cool tile behind his heels and the sobs tore out of you raw, ugly, unstoppable.

“i’m sorry,” you choked out, voice cracking open. “i’m so sorry—fuma, please—”

the words came between gasps, wet and desperate, spilling over the kitchen floor like they’d been waiting under your skin for months. you curled smaller, arms wrapping around your own middle now, trying to hold the pieces of yourself together while the rot bloomed wider, hungrier. 

tears burned hot down your cheeks.

“i’ll do better,” you whispered, fierce and small all at once. “i swear. i’ll get therapy—i’ll go every day if you want, i’ll talk to someone, i’ll fix whatever’s wrong with me. just… don’t leave. please don’t leave.”

your shoulders shook with it, sobs folding you in half until your cheek rested against the cold floor. you could see his bare feet through the blur of tears—steady, unmoving. 

you could see his bare feet through the blur of tears—steady, unmoving.

the tile bled cold into your skin, a slow seep that matched the hollow blooming wider behind your ribs. you kept whispering anyway, the words fracturing on every inhale, raw and small and useless. “i’m sorry… i’ll do better… therapy, every day, i swear—”

your fingers curled tighter around nothing, nails scraping the floor like you could dig the rot out of yourself if you just tried hard enough. the oversized shirt twisted around your thighs, brushing over the ghosts of bruises that no longer sang loud enough to keep you here. 

the coffee maker clicked off behind you with a final, indifferent sigh. everything else kept going. only you stayed broken on the floor.

fuma’s breath caught above you. you felt it more than heard it—a hitch, a crack, the sound of something in him fraying at the edges. his feet shifted once, small, uncertain.

 then he was kneeling, slow as winter settling in, knees hitting the tile with a dull sound that echoed in your chest. his hand hovered over your shoulder before it landed, feather-light, like he was afraid the weight of his palm might leave another mark you’d beg him to make darker.

“hey,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, softening the edges. “breathe, baby. just… breathe.”

you collapsed further into the sound of him, forehead pressing harder against the floor, sobs folding you smaller until you were nothing but a crumpled promise at his feet. the tears wouldn’t stop.

“i’ll fix it,” you gasped between the waves. “i’ll be good. no more asking for the hurt. i’ll go to therapy, i’ll talk until it stops rotting, just—don’t leave. please, fuma, don’t leave me like this.”

his hand slid down your back, slow circles that felt like apology and goodbye twisted into the same touch. you could feel the tremor in his fingers, the way guilt sat heavy on him again, heavier now because you were the one breaking in the light of morning. 

he didn’t pull you up. not yet. he just stayed there on the floor with you, shoulder brushing yours, the warmth of him the only thing keeping the gray from swallowing everything whole.

fuma’s thumb brushed a tear from your temple, so careful it ached worse than any slap.

“i’m here,” he said finally, the words falling like ash, soft and heavy. “i’m still here.”

but the way his voice cracked on the last syllable told you the door wasn’t closed all the way.

not yet.

and you held on tighter, promising the empty air and the cold floor and the man above you that you would learn how to be soft without the sharp edges, even if the rot in your chest already knew better.

therapy was hard. 

you sat in a too-bright room twice a week with a woman who asked gentle questions that felt like scalpels anyway. you told her about the numbness. about the way love only ever felt real when it hurt. about fuma’s hands—how they used to be the only thing sharp enough to cut through the gray and now they only hovered, afraid. 

you cried in that chair more than you ever cried when you begged for hurt. ugly, snotty cries that left your throat raw in a way no slap ever had. the therapist called it progress. you called it peeling the rot back one layer at a time and finding more rot underneath. 

you worked on holding two truths at once. ‘i needed the pain to feel real and i am allowed to feel real without it.’you cried the first few times, ugly and snotty, but the rot loosened its grip a little more with every set of eye movements. like someone was gently pulling the thorns out one by one without making you bleed fresh.

you learned how to accept the flicker of hunger that still passed through like a ghost. how to accept that softness could be enough. that real love was not abuse disguised. that healthy relationships were nothing to fear.

fuma waited in the car every time. engine off, hands on the wheel like he was still driving even when he wasn’t. he never asked what you talked about. you never offered. but sometimes on the ride home his fingers would brush your knee—careful, weightless—and you’d feel the old hunger flare low in your stomach, the quiet want for him to grip harder, to leave something behind. you swallowed it every time. promised the silence you were getting better.

fuma went to therapy too. 

his therapist called it secondary trauma. you heard him murmur the words once, late at night when he thought you were asleep, testing them out loud like they might fit better in the dark. 

secondary. like the hurt he gave you had ricocheted back and lodged somewhere behind his ribs, sharp and permanent. you lay there beside him, eyes closed, listening to the way his voice cracked on the syllables, and the rot in your chest twisted with guilt. 

he worked on how to say no, how to not submit even if you crumble, how to hold his ground because hurting you when you wanted it was just as bad as doing it when you didn’t. he did chair work sometimes, switching seats to talk to the version of himself who had given in every time you begged.

therapy was hard for him the same way it was hard for you. he came home some evenings with red eyes and a jaw set so tight you could see the muscle jumping. he’d pull you close anyway—gentle, always gentle now—and bury his face in your hair like the scent of you could remind him he hadn’t become the monster he was terrified of turning into. 

the apartment grew softer around the edges. no more marks blooming under your clothes like secret flowers. no more belt stripes or fist-shaped shadows. instead there were nights he held you through your tears without trying to fix them with pain. nights you held him through his without asking him to hurt you so you could feel something. 

the numbness still crept in, gray and patient, but it met resistance now—his careful fingers tracing your spine, your voice saying i’m here instead of hit me.

one evening he came back from his session quieter than usual. you were on the couch, knees drawn up under the same oversized shirt that still smelled like both of you. he dropped his keys, crossed the room, and knelt in front of you the way he had that first night—only this time there was no horror in his eyes, just exhaustion and something that looked almost like hope wearing thin.

his hands rested on your bare thighs, thumbs stroking the same slow circles, but they didn’t feel like they were erasing anything anymore. they felt like they were learning you all over again.

“i told him about the choking,” he said, voice low and rough. “about how i almost—how i could have—”

he stopped. swallowed. you reached down and threaded your fingers through his hair, gentle the way he’d taught you to be with yourself.

“he said it wasn’t my fault,” fuma whispered finally, the words scraping out like they’d been caught in his throat for weeks. “but it still feels like mine. every mark i left… every time you asked and i gave in. i keep seeing your face when you passed out. the way your eyes went empty. and i can’t—”

“i’m sorry i made you carry it,” you whispered, the words slipping out soft as ash. your fingers kept moving through his hair, slow, careful, tracing the shape of his skull like you could map the places where the guilt lived. 

“i never wanted you to hurt like that. i just… i didn’t know how else to feel real.”

fuma lifted his head just enough to look at you. his eyes were wet, the soft brown you fell in love with years ago now rimmed red from the kind of crying therapy dragged out of him. he didn’t speak right away. just searched your face the way he used to search for permission before every slap, every belt, every press of his palm against your throat.

then his hand slid up your thigh, higher, stopping just below the hem of the oversized shirt. no pressure. no promise of pain. just warmth. steady. the kind that didn’t leave marks but still anchored you all the same.

“we’re both carrying it now,” he said, voice quieter than the city outside. “you in your chair twice a week. me in mine. and maybe… maybe that’s how we stop it from rotting everything we’ve built.”

you stayed like that for a long time—him kneeling between your knees, you with your fingers in his hair, the apartment wrapped around you both like a held breath. no sharp edges. no blood on your tongue. just the two of you learning how to sit in the quiet without needing it to hurt.

four years later.

you both had moved.

the lingering memories of the hurt tainted the space you lived in. the walls had drunk too much of your sobs and his guilt. they tasted like copper even on good days. so one gray morning fuma looked at you across the breakfast table, eyes soft but certain, and said, “a fresh start.”

just that. no long explanation. no promises wrapped in pretty paper.

you drove away from everything you’d known with the windows down and his hand on your thigh—not gripping, not bruising, just resting there like a quiet vow. the city blurred past in streaks of light and concrete, and the rot in your chest stayed small and silent for once, as if it too needed new air.

the new place is smaller. brighter. windows that let the sun spill across the floor in wide, forgiving pools instead of thin blades of afternoon gray. no ghosts on the walls. no memories pressed into the mattress like bruises that never quite faded. you painted the bedroom a soft, washed-out pink because fuma let you choose, and when you finished he pulled you close right there in the drop-cloth mess and kissed your temple like the color itself could heal something.

four years.

the rot is still there, but it’s quieter now, almost polite. a thin scar you sometimes run your thumb over in the shower, checking if it still sings. it doesn’t. not the way it used to. therapy ended for both of you last spring—gradual, mutual, like two people learning to walk without crutches at the same time. fuma still goes back once a month just to check the wiring. you do too. but mostly you live here, in this new light, where love doesn’t need to leave marks to feel real.

he comes home from work tonight the way he always does now—bag dropped by the door, shoes kicked off, hair damp and curling at the ends. you’re on the couch with your knees tucked under the same faded oversized shirt you refuse to throw away. he crosses the room without a word, folds himself down beside you, head finding your lap.

his hand settles on your thigh. solid. warm. thumb tracing the same slow circles that once felt like apology and now feel natural.

