#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. 

soobin was manspread and arms crossed over his chest, unaware of his flaccid yet slick cock twitching back to life over his tensed thigh, leaning back against the soft chair and just stares at the messy art you and fuma display. he can see the battle between intimacy and unadulterated lust with your movements, the push and pull, the widened to narrowed stares you give each other.

bodies in motion, his head tilts to gather more visuals for his mental spank bank.

and then he thinks a bit crazier; putting himself in a different perspective entirely. that, what if he wasn’t a part of this relationship and was watching from an outsiders perspective? would his body react the same way?

or perhaps, in an alternate universe; you two were the couple and he’d be watching you two in a candid setting, all wholesome and with pure giggles, just interacting. he wholeheartedly believe his first thought would be:

“oh they’re so cute, but i just know this couple fucks so nasty behind closed doors.”

and he’d be so right if, somehow, he was able to see you both completely devour each other’s pleasure, just like you are now.

putting on a show for just him, showing him how nasty you both can really be, on his bed. and he knows you both are still fully aware of his presence, but he’s starting to get the feeling that you’re slowly losing focus on everything except for each other.

an effect that usually happens when you’re in the equation.

… fuck. soobin can see the way you lose composure, how you battle the desire trying to override your every motion and sense, keeping fuma close with your nails clawing into his flexing scapulas to kiss your appreciation right onto his tongue.

the way fuma stops his punching thrusts and resorts to grinding instead as he sucks onto your tongue in response. stopping his lust filled drive to come back down and meet you at your attempt for a deeper connection. drool dripping down your chin, slick pink open mouths sliding against each other, hands gripping bruises onto each other’s skin.

soobin doesn’t realize the slight twitching furrow of his brows from his intense analytical studying, only keeps his hawkeye on how you break apart when fuma coaxes you back up with him once his pace quickens again, coddling you back into insanity and lust when he snaps his hips just right. soobin reels at the visuals laid out before him;

your peeking tongues still pressed flat together after you couldn’t keep up with fuma’s open mouthed kisses from the pleasure you felt, puffing your saccharine noises into each other’s drooling mouths. the pointed tip of your tongue flicking over the middle of fuma’s flat tongue one last time before your head tips back onto soobin’s pillows like a fallen angel.

soobin knows fuma can be more of a menace than him sometimes, seeing it in the way he wraps his plush lips over your tipped chin and jawline to coax more huffing moans out your vibrating throat, then leaning back when he knows your hands will feebly attempt to keep him close.

my poor honey, soobin thinks as he sighs so soft you both wouldn’t hear past your own noises, shifting on the chair with an itch to just walk over and bite fuma for teasing so much.

but he sits still and watches as you stay pliant underneath fuma’s swift hands, raw and bare open, allowing him to press your ankles together and place them over one of his shoulders. soobin stays, watching fuma’s eyelashes flutter shut as he turns his nose into your skin and presses his lips there on the nimble bone while his other hand runs down the expanse of your outer thigh; admiring the small reminders of softness fuma tries to keep amidst his mean hips. just for your sake, since he knows you need a balance.

leaning fully back, soobin knows you’re in good hands. he knows you’re okay when fuma gently unhooks your legs off his broad shoulder and turns you over to one side, guiding your frame into another position. he knows you’re okay when you suddenly stop fuma mid turn to meet his lips in a searing passion, still staying connected even as you fully turn onto your stomach, neck craned uncomfortably back and exposed in an upside down kiss.

soob can see your desperation, how quick you break apart to shift and maneuver feverishly underneath fuma’s frame until your legs spread over fu’s thighs, and how fuma responds by spreading his own to knee you open, like it’s second nature. like it’s natural, perfect, the way your bodies understand what they need from each other.

a smile rises on soobin’s lips when fuma’s broad frame inches closer, head hovers higher over yours so that you could stay comfortable and not have to crane so much to keep kissing, nudging himself deeper within your clenched walls and pressing his pelvis against the fat of your ass. you’ve disappeared underneath fuma, encapsulated completely and all soobin can see was the deep slope of fu’s spine dipping out into his curved ass cheeks and your bent legs mindlessly kicking in the air against fuma’s tensed outer thighs with each shallow rut.

and when you break apart, face falling into the mattress, hair puffing around your face and hands gripping cold fabrics instead of warm skin, the sound of your muffled noises is a symphony in soobin’s twitching ears as his eyes drink in the way fuma curls around your frame to imprint a line of fluttering kisses down your nape and upper spine.

small wisps of softness still bleeding through, heart aching intimacy to let your inner self know you’re being well taken care of. it feels so familiar because soobin told his best friend beforehand exactly what you like, confusing your brain by mixing the soft kisses with his insistent hips.

this is better than any movie he could ever watch. it’s not just eroticism in its rawest form, it’s rhythm, alignment and connection in the most intimate way..

his eyes sparkle at the beauty of your bare bodies when fuma leans back, marveling at the human body and it’s wonders as he watches your ass ripple against the force of fuma’s soaked pelvis and your toes curls when his hand furls around your ankle again.

soobin thought he counted all the beauty marks on both your bodies enough to know where each one was, but his eyes narrow when he sees another on your upper left cheek, right underneath your hip.

and he knows fuma is staring at the exact feature too, eyes shadowed underneath his bangs with his head tilted down, watching as his hips make the small beauty mark dance. he can hear fuma mutter something in japanese under his breath, make out the syllables but it was intonation of his deep voice that had soobin’s teeth biting down harder on his bottom lip.

