#fuma x reader

# Fuma

wears the cutest pokemon pjm sets and buys one for you too so you can match with him. he will sleep on his back, one arm holding you on his side and against his chest (just imagine those strong muscles around you, oh god😵) still, he feels warm and soft. you will feel so safe in his arms fr.

wakes up early in the morning, like REALLY early. he makes sure to tuck you in under the blanket and leave a kiss on your forehead before leaving the room to go do some chores. will come back hours later and take you into his arms, softly caressing your hair until you wake up naturally. he will greet you with the softest "good morning" and a very sweet kiss.

# Nicholas

clingy asf. he sleeps shirtless, so he will use you as a warmth source. the moment you get in bed, his leg is throw over you, arms around your waist like a big teddy bear. he likes to nuzzle his face on your shoulder and leave little kisses on the skin there. also loves to receive love from you; soft caresses on his arm or small forehead kisses will help him relax and fall asleep faster <3

WON'T wake up in the morning. likes to sleep until late. it's usual for you to find him all curlep up against you, lips slightly parted as he breathes out softly. if you try to wake him up, he will only hold you closer until he decides it's time to start the day.

plus: i think he also likes to be the little spoon, especially when he's too tired or stressed. will even let you play with his hair if he really needs the comfort :(

# Euijoo

i feel like he's not really into cuddling a lot for some reason.. still, he won't deny you if you really want to hug him. he will wrap his arms around you, his grip very gentle, and rub your back to help you get sleepy. also loves to hold your hand, leave kisses on it and nuzzle his nose against your knuckles. i can see him humming some song into your ear just because he knows his voice will help you relax.

sometimes he wakes up before you. when he does, he likes to run his fingers through your hair and just watch you sleep, because he thinks you look so pretty and cute like that. he will be sooo careful with his movements tho in order not to wake you up. the first thing you will see when you finally open your eyes is his pretty perfect smile and slightly blushed cheeks. he's just the biggest sweetheart i swear.

# Yuma

you will be envolved in his arms as soon as you get in bed with him. i swear, that man WON'T let go of you. he's just so cat lol. he's another one who sleeps shirtless so you'll basically be squished against his chest. he can be a little freaky devil so he might slide his hand under your shirt and purposely make you shiver when caressing your skin with his fingertips. i feel like he will also slide his hand under your panties saying "it's just too warm" LOL.

will throw a tantrum if you try to wake him up, turning around and hiding under the blankets like a little kid. he will pout and try to give you the puppy eyes just so you stay with him a little bit more. and ofc you'll find yourself falling for it, who wouldn't?

# Jo

oh he's so lovely and soft. he likes to have your head on his chest as you two watch a movie on his laptop before sleeping. when he notices you've fallen asleep, he will carefully craddle you in his arms and put the blanket around you. he will wrap his arm around your shoulders, hide his face on your hair and just breathe in your scent. he will give you so many kisses while you sleep, since he won't feel as shy as when you're awake.

mornings with him are so quiet. he always whispers "morning..." (with that slightly raspy, deep voice), before kissing your cheek and bringing you in for a hug and some cuddles. he stays in bed for a while, silently scrolling on his phone while playing with your hair with his other hand. if you fall asleep again, sometimes he will join too. he just loves feeling you close.

# Taki

so clingy in a playful way. he will trap you in his arms and shower your face and neck with kisses, all while giggling like crazy. once he starts feeling sleepy tho, he lets his head fall on your chest, a silent request for head pats. he loves feeling your touch against his cheeks or through his hair, it makes him feel so safe. if one day you're feeling down or just need some extra love, he will give you EVERYTHING. hugs, kisses, reassuring... he will even share some snacks with you and listen to whatever you wanna talk about before sleeping. he won't let you go to bed feeling sad. never.

he's actually really responsible and wakes up quite early. he will give you the biggest smile and hug in the morning, just to make sure you start the day with a smile. will cook breakfast for you, just to have the excuse to steal kisses from you at every bite you take.