“missed this,” he murmurs against your stomach, voice low and rough. “missed you.

you thread your fingers through his hair—longer now, blonder and softer—and you don’t pull. you never do anymore. the roughness in your bones has quieted, turned to something smoother, like river stone worn down by years of the same careful water. it still sits there, that old shape, but it doesn’t cut when you move.

the old hunger flickers sometimes, faint as a match struck underwater, but it passes. you let it. he feels it anyway and his grip tightens just enough to say i see you, and that ‘we don’t need that here.’

outside the new windows the city hums different—higher, lighter, unfamiliar. inside, the quiet stretches easy between you, no teeth in it anymore. you lean down, press your lips to the top of his head, and the words slip out soft as the light across the floor.

“thank you for the fresh start—and for never giving up on me.”

fuma lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. the soft brown is still there, no longer haunted, just tired in the way good days leave you. he smiles, small and sure, the kind that doesn’t crack anymore.

“thank you for not giving up on yourself,” he finishes, the words slipping out like breath he’s been holding for four quiet years. “and for choosing the soft parts even when the sharp ones still whispered your name. for letting me learn how to hold you again without leaving proof.”

you feel the words land soft against your skin, warm as the late light pooling across the pink walls, and something inside your chest loosens the way it used to only after a slap—except this time there’s no sting, no copper on your tongue, just the slow exhale of four years learning how to love softness. 

and the nights remain like that, as years pass—the rot lessens to almost nothing and you’ve finally learned to be mostly okay. the craving for hurt no longer lingers, it no longer lives in your brain and in your chest. it’s replaced by the craving of just love. love that fuma will gladly give you.

“we made it,” he whispered. “the rot didn’t win.”

© 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗲 2026 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱.  𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾  𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌  𝖺𝗋𝖾  𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅  𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽.  𝗎𝗇𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽  𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽𝗎𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇,  𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇,  𝗆𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇,  𝗈𝗋  𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇  𝗂𝗌  𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗁𝗂𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲𝘀 & 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁𝘀 𝗿 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱!

𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝗈𝗅𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾—𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗳𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹. 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗈. 𝖻𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗌. 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗺𝘆 𝗳𝗶𝗰𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗲𝗱. 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 ♡ 

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: this is a repost ~ i decided to share it again because i loved writing it. a lot of my writings come from a personal place, this one included. i've been in relationships where receiving pain felt like the only kind of love i knew how to accept. the only way i could prove i was still here—still real, still worth keeping—was to just let them hurt me. I wrote this story because I needed to look that version of myself in the eye. the girl on the floor begging not to be left. the girl begging to be better after being tainted by so much hurt. you are not too broken to heal. the numbness doesn’t get the final word. and the rot? it will not win, i promise. thank you for holding this with me. i’m still learning how to love and be loved softly too.

domestic violence hotline

𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 open . . . . .  @makizdoll @fumaid @hehebeanis @softqtkittyy @yuuniversezx @liveyourownlife4good @seren-void @lynaka @jyuugoyasmine @iluvujo @abiasouzaa @luv4jaeyun @7yataki @jolovesricecakes @sooberriesx @chillacs @deersui @rinnrinnn

the first time you asked him, the words felt foreign on your tongue, like they belonged to someone else. 

the apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city outside. you were sitting on the edge of your shared bed in nothing but one of fuma’s oversized shirts, knees drawn up. fuma stood by the dresser, unbuttoning his shirt after a long day, his reflection tired in the mirror.

“can i ask you for something,” you asked quietly.

he glanced over his shoulder, offering that soft, familiar half-smile. “anything.” his voice was warm, a little hoarse from practice. he turned fully toward you, shirt hanging open over his chest, waiting.

you swallowed hard. the numbness had been swallowing you alive for weeks now—everything gray, distant, muted. you loved fuma, you had for years and you weren't planning to stop. that love was the only steady thing in your life, the one bright thread you refused to let fray. but even love felt muffled lately, like it was happening to someone else.

his kisses felt like static. his “i love you”s landed somewhere outside your body. you needed sharpness. you needed proof you were still here.

“slap me,” you whispered. “hard.”

fuma’s expression froze. the smile dropped instantly. “what?”

“please, fuma. hit me.”

he stared at you like you’d spoken another language. for a long moment he didn’t move, then he crossed the room in three quick strides and knelt in front of you, hands gently resting on your bare thighs. “baby… no. why would you ask me that?” his thumbs stroked soothing circles on your skin, like he could rub the request away. “did something happen today? talk to me.”

he crossed the room in three strides and knelt before you, big hands warm on your bare thighs, thumbs stroking like he could erase the request with touch alone. his eyes searched yours, wide and horrified. he argued. he paced. he tried to fold you into his chest instead, murmuring soft japanese against your hair like a prayer. but your tears kept falling, your voice kept breaking—“i need to feel something, i need you to make me real”—until his resistance splintered.

the slap came sudden and brutal—his palm cracking hard across your cheek, snapping your head to the side. the sting was immediate, white-hot, blooming into a deep throb. blood touched your tongue.

for one perfect second the world narrowed to that sting and the emptiness inside you exhaled.

then the moment shattered. 

then fuma made a sound like something inside him had torn open. he dropped to his knees again, yanking you against him so tight you felt his heartbeat slamming against your ribs.

“shit—fuck, i’m sorry. i’m so fucking sorry, baby.” his voice cracked raw. one hand cradled your burning face with impossible gentleness while the other locked around your waist like you might vanish. “i didn’t mean to—god, look at you. i’m sorry.”

you stayed pressed against him, the heat of the slap pulsing in time with your heartbeat. for the first time in weeks, you felt anchored—real, solid, undeniably his. the tears on your face were barley from the pain of being slapped, they flowed as relief washed over you.

fuma didn’t feel that relief though. he felt the opposite. your heart slowed, his thumped aggressively against his chest as he rocked you slowly on the edge of the bed, pressing frantic kisses to your temple, your hair, the corner of your mouth that tasted like copper. 

he kept whispering apologies in that low, wrecked voice. “i hate that. i hate that i did that to you. you’re supposed to be safe with me…i love you. i love you so much. ever again, okay? never.”

but you only pressed your swollen cheek to his heartbeat and whispered, “thank you.”

he didn’t let go for a long time. that night he held you tighter than usual, his body curled protectively around yours even in sleep, like he was afraid his hands might betray him again if he loosened his grip

it didn’t stay “just once.”

the numbness always crawled back—gray mornings, silent dinners, nights when even his body moving inside yours felt miles away. every time it did you asked again. at first he fought harder. kissed you breathless, tried to drown the need in pleasure. but your tears, your desperate whispers of “i need you to make me feel,” always broke him. each time he gave in, the line blurred a little more. 

slaps became harder. his fist found your thighs and stomach. his belt left stinging stripes across your ass when you begged for it. and always—always—came the aftermath: him gathering you up like broken glass, rocking you for hours, kissing every mark while his voice cracked with guilt.

“i love you,” he’d whisper against your bruised skin, tears sometimes slipping down his own cheeks. “but i hate what i’m becoming for you.”

you loved him more for the guilt. it made the pain feel like love. it made the violence feel like devotion.

months passed. the bruises multiplied. you learned to angle your body so the marks stayed hidden under clothes. fuma learned exactly how hard he could go without sending you to the hospital. his eyes grew darker, more exhausted. he started staying in the shower longer, scrubbing his hands like he could wash the violence off them. but he never truly said no.

one night it went too far. his hand stayed around your throat long after you tapped out, and the world went black. when you woke, fuma was pale and shaking, tears streaming down his face as he checked your breathing over and over.

“i almost killed you,” he choked out, pulling you into his lap. his arms trembled. “baby, we can’t… i can’t keep doing this to you.”

you stayed there in his lap, the room still spinning slow like it hadn’t decided whether to keep you or let you fall again. his arms were shaking around you—big, careful arms that had just tried to end you and now held you like you were made of smoke. the handprints on your throat burned quiet, a necklace of proof. you traced them with two fingers, slow, almost reverent.

“but i felt everything,” you whispered again, softer this time, like maybe if you said it gentle enough he’d understand.

fuma’s breath hitched against your hair. he didn’t answer right away. just rocked you, barely, the way you rock something broken you’re scared will shatter worse if you stop. his shirt was damp where your cheek pressed—tears, his, not yours. you could taste salt and the faint copper still clinging to the corner of your mouth.

he pulled back just enough to look at you. eyes red-rimmed, exhausted, the soft brown you loved gone dark with something heavier. guilt sat on him like a second skin. you watched it settle deeper every time his gaze dropped to the marks blooming across your neck.

“you stopped breathing,” he said, voice raw as an open wound. “for a minute—maybe longer, i don’t know. i thought… i thought you were gone. really gone.”

his thumb brushed the edge of one bruise, so careful it almost didn’t hurt. almost. you leaned into the touch anyway, chasing the sting.

“i can’t,” he whispered. “i can’t keep doing this to you. to us.”

you felt the words before you heard them—something inside your chest cracking open wider than any slap or belt or fist ever could. the numbness was already creeping back in, gray fingers curling around the edges of the high you’d just ridden. you reached for his wrist, wrapped your fingers around it like you could anchor him here, keep him from slipping away the way the feeling always did.

“fuma—”

“no.”

the word came out quiet. final. not angry, just tired in a way that made your stomach drop slow. he gently pried your hand off his wrist and set it on your own thigh, like he couldn’t trust himself to hold you anymore. then he stood up, slow, leaving you on the bed alone for the first time in months without his body curled around the hurt he’d made.

he crossed to the dresser—the same spot he’d been standing when this all started—and stared at his reflection like it belonged to a stranger. shirt still half-open, shoulders curved in like the weight of every mark he’d ever left on you had finally landed.