“cute, so cute when you’re ruined..” voice thick in his japanese dialect, drowning in the sweet puddle of your muffled whimpers warbling in the pillow. soobin feels his own body prickle with excitement, knowing it’s directed for you. and somehow, it makes him prideful, knowing that this cuteness is still all his.

feral, and that’s when soobin sees the switch to lust once again. when fuma suddenly snakes both hands around your hips and pounds into you with one sharp thrust, stopping quick. the veins in his hands protrude as he uses his strength to pull you back with him as a signal, prompting you to respond regardless. he couldn’t hold back anymore; craving to ruin more.

soobin’s rock hard cock twitches at the strangled moan that leaves your sloppy lips at fuma’s urge, and he registered the ache from his blood rushing quicker than he realized, but he’s not focused on himself right now— he’s more intrigued on what fuma’s trying to do.

but it twitches again to a point where he cannot ignore when you let yourself get pulled, following fuma’s silent request immediately and waking your melting body out of the dumbed haze to act. soobin’s fascinated, eyes wide when you shuffle onto your knees and hold yourself up on trembling thighs with the help of fuma lifting you up, lower half now raised high into the air with fuma still bottomed out in your drooling pussy.

he couldn’t help but marvel at fuma’s satisfying hum, the approving nod of fuma’s head, because of how intuned you are with him already, when he pulls you back enough for you to brace yourself on your forearms instead of your squished cheek, when you start throwing yourself back onto fuma’s soaked cock immediately and he slides a hand down the dip of your spine to keep your pace steady. keeping your arch form perfect like a divine sculpture.

soobin could cum untouched at this art.

the constant ripple of your ass in coordination with the bouncing echo of your skins smacking, how your force slightly knocks fuma back even when he meets you midway with heavy thrusts, how your thighs tremble as they slip further apart, how he can see bliss on your bitten lips when your press your forehead against your forearm.

nasty. succumbing to lust once again, pure desire and crude carnal desperation.

that’s what this is.

a perfect blend of devotion and lust between you and fuma; in soobin’s terms, just what nasty is.

but he wonders. fascinatingly intrigued if nasty can change, can be different in fuma’s eyes as they watch what nasty means to you and soobin. it makes soobin wanna have fuma watch how you truly act, how you truly take when you’re with soobin, and he’ll make it happen again— knowing fuma would watch happily like he’s done before.

&teamies taglist: @xionvlog @pageraf @makizdoll @lynaka @smidare @rinnrinnn @doyoueverthinkofrose @cerezitamour @wvlftype @uasabii @sensooazie @sunsunpilled @horangiungnico @bloomedberry @lotusluntiny @eunyih @lunenet @scentofjoo

tubatu taglist: @chai-soobin @lovelyangel22

He had been assigned to you the morning of your eighteenth birthday, when the court still whispered that the princess was too sharp-tongued, too restless, too unwilling to play the soft ornament her father preferred. The king had looked at the tall, dark-haired knight with the quiet mouth, the black-framed glasses, and the unblinking gaze and decided that a man who never flinched would be the only one capable of keeping you contained.

He had been wrong.

You had spent the better part of a year testing the edges of that containment. Riding past the borders he set. Speaking to foreign envoys without a chaperone. Demanding answers about war, about blood, about the way men looked at women when they thought no one of rank was watching. Fuma answered every question with the same measured calm, never raising his voice, never letting his eyes linger longer than duty allowed. But you had begun to notice the way his throat moved when you asked certain things. The way his gloved hand tightened on the hilt of his sword when you stood too close.

Tonight the castle was quiet. The king had ridden south with the high council. The corridors belonged to the two of you.

You found him in the outer chamber of your room, still in the full formal uniform of the order—black military jacket cut close to the body, rows of polished silver buttons catching the firelight, the heavy silver braid of his aiguillette draped from shoulder to chest, the high collar framing the white of his shirt beneath. Only the black-framed glasses rested straight upon the bridge of his nose. Outside, rain whispered against the leaded glass.

He straightened the moment the door opened, one hand already moving toward the sword at his hip out of instinct.

“Your Highness.”

You closed the door behind you and turned the key. The soft click seemed very loud.

Fuma’s eyes flicked to the lock, then back to your face. Something careful settled behind the lenses of his glasses.

“Is something wrong?”

You walked past him without answering, trailing your fingers along the back of the nearest chair until you reached the wide window seat. The velvet cushions were still warm from the day’s sun. You sat, arranged your skirts with deliberate care, and looked at him the way you had been practicing in the mirror for weeks: direct, unafraid, almost lazy with power.

“Remove your gloves.”

He hesitated only a second before obeying, confusion laying upon his usually relaxed face. The leather creaked softly as he peeled the black gloves from his hands and set them aside. His hands were large, slightly scarred across the knuckles, the veins standing out when he flexed his fingers once.

“Now the rest of it,” you said. “The jacket. The braid. All of it.”

His jaw tightened. “That would be improper.”

“I am the one who decides what is proper in this room.” You tilted your head. “Unless you intend to refuse a direct order from the blood of the lunaris?”

The silence stretched. Rain continued its soft assault on the glass. Somewhere far below, a guard changed shifts and the faint ring of steel on stone drifted up.

Fuma’s hands moved to the silver buttons at his chest.