# Harua

loves to hug something (you) in bed. you two will lay on your sides so you can look at each other's faces while cuddling. he loves talking with you in the darkness of the night. also kisses a lot, giggles everytime he accidentally kisses the tip of your nose instead of your lips. a lot of skinship is also involved; his hands roaming along your hips, thighs, waist... but always in the sweetest, most intimate way.

a bit difficult to wake up, he needs some time to shake off sleep. will burrow himself in your neck to hide from the morning sunlight and will probably end up falling asleep again. or if he wakes up in another mood, will start kissing you there instead, press closer against you until you get the message of what he wants. will do it under the blankets for sure.

# Maki

he doesn't really care how you two sleep, but you mostly end up with your head resting on his arm (biceps🤤). one of his hands will rest in the back of your head or your nape, just so he can push you closer and kiss you whenever he wants. he likes to feel your arm around his torso and interwine your legs together.

you try your best not to look visibly flustered. three years in, and he still makes butterflies erupt in your stomach with just a few words. “thanks, baby. help me choose my necklace?”

“sure. turn around for me.”

from the upward curve of his lips and the glint in his eyes, you should’ve seen it coming—but still, he manages to take you by surprise as you turn around to face him and are instantly met with his lips to yours.

“yudai!” you say, trying to sound chiding only laughing. “i spent so long on my lip combo,” you whine, turning back around to check your makeup in the mirror. you’re good to do your lips all over. 

“sorry, baby.” he doesn’t sound sorry at all. “you just looked too good, couldn’t help myself. here,” he says, reaching with a thumb, presumably to wipe your smudged lipstick—only to press his lips to yours once more.

fuma

you’re finishing up your makeup in front of the bathroom mirror when your boyfriend walks in. he seems only to be here to fetch something—but when he sees you, he changes his plans, coming up stand behind you instead, hands firm on your hips as he starts to press kisses to the side of your neck. you sigh, half letting yourself melt into his touch, half aware you have plans you’re going to be late for if you let him have his way.

“what did i do to deserve you, hm? i must’ve saved the country in a past life,” he hums against your skin. 

“don’t distract me, fuma. i need to do my lip combo.”

“hm? i’m not doing anything,” he says, pressing himself closer to you, arms coming to wrap around your waist.

you swear you feel something hard against your lower back. “fuma,” you say, your tone a warning—as much for him as for you.

“what can i do when my baby looks this good?”

“you can keep it in your pants,” you bite back, making him laugh.

you manage to ignore him until you’ve applied your lip gloss. you pop your lips, proud of your work, then turn around. “okay, i’m ready to—” you’re cut off by your boyfriend’s mouth on yours.

you’re just a girl—when fuma’s lips move against yours like this, so messy and desperate like he couldn’t wait a second longer, your lower back pressed against the sink, you can’t help but kiss him back.

“we’re gonna be late,” you mutter weakly.

“they can wait,” he says, pulling you into another kiss.

nicholas

“all this? for a girl’s night?” your boyfriend asks, sitting up on your shared bed.

“yes, nicho, all this.” you ignore his pouting—you’ve had this conversation countless times already.

putting his phone down on the pillow next to him with more force than needed, he crawls over to you, sitting at the edge of the bed and staring at your reflection in the mirror. “what do you need to look so good for?”

“it makes me feel confident. we’ve been over this.”

“you’d make a trash bag look sexy, baby.”

you sigh, picking up your lipstick. “that’s nice of you to say, angel. but i’m not wearing a trash bag to the club.”

with a discontented sigh, he gets up from the bed and wraps his arm around your neck from behind your, letting his forehead rest on your shoulder. that’s nicholas for you—always needy when it’s least convenient for you. “careful, baby,” you say gently. “i’m doing my lipstick.”

“i hate knowing other guys are going to see you like this.”

“who cares about other guys when it’s you i’m coming home to,” you say, probably word for word from the last time you went out without him. you’re coming off annoyed, but really, you love seeing him like this.

“i’m gonna miss you tonight,” he says, kissing your bare shoulder. it makes you shiver—he smirks at you in the mirror, fully aware of what he’s doing.

“i thought euijoo was coming over?” you ask, trying to keep your tone steady as your boyfriend kisses up your neck.

he hums. “still gonna miss you.”

then, without warning, he presses his lips to yours. “nicho!” you exclaim, leaning back. his grin is wicked as you check your reflection. “i’m gonna have to do my lip combo all over again.”