“i’m not doing it anymore.”

the sentence landed flat between you. no tremor. no room for begging. just the door closing, soft and absolute.

you sat there in his oversized shirt, knees drawn up again just like the first night, only now the faint smell of him was faded between the smell of fear and the end of something. 

the bruises on your thighs ached in time with your pulse. you wanted to tell him they were beautiful. you wanted to beg him to make them darker, to prove you were still here, still his, still real. but the words stuck somewhere behind the sudden hollow in your throat.

fuma turned back to you. his eyes were wet but his jaw was set, the same jaw that had clenched every time he gave in before. he looked like he was breaking and holding himself together with nothing but guilt and love twisted too tight.

“i love you,” he said, voice cracking on the last word. “more than anything. but i won’t be the thing that kills you. not even if you ask me to.”

he didn’t come back to the bed that night. 

the sound of your sobs filling the shared bedroom felt like knives through his heart. they leaked into the living room—where he slept on the couch. or maybe he didn’t sleep at all. you didn’t know. you only knew the space between you had grown teeth overnight, sharp and waiting.

you curled into the sheets that still smelled like both of you, like sweat and salt and the ghost of his hands, and the emptiness pressed in heavier than any bruise he’d ever left. the bruises on your thighs pulsed in time with the ache behind your ribs. you pressed your face into the pillow where his head should have been and let the tears come until they ran dry, until the quiet felt louder than the city outside.

morning came gray and thin, light slipping through the blinds like it was sorry to be here. you dragged yourself up and caught your reflection in the mirror—eyes swollen, skin pale and drained, like the rot had finally crawled to the surface. 

the handprints on your throat had darkened into deep violet fingerprints, a map of almost. you traced them once, slow, then let your hand fall. no makeup. no hiding. just you, hollowed out and raw.

you moved through the apartment like a ghost wearing your own skin. fuma was already in the kitchen, back to you, shoulders tight under the same half-buttoned shirt from last night. 

the low grind of the coffee maker filled the silence—no words, no glances, no soft half-smile to stitch the night back together. the air between you felt thick enough to choke on. he poured water, measured grounds, every motion careful and distant, like touching anything too hard might break what was left.

you stood in the doorway for a long minute, knees weak, the oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder like it didn’t belong to you anymore. the numbness was back, wider now, swallowing the edges of everything. but underneath it something sharper twisted—fear, small and frantic, clawing up your throat.

you crossed the room on bare feet, silent. when you reached him you didn’t speak. you just pressed yourself against his back, arms sliding around his waist, cheek to his spine where his heart beat too steady, too guarded. he stiffened for half a breath, then exhaled like it hurt. the coffee maker gurgled on, indifferent.

your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding on like if you let go he might dissolve. the words came out small, cracked, barely louder than the drip of coffee into the pot.

“are you going to leave me?”

the words hung there, fragile and heavy all at once. you felt him breathe in sharp, felt the way his hands paused on the counter, knuckles whitening. no answer right away. just the warmth of his body against yours and the terrible quiet stretching longer than it should.

fuma’s head dropped forward, just a fraction. his voice, when it finally came, was low and wrecked and soft as falling ash.

“i don’t know.”

your arms tightened around his waist for half a second, fingers digging into fabric like you could hold the answer inside him, keep it from slipping away. then your knees buckled.

you slid down his back, slow at first, then all the way to the floor in a crumpled heap. the oversized shirt rode up your thighs, brushing over the fading bruises like a whisper of everything you were losing. your forehead pressed to the cool tile behind his heels and the sobs tore out of you raw, ugly, unstoppable.

“i’m sorry,” you choked out, voice cracking open. “i’m so sorry—fuma, please—”

the words came between gasps, wet and desperate, spilling over the kitchen floor like they’d been waiting under your skin for months. you curled smaller, arms wrapping around your own middle now, trying to hold the pieces of yourself together while the rot bloomed wider, hungrier. 

tears burned hot down your cheeks.

“i’ll do better,” you whispered, fierce and small all at once. “i swear. i’ll get therapy—i’ll go every day if you want, i’ll talk to someone, i’ll fix whatever’s wrong with me. just… don’t leave. please don’t leave.”

your shoulders shook with it, sobs folding you in half until your cheek rested against the cold floor. you could see his bare feet through the blur of tears—steady, unmoving. 

you could see his bare feet through the blur of tears—steady, unmoving.

the tile bled cold into your skin, a slow seep that matched the hollow blooming wider behind your ribs. you kept whispering anyway, the words fracturing on every inhale, raw and small and useless. “i’m sorry… i’ll do better… therapy, every day, i swear—”

your fingers curled tighter around nothing, nails scraping the floor like you could dig the rot out of yourself if you just tried hard enough. the oversized shirt twisted around your thighs, brushing over the ghosts of bruises that no longer sang loud enough to keep you here. 

the coffee maker clicked off behind you with a final, indifferent sigh. everything else kept going. only you stayed broken on the floor.

fuma’s breath caught above you. you felt it more than heard it—a hitch, a crack, the sound of something in him fraying at the edges. his feet shifted once, small, uncertain.

 then he was kneeling, slow as winter settling in, knees hitting the tile with a dull sound that echoed in your chest. his hand hovered over your shoulder before it landed, feather-light, like he was afraid the weight of his palm might leave another mark you’d beg him to make darker.

“hey,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, softening the edges. “breathe, baby. just… breathe.”

you collapsed further into the sound of him, forehead pressing harder against the floor, sobs folding you smaller until you were nothing but a crumpled promise at his feet. the tears wouldn’t stop.

“i’ll fix it,” you gasped between the waves. “i’ll be good. no more asking for the hurt. i’ll go to therapy, i’ll talk until it stops rotting, just—don’t leave. please, fuma, don’t leave me like this.”

his hand slid down your back, slow circles that felt like apology and goodbye twisted into the same touch. you could feel the tremor in his fingers, the way guilt sat heavy on him again, heavier now because you were the one breaking in the light of morning. 

he didn’t pull you up. not yet. he just stayed there on the floor with you, shoulder brushing yours, the warmth of him the only thing keeping the gray from swallowing everything whole.

fuma’s thumb brushed a tear from your temple, so careful it ached worse than any slap.

“i’m here,” he said finally, the words falling like ash, soft and heavy. “i’m still here.”

but the way his voice cracked on the last syllable told you the door wasn’t closed all the way.

not yet.

and you held on tighter, promising the empty air and the cold floor and the man above you that you would learn how to be soft without the sharp edges, even if the rot in your chest already knew better.

therapy was hard. 

you sat in a too-bright room twice a week with a woman who asked gentle questions that felt like scalpels anyway. you told her about the numbness. about the way love only ever felt real when it hurt. about fuma’s hands—how they used to be the only thing sharp enough to cut through the gray and now they only hovered, afraid. 

you cried in that chair more than you ever cried when you begged for hurt. ugly, snotty cries that left your throat raw in a way no slap ever had. the therapist called it progress. you called it peeling the rot back one layer at a time and finding more rot underneath. 

you worked on holding two truths at once. ‘i needed the pain to feel real and i am allowed to feel real without it.’you cried the first few times, ugly and snotty, but the rot loosened its grip a little more with every set of eye movements. like someone was gently pulling the thorns out one by one without making you bleed fresh.

you learned how to accept the flicker of hunger that still passed through like a ghost. how to accept that softness could be enough. that real love was not abuse disguised. that healthy relationships were nothing to fear.

fuma waited in the car every time. engine off, hands on the wheel like he was still driving even when he wasn’t. he never asked what you talked about. you never offered. but sometimes on the ride home his fingers would brush your knee—careful, weightless—and you’d feel the old hunger flare low in your stomach, the quiet want for him to grip harder, to leave something behind. you swallowed it every time. promised the silence you were getting better.

fuma went to therapy too. 

his therapist called it secondary trauma. you heard him murmur the words once, late at night when he thought you were asleep, testing them out loud like they might fit better in the dark. 

secondary. like the hurt he gave you had ricocheted back and lodged somewhere behind his ribs, sharp and permanent. you lay there beside him, eyes closed, listening to the way his voice cracked on the syllables, and the rot in your chest twisted with guilt. 

he worked on how to say no, how to not submit even if you crumble, how to hold his ground because hurting you when you wanted it was just as bad as doing it when you didn’t. he did chair work sometimes, switching seats to talk to the version of himself who had given in every time you begged.

therapy was hard for him the same way it was hard for you. he came home some evenings with red eyes and a jaw set so tight you could see the muscle jumping. he’d pull you close anyway—gentle, always gentle now—and bury his face in your hair like the scent of you could remind him he hadn’t become the monster he was terrified of turning into. 

the apartment grew softer around the edges. no more marks blooming under your clothes like secret flowers. no more belt stripes or fist-shaped shadows. instead there were nights he held you through your tears without trying to fix them with pain. nights you held him through his without asking him to hurt you so you could feel something. 

the numbness still crept in, gray and patient, but it met resistance now—his careful fingers tracing your spine, your voice saying i’m here instead of hit me.

one evening he came back from his session quieter than usual. you were on the couch, knees drawn up under the same oversized shirt that still smelled like both of you. he dropped his keys, crossed the room, and knelt in front of you the way he had that first night—only this time there was no horror in his eyes, just exhaustion and something that looked almost like hope wearing thin.

his hands rested on your bare thighs, thumbs stroking the same slow circles, but they didn’t feel like they were erasing anything anymore. they felt like they were learning you all over again.

“i told him about the choking,” he said, voice low and rough. “about how i almost—how i could have—”

he stopped. swallowed. you reached down and threaded your fingers through his hair, gentle the way he’d taught you to be with yourself.