Piece by piece the formal uniform came away. The heavy jacket with its rows of bright buttons. The silver aiguillette unhooked from his shoulder and set carefully aside. The belt with its ornate circular buckle. He stacked each piece with the same precise care he used when preparing for battle. Underneath he wore only the white shirt open at the throat and the close-fitting black trousers of the knightly order. The fabric clung to the hard lines of his thighs and the narrow cut of his waist. When he finally stood bare of the jacket and braid, the glasses still on his face, he looked younger somehow. Or perhaps simply more human.

You let your gaze travel over him without shame.

“Come closer.”

He did, stopping three paces away. Close enough that you could see the faint pulse at the base of his throat above the open collar.

“I have questions,” you said. “And I am tired of answers that come wrapped in courtesy and half-truths. You are the only man allowed within arm’s reach of me without an entire retinue present. That makes you useful.”

His voice was low. “Ask, then.”

You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, chin resting in one hand.

“I want to watch you touch yourself.”

The words landed between you like a drawn blade.

Fuma’s entire body went still. Color rose slowly along the sharp line of his cheekbones, visible even behind the black frames of his glasses. For a long moment he said nothing. When he finally spoke, the sound was rough.

“Your Highness—”

“No.” You cut him off gently, almost kindly. “I do not care if you feel shy. I do not care if it offends whatever code the Iron Shield drilled into your bones. I am the princess, you will do it. Right now. Here. While I watch.”

His hands flexed once at his sides.

“I am inexperienced,” you continued, softer now, but no less certain. “I have never seen a man like this. Not truly. Books and tapestries and the careful explanations of midwives are not the same as a living body. I want to know what it looks like when a man is hard. I want to know what sounds he makes. I want to know how his hand moves when no one is ordering him to be gentle.” You held his gaze. “You will show me.”

Something flickered behind his eyes—duty warring with something darker, something that had been carefully leashed for months.

He exhaled through his nose.

Then he reached for the ties of his trousers.

The fabric whispered as he loosened them. He pushed the cloth down just far enough to free himself, and you felt your breath catch at the first sight of him. Even half-hard he was thick, the head already flushed a deeper color than the rest of him. A faint sheen of moisture gathered at the tip. He wrapped his right hand around the base, and the contrast of scarred knuckles against soft skin made something low in your belly tighten.

“Slowly,” you said.

He obeyed.

The first stroke was careful, almost clinical. His thumb brushed over the head, spreading the bead of fluid that had gathered there. You watched the way the muscle in his forearm flexed, the way his hips shifted the smallest fraction forward as if his body wanted more than his mind was ready to give. His breathing stayed measured, but a faint flush had begun to spread down his throat beneath the open collar of the white shirt.

You shifted on the window seat, drawing one knee up so that your chin could rest upon it. The movement made your skirts fall open along one thigh. His eyes flicked there for half a second before returning to the middle distance above your head.

“Look at me,” you ordered.

He did. The lenses of his glasses caught the firelight.

The second stroke was less careful. His hand tightened. A low sound escaped him—half breath, half something else—and the flush on his cheeks deepened. You could see the way his cock thickened further in his grip, the vein along the underside standing out more clearly with every pass of his fist.

“Does it feel good?” you asked, genuinely curious.

His voice came out strained. “Yes.”

“Show me how you like it when you are alone.”

Something in him cracked.

The rhythm changed. He stopped being polite. His hand moved faster, the wet sound of skin against skin suddenly loud in the quiet room. His hips began to rock in small, involuntary motions. The muscles of his abdomen tightened and released beneath the thin white shirt. A soft, rough noise left his throat every few strokes, the kind of sound a man makes when he is trying very hard not to make any sound at all.

You watched, rapt.

Your own body felt strange—hot between the legs, restless, as if something inside you were leaning forward to see better. You had never felt this particular kind of hunger before. It was sharp and bright and almost painful in its intensity.

“Faster,” you whispered.

He gave it to you.

His free hand came up to brace against the wall beside the window, forearm flexing as he worked himself with increasing urgency. The head of his cock was fully flushed now, glistening, and every time his fist reached the tip a clearer bead of fluid spilled over his fingers. His breathing had gone ragged. A sheen of sweat gathered at his temples, fogging the lower edge of his glasses. The careful knight was unraveling in front of you, stroke by stroke, and the sight of it made your mouth go dry.

“Look at me when you finish,” you said.

His eyes snapped to yours.

The next few thrusts of his hand were almost brutal. His thighs tensed. A low, broken sound tore out of him—your name, or something close to it—and then he was coming, thick ropes of white spilling over his knuckles and onto the dark wood of the floor between you. His whole body shuddered with it. For a moment his eyes went half-lidded behind the black frames, almost soft, before the weight of what he had just done settled back over him.

He stood there breathing hard, still half-hard in his hand, spend cooling on his skin, the white shirt open at the throat and the black trousers shoved low on his hips.

You rose from the window seat and crossed the small distance between you. He did not move as you reached out and, very carefully, touched the back of his wrist with two fingers. His pulse hammered under your touch.

“You did well,” you said quietly.

His voice was wrecked. “This cannot happen again.”

You looked up at him, at the flush still high on his cheekbones, at the way his chest rose and fell too quickly beneath the open shirt, at the evidence of his release still gleaming on his fingers, at the silver buttons of the discarded jacket gleaming on the table behind him.

“It will,” you answered. “As many times as I wish it.”

The days that followed moved like fog through the castle.

Courtiers still bowed when you passed. Servants still kept their eyes lowered. The king remained in the southern provinces dealing with border disputes that never quite resolved, and in his absence the halls of Fullcrest belonged more and more to the quiet tension that lived between you and the knight who never left your side.