“fix it, baby. i’ll mess it up again.”

euijoo

you’re leaning toward the mirror, lips parted in concentration as you finish your makeup. euijoo has been watching from the doorway for a small while, arms crossed over his chest, a small, adoring smile on his lips. “you almost ready to go, baby?” he asks softly.

you nod. “yeah, just a minute.” you’re meeting his parents for the first time tonight at a fancy restaurant, and you want to make the best first impression possible. you’ve put it in your mind that your makeup needs to be perfect to do that. “do i look okay?” you ask, smoothing out your dress anxiously.

in a few steps, euijoo has crossed the distance between you, and plants himself behind you, one hand on your waist, the other brushing your hair behind your shoulder. he leans down to press a kiss to the crook of your neck. “you look gorgeous, as always. what are you so nervous about? i’ve only told them great things about you, they’ll love you.”

“i know, i just—i want them to think i’m worthy of you.”

he laughs light-heartedly. “worthy? baby, by the end of the evening they’ll probably wonder how i got you to date me.”

you pout, slowly letting yourself be soothed by your boyfriend’s words and gentle demeanor. “you really think?”

“of course. what can i do to ease your nerves?”

you recognize that tone—he wants something he won’t outright ask you for. but even if he doesn’t care, you won’t be late for your dinner plans. so instead of letting yourself melt into his touch, you offer your cheek to him. it’ll have to do for now.

euijoo smiles, pressing his soft lips to your cheek, and the simple touch has you relaxing already. but he presses another one, and another, progressively getting closer to your mouth—”not my lips, baby. i don’t want to mess up my lipstick.”

his lips find the corner of yours, and when he leans back, a little lip gloss shines on the corner of his lips. you shake your head, lightly admonishing him as you wipe the makeup up with your thumb. “juju…” 

he only gazes down fondly at you. “you’re perfect,” he muses.

yuma

after months of being with yuma, you should know that whatever you tell him not to do, he’ll take as a challenge to do. really, it’s your fault for telling him not to distract you while you’re doing your makeup, and not to kiss you after you’ve applied your lipstick. you even give him a minute to get it all out of his system—but it only does the opposite. after the kiss, he’s even needier, clingy as he wraps his arms around your waist tightly, burying his face in your hair.

“don’t go,” he mumbles.

“it’s for work, baby, i don’t have a choice.”

“i can’t just kiss you for a minute,” he whines. “it’s not nearly enough.”

“you’ll have all the time you need when i come back, okay?”

he frowns at you in the mirror—changing his strategy from whiny to upset? in any case, it doesn’t work. you ignore his glare as you apply your lipgloss. he plants kisses along your neck, your jawline, but every time he tries to get near your lips, you lean away.

he huffs. “what’s the point of having lips so pretty if your boyfriend can’t even kiss them?”

“the one time i ask you not to kiss me, i swear,” you mumble. “you’re not going to die.”

he rests his hand on his heart, fakes a pained expression. “i just might.”

you push him away with your hip, tell him to leave you alone—you’re surprised when he actually does. he’s waiting for you in the hallway when you’re done. you think that maybe he’s matured when he helps you slip on the shoes he picked out for you, and are about to thank him when he stands and, before you can react, traps your lips in a kiss. not even just a peck that won’t do too much damage—a full-on mess of a kiss, tongue and all, his hands firm on your hips so you couldn’t escape even if you wanted to.

when he leans back, his grin is wickedly smug. “uh-oh, baby. i think you’re gonna have to redo your lipstick.”

jo

if you explicitly tell him not to, your perfect baby never messes up your makeup. he saw how long it took you to get your lip combo perfect before the party, so when you tell him, “no kisses, tonight,” he follows that rule to a tee.

it doesn’t mean he’s not desperate to kiss you, though. as you get ready together, he has to content himself with pressing soft kisses to your cheeks and forehead, and stops himself from pouting when you can’t reciprocate. during the party, his eyes keep drifting to the lipstick staining the rim of your cup, and he’s always ready to wipe a smudge if you mess up your makeup while eating. he has the self-restraint of a saint when you use him instead of a mirror to reapply your lipgloss, dumbly nodding when you ask him whether it looks okay.