“he said it wasn’t my fault,” fuma whispered finally, the words scraping out like they’d been caught in his throat for weeks. “but it still feels like mine. every mark i left… every time you asked and i gave in. i keep seeing your face when you passed out. the way your eyes went empty. and i can’t—”

“i’m sorry i made you carry it,” you whispered, the words slipping out soft as ash. your fingers kept moving through his hair, slow, careful, tracing the shape of his skull like you could map the places where the guilt lived. 

“i never wanted you to hurt like that. i just… i didn’t know how else to feel real.”

fuma lifted his head just enough to look at you. his eyes were wet, the soft brown you fell in love with years ago now rimmed red from the kind of crying therapy dragged out of him. he didn’t speak right away. just searched your face the way he used to search for permission before every slap, every belt, every press of his palm against your throat.

then his hand slid up your thigh, higher, stopping just below the hem of the oversized shirt. no pressure. no promise of pain. just warmth. steady. the kind that didn’t leave marks but still anchored you all the same.

“we’re both carrying it now,” he said, voice quieter than the city outside. “you in your chair twice a week. me in mine. and maybe… maybe that’s how we stop it from rotting everything we’ve built.”

you stayed like that for a long time—him kneeling between your knees, you with your fingers in his hair, the apartment wrapped around you both like a held breath. no sharp edges. no blood on your tongue. just the two of you learning how to sit in the quiet without needing it to hurt.

four years later.

you both had moved.

the lingering memories of the hurt tainted the space you lived in. the walls had drunk too much of your sobs and his guilt. they tasted like copper even on good days. so one gray morning fuma looked at you across the breakfast table, eyes soft but certain, and said, “a fresh start.”

just that. no long explanation. no promises wrapped in pretty paper.

you drove away from everything you’d known with the windows down and his hand on your thigh—not gripping, not bruising, just resting there like a quiet vow. the city blurred past in streaks of light and concrete, and the rot in your chest stayed small and silent for once, as if it too needed new air.

the new place is smaller. brighter. windows that let the sun spill across the floor in wide, forgiving pools instead of thin blades of afternoon gray. no ghosts on the walls. no memories pressed into the mattress like bruises that never quite faded. you painted the bedroom a soft, washed-out pink because fuma let you choose, and when you finished he pulled you close right there in the drop-cloth mess and kissed your temple like the color itself could heal something.

four years.

the rot is still there, but it’s quieter now, almost polite. a thin scar you sometimes run your thumb over in the shower, checking if it still sings. it doesn’t. not the way it used to. therapy ended for both of you last spring—gradual, mutual, like two people learning to walk without crutches at the same time. fuma still goes back once a month just to check the wiring. you do too. but mostly you live here, in this new light, where love doesn’t need to leave marks to feel real.

he comes home from work tonight the way he always does now—bag dropped by the door, shoes kicked off, hair damp and curling at the ends. you’re on the couch with your knees tucked under the same faded oversized shirt you refuse to throw away. he crosses the room without a word, folds himself down beside you, head finding your lap.

his hand settles on your thigh. solid. warm. thumb tracing the same slow circles that once felt like apology and now feel natural.

“missed this,” he murmurs against your stomach, voice low and rough. “missed you.

you thread your fingers through his hair—longer now, blonder and softer—and you don’t pull. you never do anymore. the roughness in your bones has quieted, turned to something smoother, like river stone worn down by years of the same careful water. it still sits there, that old shape, but it doesn’t cut when you move.

the old hunger flickers sometimes, faint as a match struck underwater, but it passes. you let it. he feels it anyway and his grip tightens just enough to say i see you, and that ‘we don’t need that here.’

outside the new windows the city hums different—higher, lighter, unfamiliar. inside, the quiet stretches easy between you, no teeth in it anymore. you lean down, press your lips to the top of his head, and the words slip out soft as the light across the floor.

“thank you for the fresh start—and for never giving up on me.”

fuma lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. the soft brown is still there, no longer haunted, just tired in the way good days leave you. he smiles, small and sure, the kind that doesn’t crack anymore.

“thank you for not giving up on yourself,” he finishes, the words slipping out like breath he’s been holding for four quiet years. “and for choosing the soft parts even when the sharp ones still whispered your name. for letting me learn how to hold you again without leaving proof.”

you feel the words land soft against your skin, warm as the late light pooling across the pink walls, and something inside your chest loosens the way it used to only after a slap—except this time there’s no sting, no copper on your tongue, just the slow exhale of four years learning how to love softness. 

and the nights remain like that, as years pass—the rot lessens to almost nothing and you’ve finally learned to be mostly okay. the craving for hurt no longer lingers, it no longer lives in your brain and in your chest. it’s replaced by the craving of just love. love that fuma will gladly give you.

“we made it,” he whispered. “the rot didn’t win.”

you knew there was something wrong with you. maybe it was etched into you by the various relationships you had been in—sharp words, colder hands, love that only ever felt real when it left marks. or maybe it was just something that was bound to be, a quiet rot blooming in your chest long before anyone touched you.

the first time you asked him, the words felt foreign on your tongue, like they belonged to someone else. 

the apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city outside. you were sitting on the edge of your shared bed in nothing but one of fuma’s oversized shirts, knees drawn up. fuma stood by the dresser, unbuttoning his shirt after a long day, his reflection tired in the mirror.

“can i ask you for something,” you asked quietly.

he glanced over his shoulder, offering that soft, familiar half-smile. “anything.” his voice was warm, a little hoarse from practice. he turned fully toward you, shirt hanging open over his chest, waiting.

you swallowed hard. the numbness had been swallowing you alive for weeks now—everything gray, distant, muted. you loved fuma, you had for years and you weren't planning to stop. that love was the only steady thing in your life, the one bright thread you refused to let fray. but even love felt muffled lately, like it was happening to someone else.

his kisses felt like static. his “i love you”s landed somewhere outside your body. you needed sharpness. you needed proof you were still here.

“slap me,” you whispered. “hard.”

fuma’s expression froze. the smile dropped instantly. “what?”

“please, fuma. hit me.”

he stared at you like you’d spoken another language. for a long moment he didn’t move, then he crossed the room in three quick strides and knelt in front of you, hands gently resting on your bare thighs. “baby… no. why would you ask me that?” his thumbs stroked soothing circles on your skin, like he could rub the request away. “did something happen today? talk to me.”

he crossed the room in three strides and knelt before you, big hands warm on your bare thighs, thumbs stroking like he could erase the request with touch alone. his eyes searched yours, wide and horrified. he argued. he paced. he tried to fold you into his chest instead, murmuring soft japanese against your hair like a prayer. but your tears kept falling, your voice kept breaking—“i need to feel something, i need you to make me real”—until his resistance splintered.

the slap came sudden and brutal—his palm cracking hard across your cheek, snapping your head to the side. the sting was immediate, white-hot, blooming into a deep throb. blood touched your tongue.

for one perfect second the world narrowed to that sting and the emptiness inside you exhaled.

then the moment shattered. 

then fuma made a sound like something inside him had torn open. he dropped to his knees again, yanking you against him so tight you felt his heartbeat slamming against your ribs.

“shit—fuck, i’m sorry. i’m so fucking sorry, baby.” his voice cracked raw. one hand cradled your burning face with impossible gentleness while the other locked around your waist like you might vanish. “i didn’t mean to—god, look at you. i’m sorry.”

you stayed pressed against him, the heat of the slap pulsing in time with your heartbeat. for the first time in weeks, you felt anchored—real, solid, undeniably his. the tears on your face were barley from the pain of being slapped, they flowed as relief washed over you.

fuma didn’t feel that relief though. he felt the opposite. your heart slowed, his thumped aggressively against his chest as he rocked you slowly on the edge of the bed, pressing frantic kisses to your temple, your hair, the corner of your mouth that tasted like copper. 

he kept whispering apologies in that low, wrecked voice. “i hate that. i hate that i did that to you. you’re supposed to be safe with me…i love you. i love you so much. ever again, okay? never.”

but you only pressed your swollen cheek to his heartbeat and whispered, “thank you.”

he didn’t let go for a long time. that night he held you tighter than usual, his body curled protectively around yours even in sleep, like he was afraid his hands might betray him again if he loosened his grip

it didn’t stay “just once.”

the numbness always crawled back—gray mornings, silent dinners, nights when even his body moving inside yours felt miles away. every time it did you asked again. at first he fought harder. kissed you breathless, tried to drown the need in pleasure. but your tears, your desperate whispers of “i need you to make me feel,” always broke him. each time he gave in, the line blurred a little more. 

slaps became harder. his fist found your thighs and stomach. his belt left stinging stripes across your ass when you begged for it. and always—always—came the aftermath: him gathering you up like broken glass, rocking you for hours, kissing every mark while his voice cracked with guilt.

“i love you,” he’d whisper against your bruised skin, tears sometimes slipping down his own cheeks. “but i hate what i’m becoming for you.”

you loved him more for the guilt. it made the pain feel like love. it made the violence feel like devotion.

months passed. the bruises multiplied. you learned to angle your body so the marks stayed hidden under clothes. fuma learned exactly how hard he could go without sending you to the hospital. his eyes grew darker, more exhausted. he started staying in the shower longer, scrubbing his hands like he could wash the violence off them. but he never truly said no.

one night it went too far. his hand stayed around your throat long after you tapped out, and the world went black. when you woke, fuma was pale and shaking, tears streaming down his face as he checked your breathing over and over.

“i almost killed you,” he choked out, pulling you into his lap. his arms trembled. “baby, we can’t… i can’t keep doing this to you.”

you stayed there in his lap, the room still spinning slow like it hadn’t decided whether to keep you or let you fall again. his arms were shaking around you—big, careful arms that had just tried to end you and now held you like you were made of smoke. the handprints on your throat burned quiet, a necklace of proof. you traced them with two fingers, slow, almost reverent.