Fuma did not speak of what had happened in your bedchambers. He did not need to. It lived in the way his gaze lingered a fraction too long when you turned a corner ahead of him. In the way his gloved hand hovered near the small of your back when guiding you through crowded corridors, never quite touching. In the careful distance he kept at night, standing just outside the range of the candlelight as if the dark itself might protect him from the memory of your eyes on him.

You, however, had no interest in pretending it had not happened.

On the fourth evening after the first demand, rain returned to the mountains. Heavy, persistent, the kind that turned the courtyards to silver mirrors and forced the court indoors. You had dismissed your ladies early, claiming a headache that did not exist. Your bedchamber was warm from the fire. The same low table. The same wide window seat. Only the air felt different—thicker, expectant.

You sent for him with a single word to the page.

When Fuma entered he was still in the formal black uniform of the order: the close-cut jacket with its rows of silver buttons, the heavy braid of the aiguillette still draped from shoulder to chest, black trousers, black-framed glasses resting straight on the bridge of his nose. You had always been particularly interested in Murata Fuma. The only child of a minor border family, he had been selected far younger than most—your father routinely summoned boys from the towns surrounding Fullcrest, but nearly all of them were already twenty-five or older by the time they trained beside the twenty-two-year-old Fuma.

You remembered the first time you truly noticed him. It had been late autumn, the training yard silver with frost. Most of the new recruits were broad, loud, already carrying the rough confidence of men who had worked fields or forges. Fuma stood apart even then—taller than the rest, dark hair cropped short, the black frames of his glasses fogging slightly in the cold as he moved through forms with a precision that looked almost effortless. He never shouted. He never postured. When an older trainee tried to put him in his place during sparring, Fuma simply stepped inside the swing, hooked the man’s ankle, and put him on his back in the mud without once raising his voice. He offered a hand afterward. The other man refused it.

You had watched from the gallery with your lady in waiting fretting about the cold and the impropriety of a princess lingering too long over the training of knights. But you stayed. Something about the quiet way he carried himself had lodged under your skin and never left. The glasses. The measured stillness. The fact that he was only a few years older than you and already treated like a finished blade while the others were still being sharpened.

That interest had only sharpened in the year he had been assigned to you. You had tested him constantly—riding too far, speaking too freely, standing too close—and every time he answered with the same unshakable calm. Yet you had begun to notice the smaller things: the way you slowly began to chip at the walls that protected the human under them.

Now he stood in your chamber again, rain hammering the glass, the firelight catching on the silver buttons of his jacket and the lenses of those same black-framed glasses. The years between that frost-bitten training yard and this quiet room felt suddenly very thin.

You let the silence stretch until it pressed against him.

“Closer,” you said.

Now he stood in your chamber again, rain hammering the glass behind him, the same black-framed lenses catching the firelight exactly as they had that first morning.

You did not speak at once. You let him wait, the way you always did, until the silence pressed against the high collar of his uniform and the careful set of his shoulders.

“Closer,” you said at last.

He closed the door without being told. The key turned under his own hand this time, a quiet concession.

“Your Highness.”

You were seated in the high-backed chair near the fire, one leg crossed over the other, skirts arranged with deliberate care. The chair opposite—usually reserved for advisors or the occasional visiting noble—had been pulled closer than was proper. A single cushion rested on its seat.

You nodded toward it.

“Sit.”

He did not move at once. The firelight caught the sharp line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble he had not yet shaved away, the soft reflection in the lenses of his glasses.

“I prefer to stand.”

“I did not ask what you prefer.” Your voice remained soft, almost conversational. “Sit.”

Something in his posture shifted—resistance, recognition, the slow acceptance of an order that could cost him. He crossed the room and lowered himself into the chair. The wood creaked under his weight. His long legs stretched out, then drew back slightly, as if he were trying to make himself smaller. The cushion settled beneath him. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers spread, knuckles pale against the black fabric.

You watched him for a long moment, letting the silence stretch until it became its own kind of pressure.

“Closer,” you said. “Pull the chair forward.”

He obeyed. The legs of the chair scraped softly against the stone. When he stopped, his knees were almost brushing the hem of your skirts. Close enough that you could see the faint rise and fall of his chest beneath the silver buttons. Close enough that the heat of the fire reached both of you the same way.

You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, studying him with the same open curiosity that had unmade him four nights ago.

“I have been thinking about it,” you said. “About the way you looked when you finished. About the sounds you tried not to make. About how your hand shook afterward.” A small, thoughtful tilt of your head. “I want to see it again. But this time you will sit. You will not brace yourself against a wall. You will not stand over me as if distance might protect either of us. You will sit, and you will do it where I can see every part of you.”

Fuma’s throat worked. The muscle along his jaw flexed once.

“This is dangerous.”

“Yes.” You smiled, small and sharp. “That is part of why I want it.”

His hands remained still on his thighs for several heartbeats. Then, he sighed before slowly reaching the belt clasps then the ties of his trousers.

The fabric parted. He lifted his hips just enough to push the material down enough to free himself. Already half-hard, the weight of him rested against his lower stomach, the head flushed darker than the rest, veins pulsing at the change in temperature. He raised his structured black jacket with a high standing collar a bit, so that you could see his hardened abs from years of serving your kingdom. 

He did not take himself in hand immediately. Instead he looked at you, waiting, as if some final permission still needed to be spoken aloud.