after the party, as you’re waiting outside for your uber, his jacket around your shoulders, he briefly wonders whether he should wait until you get home, then decides against it. you look so cute, slightly swaying on your feet from the wine you drank, a contented smile on your face, your hand warm in his. “can i kiss you, y/n?” he asks softly. you nod happily.

the feeling of his lips on yours is such a relief after waiting all night for it. by the time your uber arrives, he’s wearing as much lipstick as you are.

harua

“okay, baby, i’m off,” you call from the hallway, slipping on your shoes.

from his position on the couch, harua perks up. “aren’t you forgetting something?”

you look inside your purse. keys, phone, wallet. “nope, i’m all good.”

he frowns, then makes his way to you. arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed, he says, “you sure about that?”

your features relax into a smile. “baby, i’m sorry, i can’t kiss you. i spent too long on this lip combo to mess it up.”

your boyfriend is unimpressed. he glares at you without a word.

you walk up to him, ruffle his hair. “i’ll give you all the kisses you want when i get home, okay?”

clearly, this isn’t good enough an offer. too quickly for you to react, he leans in, presses his lips to yours firmly. then, with a huff, he walks back to the couch. you check your lips in your front camera—the damage’s been done.

“haru!”

when you look at him, there’s a small smirk playing on his lips. you’d be mad at him if he wasn’t so adorable. “have fun, angel,” he says, plopping some chips inside his mouth.

taki

the entire time you’ve been getting ready, your boyfriend has been gazing longingly at you like a lovesick puppy. it’d be distracting if you weren’t so used to it—rare are the moments you spend together when at least his hands or his eyes aren’t on you. from when you chose your outfit to now, as you’re sitting at your vanity, lips parted as you apply your liner, he’s been laying on your shared bed, staring at you like you hung the stars in the night sky.

he’s been quiet this entire time, so when he starts making his way to you, telling you how pretty you look, you know he’s up to no good. before he’s even touched you, you warn, “taki, don’t. the tutor is so strict, i can’t be late for this class.”

“who said anything about making you late?” he asks, a playful smirk on his lips as his hands find your shoulders, your hair. he presses a kiss to the top of your head. “i just wanted to admire you from up close.”

“you can do that without bothering me.”

he looks at you like a wounded puppy. you roll your eyes—you know taki isn’t really offended, he just likes to pretend he is so you’ll baby him. “fine. one kiss, okay? just one. and on my cheek.”

you shouldn’t have been so trusting. your boyfriend holds your head steady as he plants his kiss to your cheek, but of course, he doesn’t stop there. as you try to squirm away from him, he peppers kisses everywhere he can reach, your chin, your nose, your forehead, and, eventually, your lips. 

he grins proudly, admiring his work in the mirror—the lip gloss on his lips, the smudges around yours. “thanks a lot, taki,” you mumble.

“the pleasure is all mine, babe.”

maki

you’re sat on your boyfriend’s lap in front of your vanity as you apply the final traces of lipstick for you lip combo. you’re both staring at your reflection in the mirror, you in concentration, him in quiet, lovesick adoration. you’re apart for one evening and he’s acting like it’s the end of the world. his big arms feel warm and reassuring around your body, his chin a welcome weight on your shoulder, but if you told him how much harder he’s making it to go out without him, he’d find a million reasons for you to stay in. however, you can’t bail on bottomless brunch with your girls.

“i get that girlhood is important and all, but surely us boyfriends could tag along once in a while?” he mumbles, pouting against your shoulder.

you smile. “we can’t gossip about you guys if you’re here.”

he gasps dramatically. “you gossip about me? what do you say?”

you ignore him as you lean forward, admiring your work. satisfied with yourself, you shift on maki’s lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. “how do i look?”

his features soften into a fond smile. “perfect, baby.”

when he leans in for a kiss, you tut at him. “nuh-uh. i’m not letting you mess up my lip combo.”

he raises an eyebrow. “oh?”

suddenly, his hold on you tightens—you try to squirm out of his arms, but he’s too strong for you. “no! maki!” you exclaim, giggling. 

he peppers kisses all over your lips, and by the time he’s done, there’s more lipstick on his lips than on yours. you sigh as you check your makeup in the mirror. “great, i have to do it all over again now.”

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. 

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.”

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