“but i felt everything,” you whispered again, softer this time, like maybe if you said it gentle enough he’d understand.

fuma’s breath hitched against your hair. he didn’t answer right away. just rocked you, barely, the way you rock something broken you’re scared will shatter worse if you stop. his shirt was damp where your cheek pressed—tears, his, not yours. you could taste salt and the faint copper still clinging to the corner of your mouth.

he pulled back just enough to look at you. eyes red-rimmed, exhausted, the soft brown you loved gone dark with something heavier. guilt sat on him like a second skin. you watched it settle deeper every time his gaze dropped to the marks blooming across your neck.

“you stopped breathing,” he said, voice raw as an open wound. “for a minute—maybe longer, i don’t know. i thought… i thought you were gone. really gone.”

his thumb brushed the edge of one bruise, so careful it almost didn’t hurt. almost. you leaned into the touch anyway, chasing the sting.

“i can’t,” he whispered. “i can’t keep doing this to you. to us.”

you felt the words before you heard them—something inside your chest cracking open wider than any slap or belt or fist ever could. the numbness was already creeping back in, gray fingers curling around the edges of the high you’d just ridden. you reached for his wrist, wrapped your fingers around it like you could anchor him here, keep him from slipping away the way the feeling always did.

“fuma—”

“no.”

the word came out quiet. final. not angry, just tired in a way that made your stomach drop slow. he gently pried your hand off his wrist and set it on your own thigh, like he couldn’t trust himself to hold you anymore. then he stood up, slow, leaving you on the bed alone for the first time in months without his body curled around the hurt he’d made.

he crossed to the dresser—the same spot he’d been standing when this all started—and stared at his reflection like it belonged to a stranger. shirt still half-open, shoulders curved in like the weight of every mark he’d ever left on you had finally landed.

“i’m not doing it anymore.”

the sentence landed flat between you. no tremor. no room for begging. just the door closing, soft and absolute.

you sat there in his oversized shirt, knees drawn up again just like the first night, only now the faint smell of him was faded between the smell of fear and the end of something. 

the bruises on your thighs ached in time with your pulse. you wanted to tell him they were beautiful. you wanted to beg him to make them darker, to prove you were still here, still his, still real. but the words stuck somewhere behind the sudden hollow in your throat.

fuma turned back to you. his eyes were wet but his jaw was set, the same jaw that had clenched every time he gave in before. he looked like he was breaking and holding himself together with nothing but guilt and love twisted too tight.

“i love you,” he said, voice cracking on the last word. “more than anything. but i won’t be the thing that kills you. not even if you ask me to.”

he didn’t come back to the bed that night. 

the sound of your sobs filling the shared bedroom felt like knives through his heart. they leaked into the living room—where he slept on the couch. or maybe he didn’t sleep at all. you didn’t know. you only knew the space between you had grown teeth overnight, sharp and waiting.

you curled into the sheets that still smelled like both of you, like sweat and salt and the ghost of his hands, and the emptiness pressed in heavier than any bruise he’d ever left. the bruises on your thighs pulsed in time with the ache behind your ribs. you pressed your face into the pillow where his head should have been and let the tears come until they ran dry, until the quiet felt louder than the city outside.

morning came gray and thin, light slipping through the blinds like it was sorry to be here. you dragged yourself up and caught your reflection in the mirror—eyes swollen, skin pale and drained, like the rot had finally crawled to the surface. 

the handprints on your throat had darkened into deep violet fingerprints, a map of almost. you traced them once, slow, then let your hand fall. no makeup. no hiding. just you, hollowed out and raw.

you moved through the apartment like a ghost wearing your own skin. fuma was already in the kitchen, back to you, shoulders tight under the same half-buttoned shirt from last night. 

the low grind of the coffee maker filled the silence—no words, no glances, no soft half-smile to stitch the night back together. the air between you felt thick enough to choke on. he poured water, measured grounds, every motion careful and distant, like touching anything too hard might break what was left.

you stood in the doorway for a long minute, knees weak, the oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder like it didn’t belong to you anymore. the numbness was back, wider now, swallowing the edges of everything. but underneath it something sharper twisted—fear, small and frantic, clawing up your throat.

you crossed the room on bare feet, silent. when you reached him you didn’t speak. you just pressed yourself against his back, arms sliding around his waist, cheek to his spine where his heart beat too steady, too guarded. he stiffened for half a breath, then exhaled like it hurt. the coffee maker gurgled on, indifferent.

your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding on like if you let go he might dissolve. the words came out small, cracked, barely louder than the drip of coffee into the pot.

“are you going to leave me?”

the words hung there, fragile and heavy all at once. you felt him breathe in sharp, felt the way his hands paused on the counter, knuckles whitening. no answer right away. just the warmth of his body against yours and the terrible quiet stretching longer than it should.

fuma’s head dropped forward, just a fraction. his voice, when it finally came, was low and wrecked and soft as falling ash.

“i don’t know.”

your arms tightened around his waist for half a second, fingers digging into fabric like you could hold the answer inside him, keep it from slipping away. then your knees buckled.

you slid down his back, slow at first, then all the way to the floor in a crumpled heap. the oversized shirt rode up your thighs, brushing over the fading bruises like a whisper of everything you were losing. your forehead pressed to the cool tile behind his heels and the sobs tore out of you raw, ugly, unstoppable.

“i’m sorry,” you choked out, voice cracking open. “i’m so sorry—fuma, please—”

the words came between gasps, wet and desperate, spilling over the kitchen floor like they’d been waiting under your skin for months. you curled smaller, arms wrapping around your own middle now, trying to hold the pieces of yourself together while the rot bloomed wider, hungrier. 

tears burned hot down your cheeks.

“i’ll do better,” you whispered, fierce and small all at once. “i swear. i’ll get therapy—i’ll go every day if you want, i’ll talk to someone, i’ll fix whatever’s wrong with me. just… don’t leave. please don’t leave.”

your shoulders shook with it, sobs folding you in half until your cheek rested against the cold floor. you could see his bare feet through the blur of tears—steady, unmoving. 

you could see his bare feet through the blur of tears—steady, unmoving.

the tile bled cold into your skin, a slow seep that matched the hollow blooming wider behind your ribs. you kept whispering anyway, the words fracturing on every inhale, raw and small and useless. “i’m sorry… i’ll do better… therapy, every day, i swear—”

your fingers curled tighter around nothing, nails scraping the floor like you could dig the rot out of yourself if you just tried hard enough. the oversized shirt twisted around your thighs, brushing over the ghosts of bruises that no longer sang loud enough to keep you here. 

the coffee maker clicked off behind you with a final, indifferent sigh. everything else kept going. only you stayed broken on the floor.

fuma’s breath caught above you. you felt it more than heard it—a hitch, a crack, the sound of something in him fraying at the edges. his feet shifted once, small, uncertain.

 then he was kneeling, slow as winter settling in, knees hitting the tile with a dull sound that echoed in your chest. his hand hovered over your shoulder before it landed, feather-light, like he was afraid the weight of his palm might leave another mark you’d beg him to make darker.

“hey,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, softening the edges. “breathe, baby. just… breathe.”

you collapsed further into the sound of him, forehead pressing harder against the floor, sobs folding you smaller until you were nothing but a crumpled promise at his feet. the tears wouldn’t stop.

“i’ll fix it,” you gasped between the waves. “i’ll be good. no more asking for the hurt. i’ll go to therapy, i’ll talk until it stops rotting, just—don’t leave. please, fuma, don’t leave me like this.”

his hand slid down your back, slow circles that felt like apology and goodbye twisted into the same touch. you could feel the tremor in his fingers, the way guilt sat heavy on him again, heavier now because you were the one breaking in the light of morning. 

he didn’t pull you up. not yet. he just stayed there on the floor with you, shoulder brushing yours, the warmth of him the only thing keeping the gray from swallowing everything whole.

fuma’s thumb brushed a tear from your temple, so careful it ached worse than any slap.

“i’m here,” he said finally, the words falling like ash, soft and heavy. “i’m still here.”

but the way his voice cracked on the last syllable told you the door wasn’t closed all the way.

not yet.

and you held on tighter, promising the empty air and the cold floor and the man above you that you would learn how to be soft without the sharp edges, even if the rot in your chest already knew better.

therapy was hard. 

you sat in a too-bright room twice a week with a woman who asked gentle questions that felt like scalpels anyway. you told her about the numbness. about the way love only ever felt real when it hurt. about fuma’s hands—how they used to be the only thing sharp enough to cut through the gray and now they only hovered, afraid. 

you cried in that chair more than you ever cried when you begged for hurt. ugly, snotty cries that left your throat raw in a way no slap ever had. the therapist called it progress. you called it peeling the rot back one layer at a time and finding more rot underneath. 

you worked on holding two truths at once. ‘i needed the pain to feel real and i am allowed to feel real without it.’you cried the first few times, ugly and snotty, but the rot loosened its grip a little more with every set of eye movements. like someone was gently pulling the thorns out one by one without making you bleed fresh.

you learned how to accept the flicker of hunger that still passed through like a ghost. how to accept that softness could be enough. that real love was not abuse disguised. that healthy relationships were nothing to fear.

fuma waited in the car every time. engine off, hands on the wheel like he was still driving even when he wasn’t. he never asked what you talked about. you never offered. but sometimes on the ride home his fingers would brush your knee—careful, weightless—and you’d feel the old hunger flare low in your stomach, the quiet want for him to grip harder, to leave something behind. you swallowed it every time. promised the silence you were getting better.

fuma went to therapy too. 