You gave it with a single glance downward.

His right hand closed around himself.

This time the first stroke was slower. Seated, there was nowhere for him to hide the way his hips wanted to shift, the way his thighs tensed and released. The chair forced him to stay open to your gaze. Every movement of his fist was framed by the dark fabric of his trousers and the hard line of his abdomen beneath the still partially buttoned jacket. You could see the way the muscles there jumped when his thumb dragged over the head. Could see the first clear bead of fluid gather and then smear across his fingers.

You shifted in your own chair, drawing one knee higher so that your chin could rest upon it. The movement made your skirts fall open along one thigh again. His eyes flicked there—once, quickly—before returning to your face behind the black frames.

“Tell me what it feels like,” you said.

His voice came rough. “Warm. Tight. Better when I go slower at first.”

“Then go slower.”

He did. The rhythm became almost languid, deliberate, as if he were performing the act for your education rather than his own release. You watched the way the shaft thickened further in his grip, the way the skin moved over the hard length beneath. A soft, wet sound began to fill the space between you with every downward stroke. His breathing deepened. A faint flush climbed his throat and settled high on his cheekbones.

You reached out without warning and rested two fingers against the inside of his knee.

He stilled completely.

“Continue,” you murmured.

His hand resumed its motion, but the touch of your fingers on his leg changed something. The careful control frayed. His hips began to lift in small, involuntary rolls, chasing the friction of his own fist. The chair creaked softly beneath him. A low sound escaped his throat—half groan, half something closer to a plea—and his free hand gripped the arm of the chair hard enough that the wood protested.

You left your fingers where they were, light and steady, simply feeling the way the muscle beneath his trousers jumped with every stroke.

“Look at me,” you said again.

He did. His eyes were darker now, the pupils blown wide behind the lenses. There was no armor left in his expression. Only heat, and the strained edge of a man who had been ordered to unravel and was obeying even as it cost him.

“Faster,” you whispered.

The rhythm changed. His fist moved with more urgency, the wet sound of it louder, more explicit. Precome slicked his fingers and the head of his cock, catching the firelight each time he stroked upward. His thighs spread wider of their own accord, giving you a clearer view. The flush on his face had deepened. A fine sheen of sweat gathered at his temples, fogging the lower edge of his glasses. His breathing had gone ragged, each exhale edged with a soft, broken noise he could no longer fully suppress.

You watched every second of it, hungry and unblinking.

When his hips began to stutter, when the muscles of his abdomen went rigid and his hand tightened almost painfully around himself, you spoke one last time.

“Not yet.”

He made a sound that was almost a snarl, teeth clenched, body straining against the order. His hand slowed, trembling, holding himself right at the edge. The head of his cock was flushed dark and glistening, a steady pulse visible along the underside. His chest heaved beneath the silver buttons. For a long, suspended moment he hovered there, obeying even as every line of his body begged for release.

You let the silence stretch until you could see the exact second his control began to crack.

Then, softly:

“Now.”

He came with a low, wrecked groan, hips lifting off the chair as thick ropes spilled over his fist and onto his stomach. His free hand stayed locked on the armrest. His eyes never left yours. The orgasm pulled through him in long, shuddering waves, each one visible in the way his thighs and abs tensed and the way his breath caught and broke. When it finally eased, he remained seated, spent and breathing hard, spend cooling on his skin and fingers, the formal black jacket still partially buttoned neat across his broad chest.

You withdrew your hand from his knee slowly.

For a while neither of you spoke. The fire cracked. Rain continued its soft assault against the windows. Fuma’s chest rose and fell in uneven measures as he came back to himself, still half-hard in his loose grip, the evidence of what he had done impossible to ignore.

You rose from your chair and stepped between his spread knees. Close enough that your skirts brushed his thighs. Close enough that he had to tip his head back slightly to meet your eyes.

“You sit very well when ordered,” you said, almost gently.

His voice was ruined. “This will destroy us both.”

You reached down and, with careful fingers, brushed a strand of dark hair back from his forehead, the black frames of his glasses cool against your knuckles. The touch was light. Intimate in a way the earlier demand had not been.

“Then we will be destroyed carefully,” you answered. “And slowly, my knight.”

The silence after his release did not last long.

You remained standing between his knees, close enough that the heat of his body reached you through the layers of your skirts. Fuma’s breathing had begun to steady, but the flush along his cheekbones had not faded. He looked down at the evidence of what he had done—spend cooling across his knuckles and his abs—and something tight moved through his expression, as if the sight of it embarrassed him more than the act itself.

You watched him for a moment longer before speaking.

“What do you think about,” you asked quietly, walking near your collection of handkerchiefs—a collection you’d built as more princes offered you them.  “when you do that?”

His eyes lifted to yours. The question landed between you like a stone dropped into still water.

“I do not—”

“You do.” Your voice stayed even. “Every man does. I have been told as much by the midwives and the more honest ladies of the court. When you are alone, when your hand is on yourself, there is something in your mind. A memory. A face. A feeling. I want to know what it is for you.”

Fuma’s jaw tightened. You handed him one, he hesitated. But you only pushed it towards him—a silent suggestion to clean himself up. 

He took it, cleaning his hand and stomach with the same precise care he used when tending a blade, as if the motion itself might buy him time.

“It is not appropriate to speak of such things with you.”

“I am the one who ordered you to do it,” you answered. “That makes it appropriate.”

He finished wiping his fingers and set the soiled fabric aside. His hands returned to his thighs, resting there as if he did not trust them elsewhere. The chair still held him open to you. He made no move to rise or cover himself.

“I think of nothing,” he said at last. The words were careful. Measured. “It is simply the body seeking relief.”

You tilted your head, studying the faint tension at the corner of his mouth.

“That is a lie.”

A muscle in his cheek jumped.

“Your Highness—”

“You looked at me the entire time,” you continued, soft and relentless. “Both nights. Your eyes never left mine when you finished. A man who thinks of nothing does not look at someone like that while he comes.” You leaned in a fraction closer. “So I will ask again. What do you think about?”

Silence stretched. The fire settled in the grate with a soft collapse of embers. Outside, the rain had thinned to a steady whisper against the glass.

Fuma’s gaze dropped to the space between your bodies. When he spoke again, the rough edge had returned to his voice.

“I think of the way you watch me.” A pause. “The way you do not look away. The sound of your breathing when I—” He stopped himself, exhaled through his nose, and tried again. “I think of duty. Of the fact that I should not be doing this. Of how easily this could end with my head on a pike if the wrong person learned of it.” His eyes returned to yours. “And still I cannot stop my body from answering when you order it.”

The honesty cost him. You could see it in the way his shoulders held themselves too straight, in the careful stillness of his hands.

You asked more.

“Does it feel different when I am watching?”

“Yes.”

“Better or worse?”

A longer silence. Then, quieter: “Worse. And better. At the same time.”

“Do you finish faster when I speak to you?”

His throat worked. “Yes.”

“Have you done this since the first night? Alone, in your own chambers?”

The question landed harder than the others. Color rose anew along his neck. He looked away toward the fire, jaw set.

“Yes.”

“What did you think about then?”

“You already know the answer to that.”

You let the quiet settle again, satisfied for the moment with the cracks you had forced into his careful walls. After a time you stepped back, giving him space to put himself to rights. He rose, adjusted his clothing with deliberate movements, and stood waiting for dismissal the way a knight was trained to wait—still, contained, already rebuilding the distance the last hour had destroyed.

You dismissed him with a single nod.

He left without another word.

It only took 2 more days for you to call for him again.

The corridors outside your bedchamber were empty save for the occasional soft tread of a night guard. You had dismissed your remaining attendants hours earlier. Only a single lamp burned on the table near the bed, its light low and golden, throwing long shadows across the carved posts and the heavy curtains drawn against the dark.

You called for him with a quiet word to the page who slept in the outer chamber.

Fuma arrived without delay. He closed the door behind him and turned the key without being asked. When he faced you, the careful mask was back in place—but thinner than before. The questions you had asked still lived behind his eyes, and something quieter, heavier, lived there too.

You stood beside the bed in a simple night shift of pale linen, the fabric thin enough that the lamp light caught the shape of you beneath it. Your hair was unbound. Your feet were bare against the rug.

“Come here,” you said.

He crossed the room and stopped an arm’s length away, waiting. The space between you felt charged, as if the air itself remembered what had already passed in this room.

“I want to touch you.”

The words were plain. No elaborate order. No performance of power. Just the truth of what curiosity had become after nights of watching him come apart under his own hand.

Fuma’s breath left him in a slow, controlled exhale. His hands flexed once at his sides.

“Your Highness. That is—”

“Different,” you finished for him. “I know. You have done it for me twice. You have answered questions you did not want to answer. You sat where I told you to sit and let me watch every second of it.” You held his gaze without flinching. “Now I want to know what you feel like under my hands. Not through fabric. Not from a distance while you do the work yourself. I want to touch you.”

He closed his eyes for a single heartbeat. When he opened them again, the battle behind them had already been lost. The youngest knight of the Iron Veil, the one who had never needed a second command, stood there and surrendered without another word.

“As you wish.”

You stepped closer. Close enough that the hem of your shift brushed against the black fabric of his trousers. Close enough that you could see the faint pulse at the base of his throat above the high collar. Your hands rose, and for the first time you were the one who reached for the ties at his waist, just above the heavy silver buckle that sat centered on his belt. The knot gave easily under your fingers. You pushed the material down just far enough, and then your palm found him—warm, already half-hard from the mere fact of your request, the skin soft and living in a way no description, no careful observation, had ever prepared you for.

Fuma’s entire body went still beneath the first careful stroke of your hand.

You did not rush. You explored him the way you had watched him explore himself those other nights: slow, deliberate, learning the weight and the heat and the way he thickened further under your touch. Your fingers traced the vein along the underside, feeling it pulse against your skin. Your thumb brushed the head and came away damp. You did it again, slower, watching the way his stomach tensed beneath the structured black jacket, its silver buttons and white piping catching the lamp light with every shallow breath he took. The braided silver cord of the aiguillette shifted slightly against his chest as he exhaled.

A low sound escaped him—barely more than a breath—and his hands remained fisted at his sides, as if he did not trust himself to touch you in return.

“Does this feel different,” you asked softly, “from when you do it yourself?”

His voice was strained, almost rough. “Yes.”

“Tell me how.”

“Warmer.” A pause as your hand stroked him again, firmer this time, learning the exact pressure that made his breath hitch. “Your hands are small. I can feel the exact shape of your fingers. The way you—” His breath caught when your thumb circled the head in a slow, curious pass. “The way you do not know yet what you are doing, and still it undoes me faster than my own hand ever has.”