his therapist called it secondary trauma. you heard him murmur the words once, late at night when he thought you were asleep, testing them out loud like they might fit better in the dark. 

secondary. like the hurt he gave you had ricocheted back and lodged somewhere behind his ribs, sharp and permanent. you lay there beside him, eyes closed, listening to the way his voice cracked on the syllables, and the rot in your chest twisted with guilt. 

he worked on how to say no, how to not submit even if you crumble, how to hold his ground because hurting you when you wanted it was just as bad as doing it when you didn’t. he did chair work sometimes, switching seats to talk to the version of himself who had given in every time you begged.

therapy was hard for him the same way it was hard for you. he came home some evenings with red eyes and a jaw set so tight you could see the muscle jumping. he’d pull you close anyway—gentle, always gentle now—and bury his face in your hair like the scent of you could remind him he hadn’t become the monster he was terrified of turning into. 

the apartment grew softer around the edges. no more marks blooming under your clothes like secret flowers. no more belt stripes or fist-shaped shadows. instead there were nights he held you through your tears without trying to fix them with pain. nights you held him through his without asking him to hurt you so you could feel something. 

the numbness still crept in, gray and patient, but it met resistance now—his careful fingers tracing your spine, your voice saying i’m here instead of hit me.

one evening he came back from his session quieter than usual. you were on the couch, knees drawn up under the same oversized shirt that still smelled like both of you. he dropped his keys, crossed the room, and knelt in front of you the way he had that first night—only this time there was no horror in his eyes, just exhaustion and something that looked almost like hope wearing thin.

his hands rested on your bare thighs, thumbs stroking the same slow circles, but they didn’t feel like they were erasing anything anymore. they felt like they were learning you all over again.

“i told him about the choking,” he said, voice low and rough. “about how i almost—how i could have—”

he stopped. swallowed. you reached down and threaded your fingers through his hair, gentle the way he’d taught you to be with yourself.

“he said it wasn’t my fault,” fuma whispered finally, the words scraping out like they’d been caught in his throat for weeks. “but it still feels like mine. every mark i left… every time you asked and i gave in. i keep seeing your face when you passed out. the way your eyes went empty. and i can’t—”

“i’m sorry i made you carry it,” you whispered, the words slipping out soft as ash. your fingers kept moving through his hair, slow, careful, tracing the shape of his skull like you could map the places where the guilt lived. 

“i never wanted you to hurt like that. i just… i didn’t know how else to feel real.”

fuma lifted his head just enough to look at you. his eyes were wet, the soft brown you fell in love with years ago now rimmed red from the kind of crying therapy dragged out of him. he didn’t speak right away. just searched your face the way he used to search for permission before every slap, every belt, every press of his palm against your throat.

then his hand slid up your thigh, higher, stopping just below the hem of the oversized shirt. no pressure. no promise of pain. just warmth. steady. the kind that didn’t leave marks but still anchored you all the same.

“we’re both carrying it now,” he said, voice quieter than the city outside. “you in your chair twice a week. me in mine. and maybe… maybe that’s how we stop it from rotting everything we’ve built.”

you stayed like that for a long time—him kneeling between your knees, you with your fingers in his hair, the apartment wrapped around you both like a held breath. no sharp edges. no blood on your tongue. just the two of you learning how to sit in the quiet without needing it to hurt.

four years later.

you both had moved.

the lingering memories of the hurt tainted the space you lived in. the walls had drunk too much of your sobs and his guilt. they tasted like copper even on good days. so one gray morning fuma looked at you across the breakfast table, eyes soft but certain, and said, “a fresh start.”

just that. no long explanation. no promises wrapped in pretty paper.

you drove away from everything you’d known with the windows down and his hand on your thigh—not gripping, not bruising, just resting there like a quiet vow. the city blurred past in streaks of light and concrete, and the rot in your chest stayed small and silent for once, as if it too needed new air.

the new place is smaller. brighter. windows that let the sun spill across the floor in wide, forgiving pools instead of thin blades of afternoon gray. no ghosts on the walls. no memories pressed into the mattress like bruises that never quite faded. you painted the bedroom a soft, washed-out pink because fuma let you choose, and when you finished he pulled you close right there in the drop-cloth mess and kissed your temple like the color itself could heal something.

four years.

the rot is still there, but it’s quieter now, almost polite. a thin scar you sometimes run your thumb over in the shower, checking if it still sings. it doesn’t. not the way it used to. therapy ended for both of you last spring—gradual, mutual, like two people learning to walk without crutches at the same time. fuma still goes back once a month just to check the wiring. you do too. but mostly you live here, in this new light, where love doesn’t need to leave marks to feel real.

he comes home from work tonight the way he always does now—bag dropped by the door, shoes kicked off, hair damp and curling at the ends. you’re on the couch with your knees tucked under the same faded oversized shirt you refuse to throw away. he crosses the room without a word, folds himself down beside you, head finding your lap.

his hand settles on your thigh. solid. warm. thumb tracing the same slow circles that once felt like apology and now feel natural.

“missed this,” he murmurs against your stomach, voice low and rough. “missed you.

you thread your fingers through his hair—longer now, blonder and softer—and you don’t pull. you never do anymore. the roughness in your bones has quieted, turned to something smoother, like river stone worn down by years of the same careful water. it still sits there, that old shape, but it doesn’t cut when you move.

the old hunger flickers sometimes, faint as a match struck underwater, but it passes. you let it. he feels it anyway and his grip tightens just enough to say i see you, and that ‘we don’t need that here.’

outside the new windows the city hums different—higher, lighter, unfamiliar. inside, the quiet stretches easy between you, no teeth in it anymore. you lean down, press your lips to the top of his head, and the words slip out soft as the light across the floor.

“thank you for the fresh start—and for never giving up on me.”

fuma lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. the soft brown is still there, no longer haunted, just tired in the way good days leave you. he smiles, small and sure, the kind that doesn’t crack anymore.

“thank you for not giving up on yourself,” he finishes, the words slipping out like breath he’s been holding for four quiet years. “and for choosing the soft parts even when the sharp ones still whispered your name. for letting me learn how to hold you again without leaving proof.”

you feel the words land soft against your skin, warm as the late light pooling across the pink walls, and something inside your chest loosens the way it used to only after a slap—except this time there’s no sting, no copper on your tongue, just the slow exhale of four years learning how to love softness. 

and the nights remain like that, as years pass—the rot lessens to almost nothing and you’ve finally learned to be mostly okay. the craving for hurt no longer lingers, it no longer lives in your brain and in your chest. it’s replaced by the craving of just love. love that fuma will gladly give you.

“we made it,” he whispered. “the rot didn’t win.”

you knew there was something wrong with you. maybe it was etched into you by the various relationships you had been in—sharp words, colder hands, love that only ever felt real when it left marks. or maybe it was just something that was bound to be, a quiet rot blooming in your chest long before anyone touched you.

the first time you asked him, the words felt foreign on your tongue, like they belonged to someone else. 

the apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city outside. you were sitting on the edge of your shared bed in nothing but one of fuma’s oversized shirts, knees drawn up. fuma stood by the dresser, unbuttoning his shirt after a long day, his reflection tired in the mirror.

“can i ask you for something,” you asked quietly.

he glanced over his shoulder, offering that soft, familiar half-smile. “anything.” his voice was warm, a little hoarse from practice. he turned fully toward you, shirt hanging open over his chest, waiting.

you swallowed hard. the numbness had been swallowing you alive for weeks now—everything gray, distant, muted. you loved fuma, you had for years and you weren't planning to stop. that love was the only steady thing in your life, the one bright thread you refused to let fray. but even love felt muffled lately, like it was happening to someone else.

his kisses felt like static. his “i love you”s landed somewhere outside your body. you needed sharpness. you needed proof you were still here.

“slap me,” you whispered. “hard.”

fuma’s expression froze. the smile dropped instantly. “what?”

“please, fuma. hit me.”

he stared at you like you’d spoken another language. for a long moment he didn’t move, then he crossed the room in three quick strides and knelt in front of you, hands gently resting on your bare thighs. “baby… no. why would you ask me that?” his thumbs stroked soothing circles on your skin, like he could rub the request away. “did something happen today? talk to me.”

he crossed the room in three strides and knelt before you, big hands warm on your bare thighs, thumbs stroking like he could erase the request with touch alone. his eyes searched yours, wide and horrified. he argued. he paced. he tried to fold you into his chest instead, murmuring soft japanese against your hair like a prayer. but your tears kept falling, your voice kept breaking—“i need to feel something, i need you to make me real”—until his resistance splintered.

the slap came sudden and brutal—his palm cracking hard across your cheek, snapping your head to the side. the sting was immediate, white-hot, blooming into a deep throb. blood touched your tongue.

for one perfect second the world narrowed to that sting and the emptiness inside you exhaled.

then the moment shattered. 

then fuma made a sound like something inside him had torn open. he dropped to his knees again, yanking you against him so tight you felt his heartbeat slamming against your ribs.