You continued, unhurried. You watched the flush climb his throat above the high collar. You watched the way his hips shifted forward the smallest fraction despite every effort to remain still. You watched his eyes darken behind the black frames of his glasses, fixed on your face as if looking away might shatter whatever fragile control remained. The ornate silver buckle at his waist gleamed each time his body tensed.

Your grip tightened just slightly. The next stroke drew a softer, broken sound from him that he tried too late to swallow.

“I have more questions,” you murmured, your hand never stopping its slow, thorough work. “About how long you can last like this. About what it feels like when you are this close and still not allowed to finish. About whether you think of this when you are alone.” You let the words hang between you while your thumb swept over the head again, gathering the wetness there. “But they can wait.”

His answer was little more than a rough exhale. His hands had opened at some point; one of them hovered near your waist without quite touching, trembling with the effort of restraint. The lamp light caught the silver buttons and the braided cord each time his chest rose too sharply. You could feel him throbbing against your palm now, fully hard, the heat of him unmistakable.

You slowed even further, drawing the moment out until his breathing had gone uneven and the careful knight was reduced to standing there, trembling under the inexperienced hand of a princess who had decided that knowing him this way was no longer optional.

One careful touch at a time, in the quiet of your bedchamber, you pulled him apart.

Your hand continued its slow, curious work.

Fuma stood rigid beneath the touch, every muscle held in careful check, as if the slightest uncontrolled movement might shatter the last of his restraint. The lamp light painted the lines of his throat and the sharp cut of his collarbone in gold. You could feel the exact moment he thickened fully in your grip—the heavy pulse against your palm, the way the head grew slicker with each careful stroke. His breathing had gone uneven. A faint tremor lived in the hands still fisted at his sides.

You adjusted your hold, learning the pressure that drew the softest sound from him. When your thumb dragged over the sensitive ridge just beneath the head, his hips jerked forward once before he forced them still again.

“Tell me if I am doing it wrong,” you said quietly.

His voice came low and strained. “You are not.”

“Then tell me what would feel better.”

A long silence stretched between the question and his answer. You did not stop moving your hand. The wet sound of it filled the quiet room, soft and explicit against the distant hush of the castle at night.

“Tighter,” he said at last. The word sounded as if it had been dragged out of him. “And slower at the top. When you—” His breath caught as you followed the instruction exactly, tightening your fingers and lingering on the upward stroke. “Yes. Like that.”

You obeyed with the same focused attention you gave to maps of the kingdom or the names of foreign envoys. Every reaction was information. The way his abdomen tensed when you twisted your wrist slightly on the downstroke. The way a rough sound escaped him when you gathered the fluid at the tip and spread it with your thumb. The way his eyes stayed locked on your face even as color climbed higher along his cheekbones.

“You are holding yourself very still,” you observed.

“If I do not,” he answered, voice fraying, “I will not remain in control of what happens next.”

You considered that for a moment, your hand never pausing.

“Then lose control.”

The order landed between you like a blade laid gently against skin.

Something in Fuma’s posture broke. His hands left his sides at last—one bracing against the carved post of the bed behind you, the other hovering near your waist without quite touching, as if the contact might be one boundary too far. His hips began to move in short, restrained thrusts into the circle of your fist. The careful stillness dissolved into something hungrier, something that made the muscles of his thighs stand out and the breath leave him in rough, uneven pulls.

You watched his face the entire time.

The flush across his cheeks. The way his lashes lowered and then forced themselves open again so he could keep looking at you. The soft, broken sounds he tried and failed to swallow. You had never held this kind of power before—not in council chambers, not in the training yard, not even when you ordered him to touch himself for your eyes alone. This was different. This was him coming apart under your hands, and the knowledge of it settled low and hot in your own body.

“I can feel how close you are,” you murmured.

He made a sound that was almost a laugh, except there was no humor in it—only strain and reluctant admission.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to finish?”

His forehead dropped forward until it nearly rested against yours. The nearness of him was overwhelming: the heat of his skin, the scent of rain and steel and the faint trace of the soap used by the knights’ quarters, the way his breath brushed your mouth when he spoke.

“Yes,” he said again, quieter. “But only if you order it.”

The words sent a sharp, unfamiliar thrill through you.

You tightened your grip, stroked him with more purpose, and leaned in until your lips nearly brushed the shell of his ear.

“Then finish for me.”

He came with a low, wrecked groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest. His body shuddered hard against your hand, hips pressing forward as thick pulses spilled over your fingers and across the pale linen of your shift. You kept stroking him through it, slower now, learning the way he trembled and the way his breath broke into something almost like a plea. His free hand finally settled at your waist—light, careful, as if even in the middle of release he was afraid of holding too tightly.

When the last of it eased, he remained close, forehead still nearly touching yours, breathing hard. Your hand stayed wrapped around him, feeling the way he softened only slightly, still warm and sensitive under your touch.

For a long moment neither of you spoke.

Then Fuma’s voice returned, rough and low.

“This cannot continue.”

You did not release him.

“It already has.”

He exhaled, the sound carrying the weight of every vow he had ever sworn and every line he had already crossed in this room. His hand at your waist tightened the smallest fraction before he forced it to loosen again.

“Your father assigned me to protect you,” he said. “Not to—”

“I know what he assigned you to do.” You drew back just enough to meet his eyes. Your fingers, still slick, traced a slow path along the length of him one final time before you finally let go. “But I am the one who decides what happens in my own chambers after the rest of the castle has gone to sleep.”

He looked at you for a long time. The lamp light caught the conflict in his expression—duty and desire and the slow, inevitable understanding that both were already lost.