“shit—fuck, i’m sorry. i’m so fucking sorry, baby.” his voice cracked raw. one hand cradled your burning face with impossible gentleness while the other locked around your waist like you might vanish. “i didn’t mean to—god, look at you. i’m sorry.”

you stayed pressed against him, the heat of the slap pulsing in time with your heartbeat. for the first time in weeks, you felt anchored—real, solid, undeniably his. the tears on your face were barley from the pain of being slapped, they flowed as relief washed over you.

fuma didn’t feel that relief though. he felt the opposite. your heart slowed, his thumped aggressively against his chest as he rocked you slowly on the edge of the bed, pressing frantic kisses to your temple, your hair, the corner of your mouth that tasted like copper. 

he kept whispering apologies in that low, wrecked voice. “i hate that. i hate that i did that to you. you’re supposed to be safe with me…i love you. i love you so much. ever again, okay? never.”

but you only pressed your swollen cheek to his heartbeat and whispered, “thank you.”

he didn’t let go for a long time. that night he held you tighter than usual, his body curled protectively around yours even in sleep, like he was afraid his hands might betray him again if he loosened his grip

it didn’t stay “just once.”

the numbness always crawled back—gray mornings, silent dinners, nights when even his body moving inside yours felt miles away. every time it did you asked again. at first he fought harder. kissed you breathless, tried to drown the need in pleasure. but your tears, your desperate whispers of “i need you to make me feel,” always broke him. each time he gave in, the line blurred a little more. 

slaps became harder. his fist found your thighs and stomach. his belt left stinging stripes across your ass when you begged for it. and always—always—came the aftermath: him gathering you up like broken glass, rocking you for hours, kissing every mark while his voice cracked with guilt.

“i love you,” he’d whisper against your bruised skin, tears sometimes slipping down his own cheeks. “but i hate what i’m becoming for you.”

you loved him more for the guilt. it made the pain feel like love. it made the violence feel like devotion.

months passed. the bruises multiplied. you learned to angle your body so the marks stayed hidden under clothes. fuma learned exactly how hard he could go without sending you to the hospital. his eyes grew darker, more exhausted. he started staying in the shower longer, scrubbing his hands like he could wash the violence off them. but he never truly said no.

one night it went too far. his hand stayed around your throat long after you tapped out, and the world went black. when you woke, fuma was pale and shaking, tears streaming down his face as he checked your breathing over and over.

“i almost killed you,” he choked out, pulling you into his lap. his arms trembled. “baby, we can’t… i can’t keep doing this to you.”

you stayed there in his lap, the room still spinning slow like it hadn’t decided whether to keep you or let you fall again. his arms were shaking around you—big, careful arms that had just tried to end you and now held you like you were made of smoke. the handprints on your throat burned quiet, a necklace of proof. you traced them with two fingers, slow, almost reverent.

“but i felt everything,” you whispered again, softer this time, like maybe if you said it gentle enough he’d understand.

fuma’s breath hitched against your hair. he didn’t answer right away. just rocked you, barely, the way you rock something broken you’re scared will shatter worse if you stop. his shirt was damp where your cheek pressed—tears, his, not yours. you could taste salt and the faint copper still clinging to the corner of your mouth.

he pulled back just enough to look at you. eyes red-rimmed, exhausted, the soft brown you loved gone dark with something heavier. guilt sat on him like a second skin. you watched it settle deeper every time his gaze dropped to the marks blooming across your neck.

“you stopped breathing,” he said, voice raw as an open wound. “for a minute—maybe longer, i don’t know. i thought… i thought you were gone. really gone.”

his thumb brushed the edge of one bruise, so careful it almost didn’t hurt. almost. you leaned into the touch anyway, chasing the sting.

“i can’t,” he whispered. “i can’t keep doing this to you. to us.”

you felt the words before you heard them—something inside your chest cracking open wider than any slap or belt or fist ever could. the numbness was already creeping back in, gray fingers curling around the edges of the high you’d just ridden. you reached for his wrist, wrapped your fingers around it like you could anchor him here, keep him from slipping away the way the feeling always did.

“fuma—”

“no.”

the word came out quiet. final. not angry, just tired in a way that made your stomach drop slow. he gently pried your hand off his wrist and set it on your own thigh, like he couldn’t trust himself to hold you anymore. then he stood up, slow, leaving you on the bed alone for the first time in months without his body curled around the hurt he’d made.

he crossed to the dresser—the same spot he’d been standing when this all started—and stared at his reflection like it belonged to a stranger. shirt still half-open, shoulders curved in like the weight of every mark he’d ever left on you had finally landed.

“i’m not doing it anymore.”

the sentence landed flat between you. no tremor. no room for begging. just the door closing, soft and absolute.

you sat there in his oversized shirt, knees drawn up again just like the first night, only now the faint smell of him was faded between the smell of fear and the end of something. 

the bruises on your thighs ached in time with your pulse. you wanted to tell him they were beautiful. you wanted to beg him to make them darker, to prove you were still here, still his, still real. but the words stuck somewhere behind the sudden hollow in your throat.

fuma turned back to you. his eyes were wet but his jaw was set, the same jaw that had clenched every time he gave in before. he looked like he was breaking and holding himself together with nothing but guilt and love twisted too tight.

“i love you,” he said, voice cracking on the last word. “more than anything. but i won’t be the thing that kills you. not even if you ask me to.”

he didn’t come back to the bed that night. 

the sound of your sobs filling the shared bedroom felt like knives through his heart. they leaked into the living room—where he slept on the couch. or maybe he didn’t sleep at all. you didn’t know. you only knew the space between you had grown teeth overnight, sharp and waiting.

you curled into the sheets that still smelled like both of you, like sweat and salt and the ghost of his hands, and the emptiness pressed in heavier than any bruise he’d ever left. the bruises on your thighs pulsed in time with the ache behind your ribs. you pressed your face into the pillow where his head should have been and let the tears come until they ran dry, until the quiet felt louder than the city outside.

morning came gray and thin, light slipping through the blinds like it was sorry to be here. you dragged yourself up and caught your reflection in the mirror—eyes swollen, skin pale and drained, like the rot had finally crawled to the surface. 

the handprints on your throat had darkened into deep violet fingerprints, a map of almost. you traced them once, slow, then let your hand fall. no makeup. no hiding. just you, hollowed out and raw.

you moved through the apartment like a ghost wearing your own skin. fuma was already in the kitchen, back to you, shoulders tight under the same half-buttoned shirt from last night. 

the low grind of the coffee maker filled the silence—no words, no glances, no soft half-smile to stitch the night back together. the air between you felt thick enough to choke on. he poured water, measured grounds, every motion careful and distant, like touching anything too hard might break what was left.

you stood in the doorway for a long minute, knees weak, the oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder like it didn’t belong to you anymore. the numbness was back, wider now, swallowing the edges of everything. but underneath it something sharper twisted—fear, small and frantic, clawing up your throat.

you crossed the room on bare feet, silent. when you reached him you didn’t speak. you just pressed yourself against his back, arms sliding around his waist, cheek to his spine where his heart beat too steady, too guarded. he stiffened for half a breath, then exhaled like it hurt. the coffee maker gurgled on, indifferent.

your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding on like if you let go he might dissolve. the words came out small, cracked, barely louder than the drip of coffee into the pot.

“are you going to leave me?”

the words hung there, fragile and heavy all at once. you felt him breathe in sharp, felt the way his hands paused on the counter, knuckles whitening. no answer right away. just the warmth of his body against yours and the terrible quiet stretching longer than it should.

fuma’s head dropped forward, just a fraction. his voice, when it finally came, was low and wrecked and soft as falling ash.

“i don’t know.”

your arms tightened around his waist for half a second, fingers digging into fabric like you could hold the answer inside him, keep it from slipping away. then your knees buckled.

you slid down his back, slow at first, then all the way to the floor in a crumpled heap. the oversized shirt rode up your thighs, brushing over the fading bruises like a whisper of everything you were losing. your forehead pressed to the cool tile behind his heels and the sobs tore out of you raw, ugly, unstoppable.

“i’m sorry,” you choked out, voice cracking open. “i’m so sorry—fuma, please—”

the words came between gasps, wet and desperate, spilling over the kitchen floor like they’d been waiting under your skin for months. you curled smaller, arms wrapping around your own middle now, trying to hold the pieces of yourself together while the rot bloomed wider, hungrier. 

tears burned hot down your cheeks.

“i’ll do better,” you whispered, fierce and small all at once. “i swear. i’ll get therapy—i’ll go every day if you want, i’ll talk to someone, i’ll fix whatever’s wrong with me. just… don’t leave. please don’t leave.”

your shoulders shook with it, sobs folding you in half until your cheek rested against the cold floor. you could see his bare feet through the blur of tears—steady, unmoving. 

you could see his bare feet through the blur of tears—steady, unmoving.

the tile bled cold into your skin, a slow seep that matched the hollow blooming wider behind your ribs. you kept whispering anyway, the words fracturing on every inhale, raw and small and useless. “i’m sorry… i’ll do better… therapy, every day, i swear—”

your fingers curled tighter around nothing, nails scraping the floor like you could dig the rot out of yourself if you just tried hard enough. the oversized shirt twisted around your thighs, brushing over the ghosts of bruises that no longer sang loud enough to keep you here. 

the coffee maker clicked off behind you with a final, indifferent sigh. everything else kept going. only you stayed broken on the floor.

fuma’s breath caught above you. you felt it more than heard it—a hitch, a crack, the sound of something in him fraying at the edges. his feet shifted once, small, uncertain.

 then he was kneeling, slow as winter settling in, knees hitting the tile with a dull sound that echoed in your chest. his hand hovered over your shoulder before it landed, feather-light, like he was afraid the weight of his palm might leave another mark you’d beg him to make darker.

“hey,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, softening the edges. “breathe, baby. just… breathe.”

you collapsed further into the sound of him, forehead pressing harder against the floor, sobs folding you smaller until you were nothing but a crumpled promise at his feet. the tears wouldn’t stop.

“i’ll fix it,” you gasped between the waves. “i’ll be good. no more asking for the hurt. i’ll go to therapy, i’ll talk until it stops rotting, just—don’t leave. please, fuma, don’t leave me like this.”

his hand slid down your back, slow circles that felt like apology and goodbye twisted into the same touch. you could feel the tremor in his fingers, the way guilt sat heavy on him again, heavier now because you were the one breaking in the light of morning. 

he didn’t pull you up. not yet. he just stayed there on the floor with you, shoulder brushing yours, the warmth of him the only thing keeping the gray from swallowing everything whole.

fuma’s thumb brushed a tear from your temple, so careful it ached worse than any slap.

“i’m here,” he said finally, the words falling like ash, soft and heavy. “i’m still here.”

but the way his voice cracked on the last syllable told you the door wasn’t closed all the way.

not yet.

and you held on tighter, promising the empty air and the cold floor and the man above you that you would learn how to be soft without the sharp edges, even if the rot in your chest already knew better.

therapy was hard. 

you sat in a too-bright room twice a week with a woman who asked gentle questions that felt like scalpels anyway. you told her about the numbness. about the way love only ever felt real when it hurt. about fuma’s hands—how they used to be the only thing sharp enough to cut through the gray and now they only hovered, afraid. 

you cried in that chair more than you ever cried when you begged for hurt. ugly, snotty cries that left your throat raw in a way no slap ever had. the therapist called it progress. you called it peeling the rot back one layer at a time and finding more rot underneath. 

you worked on holding two truths at once. ‘i needed the pain to feel real and i am allowed to feel real without it.’you cried the first few times, ugly and snotty, but the rot loosened its grip a little more with every set of eye movements. like someone was gently pulling the thorns out one by one without making you bleed fresh.

you learned how to accept the flicker of hunger that still passed through like a ghost. how to accept that softness could be enough. that real love was not abuse disguised. that healthy relationships were nothing to fear.

fuma waited in the car every time. engine off, hands on the wheel like he was still driving even when he wasn’t. he never asked what you talked about. you never offered. but sometimes on the ride home his fingers would brush your knee—careful, weightless—and you’d feel the old hunger flare low in your stomach, the quiet want for him to grip harder, to leave something behind. you swallowed it every time. promised the silence you were getting better.

fuma went to therapy too. 

his therapist called it secondary trauma. you heard him murmur the words once, late at night when he thought you were asleep, testing them out loud like they might fit better in the dark. 

secondary. like the hurt he gave you had ricocheted back and lodged somewhere behind his ribs, sharp and permanent. you lay there beside him, eyes closed, listening to the way his voice cracked on the syllables, and the rot in your chest twisted with guilt. 

he worked on how to say no, how to not submit even if you crumble, how to hold his ground because hurting you when you wanted it was just as bad as doing it when you didn’t. he did chair work sometimes, switching seats to talk to the version of himself who had given in every time you begged.

therapy was hard for him the same way it was hard for you. he came home some evenings with red eyes and a jaw set so tight you could see the muscle jumping. he’d pull you close anyway—gentle, always gentle now—and bury his face in your hair like the scent of you could remind him he hadn’t become the monster he was terrified of turning into. 

the apartment grew softer around the edges. no more marks blooming under your clothes like secret flowers. no more belt stripes or fist-shaped shadows. instead there were nights he held you through your tears without trying to fix them with pain. nights you held him through his without asking him to hurt you so you could feel something. 

the numbness still crept in, gray and patient, but it met resistance now—his careful fingers tracing your spine, your voice saying i’m here instead of hit me.

one evening he came back from his session quieter than usual. you were on the couch, knees drawn up under the same oversized shirt that still smelled like both of you. he dropped his keys, crossed the room, and knelt in front of you the way he had that first night—only this time there was no horror in his eyes, just exhaustion and something that looked almost like hope wearing thin.

his hands rested on your bare thighs, thumbs stroking the same slow circles, but they didn’t feel like they were erasing anything anymore. they felt like they were learning you all over again.

“i told him about the choking,” he said, voice low and rough. “about how i almost—how i could have—”

he stopped. swallowed. you reached down and threaded your fingers through his hair, gentle the way he’d taught you to be with yourself.

“he said it wasn’t my fault,” fuma whispered finally, the words scraping out like they’d been caught in his throat for weeks. “but it still feels like mine. every mark i left… every time you asked and i gave in. i keep seeing your face when you passed out. the way your eyes went empty. and i can’t—”

“i’m sorry i made you carry it,” you whispered, the words slipping out soft as ash. your fingers kept moving through his hair, slow, careful, tracing the shape of his skull like you could map the places where the guilt lived. 

“i never wanted you to hurt like that. i just… i didn’t know how else to feel real.”

fuma lifted his head just enough to look at you. his eyes were wet, the soft brown you fell in love with years ago now rimmed red from the kind of crying therapy dragged out of him. he didn’t speak right away. just searched your face the way he used to search for permission before every slap, every belt, every press of his palm against your throat.

then his hand slid up your thigh, higher, stopping just below the hem of the oversized shirt. no pressure. no promise of pain. just warmth. steady. the kind that didn’t leave marks but still anchored you all the same.

“we’re both carrying it now,” he said, voice quieter than the city outside. “you in your chair twice a week. me in mine. and maybe… maybe that’s how we stop it from rotting everything we’ve built.”

you stayed like that for a long time—him kneeling between your knees, you with your fingers in his hair, the apartment wrapped around you both like a held breath. no sharp edges. no blood on your tongue. just the two of you learning how to sit in the quiet without needing it to hurt.

four years later.

you both had moved.

the lingering memories of the hurt tainted the space you lived in. the walls had drunk too much of your sobs and his guilt. they tasted like copper even on good days. so one gray morning fuma looked at you across the breakfast table, eyes soft but certain, and said, “a fresh start.”

just that. no long explanation. no promises wrapped in pretty paper.

you drove away from everything you’d known with the windows down and his hand on your thigh—not gripping, not bruising, just resting there like a quiet vow. the city blurred past in streaks of light and concrete, and the rot in your chest stayed small and silent for once, as if it too needed new air.

the new place is smaller. brighter. windows that let the sun spill across the floor in wide, forgiving pools instead of thin blades of afternoon gray. no ghosts on the walls. no memories pressed into the mattress like bruises that never quite faded. you painted the bedroom a soft, washed-out pink because fuma let you choose, and when you finished he pulled you close right there in the drop-cloth mess and kissed your temple like the color itself could heal something.

four years.

the rot is still there, but it’s quieter now, almost polite. a thin scar you sometimes run your thumb over in the shower, checking if it still sings. it doesn’t. not the way it used to. therapy ended for both of you last spring—gradual, mutual, like two people learning to walk without crutches at the same time. fuma still goes back once a month just to check the wiring. you do too. but mostly you live here, in this new light, where love doesn’t need to leave marks to feel real.

he comes home from work tonight the way he always does now—bag dropped by the door, shoes kicked off, hair damp and curling at the ends. you’re on the couch with your knees tucked under the same faded oversized shirt you refuse to throw away. he crosses the room without a word, folds himself down beside you, head finding your lap.

his hand settles on your thigh. solid. warm. thumb tracing the same slow circles that once felt like apology and now feel natural.

“missed this,” he murmurs against your stomach, voice low and rough. “missed you.

you thread your fingers through his hair—longer now, blonder and softer—and you don’t pull. you never do anymore. the roughness in your bones has quieted, turned to something smoother, like river stone worn down by years of the same careful water. it still sits there, that old shape, but it doesn’t cut when you move.

the old hunger flickers sometimes, faint as a match struck underwater, but it passes. you let it. he feels it anyway and his grip tightens just enough to say i see you, and that ‘we don’t need that here.’

outside the new windows the city hums different—higher, lighter, unfamiliar. inside, the quiet stretches easy between you, no teeth in it anymore. you lean down, press your lips to the top of his head, and the words slip out soft as the light across the floor.

“thank you for the fresh start—and for never giving up on me.”

fuma lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. the soft brown is still there, no longer haunted, just tired in the way good days leave you. he smiles, small and sure, the kind that doesn’t crack anymore.

“thank you for not giving up on yourself,” he finishes, the words slipping out like breath he’s been holding for four quiet years. “and for choosing the soft parts even when the sharp ones still whispered your name. for letting me learn how to hold you again without leaving proof.”

you feel the words land soft against your skin, warm as the late light pooling across the pink walls, and something inside your chest loosens the way it used to only after a slap—except this time there’s no sting, no copper on your tongue, just the slow exhale of four years learning how to love softness. 

and the nights remain like that, as years pass—the rot lessens to almost nothing and you’ve finally learned to be mostly okay. the craving for hurt no longer lingers, it no longer lives in your brain and in your chest. it’s replaced by the craving of just love. love that fuma will gladly give you.

“we made it,” he whispered. “the rot didn’t win.”

© 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗲 2026 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱.  𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾  𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌  𝖺𝗋𝖾  𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅  𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽.  𝗎𝗇𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽  𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽𝗎𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇,  𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇,  𝗆𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇,  𝗈𝗋  𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇  𝗂𝗌  𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗁𝗂𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲𝘀 & 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁𝘀 𝗿 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱!

𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝗈𝗅𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾—𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗳𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹. 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗈. 𝖻𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗌. 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗺𝘆 𝗳𝗶𝗰𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗲𝗱. 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 ♡ 

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: this is a repost ~ i decided to share it again because i loved writing it. a lot of my writings come from a personal place, this one included. i've been in relationships where receiving pain felt like the only kind of love i knew how to accept. the only way i could prove i was still here—still real, still worth keeping—was to just let them hurt me. I wrote this story because I needed to look that version of myself in the eye. the girl on the floor begging not to be left. the girl begging to be better after being tainted by so much hurt. you are not too broken to heal. the numbness doesn’t get the final word. and the rot? it will not win, i promise. thank you for holding this with me. i’m still learning how to love and be loved softly too.

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