At last he reached for the edge of his tunic and began to clean your hand with the same careful precision he had used on himself earlier. The gesture was strangely intimate. Almost tender. When he finished, he did not step away.

“You will call for me again,” he said. It was not a question.

“Yes.”

“And I will come.”

“Yes.”

He nodded once, as if accepting a sentence rather than an order. Then he adjusted his clothing, straightened the cloak across his shoulders, and moved toward the door. At the threshold he paused, one hand on the key, and looked back at you standing barefoot in the lamplight with the evidence of what you had done still faintly visible on the front of your shift.

Something unspoken passed between you—acknowledgment, warning, and the quiet beginning of something neither of you could name yet.

Then he unlocked the door and stepped into the dark corridor beyond, leaving you alone with the low burn of the lamp and the lingering heat of his body still alive on your skin.

The days that followed carried a different weight.

Fuma remained at your side through every council meeting, every walk through the gardens, every quiet hour spent in the library while rain returned to the mountains. He answered when spoken to. He opened doors. He stood at the proper distance when foreign envoys bowed and offered gifts. To any watching eye he was still the same silent blade the king had assigned—loyal, unreadable, perfectly correct.

Only you knew the truth that lived beneath the surface.

You felt it in the way his gaze followed the movement of your hands when you reached for a cup. In the careful way he avoided standing too close when the corridor narrowed. In the faint tension that lived along his shoulders whenever the conversation in a room turned toward the coming autumn progress and the fact that the king would soon return.

On the third night after he had left your chambers with the taste of obedience still on his tongue, you called for him again.

The lamp was lower this time. The bed curtains had been drawn back. You sat against the carved headboard in the same pale shift, knees drawn up beneath the fabric, hair loose around your shoulders. When the door opened and closed and the key turned, Fuma remained near the threshold for a long moment, as if crossing further into the room required a decision he had not yet finished making.

You did not order him closer at once.

Instead you watched him in silence until the quiet itself became instruction enough. He removed the cloak. He set it aside. He came to stand at the foot of the bed, waiting.

“I have been thinking,” you said.

His eyes lifted to yours.

“You have touched yourself for me. You have let me touch you. You have answered questions you did not want to answer.” You shifted, letting one bare foot slide against the coverlet. The movement was smaller this time, less certain. “But I still do not know what it feels like to be touched in return.”

Fuma’s expression did not change, yet something in the line of his mouth tightened.

“Your Highness—”

“I have never been touched,” you continued, quieter now. “Not truly. Not in the way that matters. I am the princess of Fullcrest. Every person who has ever stood close to me has done so with the knowledge of what my blood is worth. Soon enough my father will return from the southern provinces and the talks will begin again. Some lord with land and soldiers and a name older than mine will be chosen. He will care for the title I carry and the alliance my hand secures. He will not care for me.” Your voice did not break, but it thinned. “I do not want the first time I learn what it feels like to be touched with any real intention to belong to a man who sees only a crown.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

“You are the only one I trust enough to ask.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any that had come before it.

Fuma’s hands curled slowly into fists at his sides. When he spoke, the careful control he usually wore had frayed at the edges.

“No.”

The word was quiet, but absolute.

“You are asking me to take something that does not belong to me,” he said. “Something that, once given, cannot be returned. I am sworn to protect you—not to… not to put my hands on you in the dark and pretend it is only kindness. If anyone learned of this, it would not only be my head. It would be the ruin of whatever future the king intends for you. I will not be the reason that future fractures.”

He took a single step back, as if distance alone might strengthen the refusal.

“I have already crossed too many lines for you. I will not cross this one.”

You did not answer at once. The lamp light caught the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw had set, the genuine conflict written plainly across a face that usually gave nothing away. For the first time since this had begun, the power between you felt uneven—tilted not by rank, but by the weight of what you were asking.

When you spoke again, the command had left your voice.

“Please.”

The word was small.

Fuma’s eyes closed for a brief moment, as if it had struck somewhere unprotected.

“I am not ordering you,” you said, softer still. “I am asking. I know what it costs. I know what you risk every time you walk through that door after the rest of the castle has gone to sleep. But I am going to be given away to someone who will never look at me the way you do when you think I am not watching. And before that happens, I want to know what it feels like when the person touching me actually sees me.” Your fingers curled into the coverlet. “Please, Fuma. Just this. I will not ask for more than you are willing to give. I only… I only want to know.”

The quiet stretched.

He remained where he stood, breathing carefully, the battle clear in every line of his body. When he finally moved, it was not toward the door.

It was toward the bed.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, close enough that his knee nearly brushed yours. For a long time he only looked at you—at the open vulnerability you had allowed him to see, at the way you waited without demanding. Then, slowly, as if every inch cost him something, his hand rose.

The first touch was even more careful than it had been in any version of this moment that had lived only in your mind. His fingers found the bare skin of your ankle and rested there, warm and rough. He did not speak. He simply waited, giving you the chance to change your mind even now.

When you only watched him in return, he let his palm travel upward along the outside of your calf, learning you with a restraint that felt almost like reverence. The shift rode higher with the movement. His eyes never left your face.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said, voice low and rough. “At any moment. I will stop.”

“I will not want you to stop.”

His hand continued.

Past your knee. Along the soft skin of your outer thigh. When his fingers reached the hem of the shift he paused, and you answered by lifting your hips just enough that the fabric could be drawn higher. The air felt cooler against newly bared skin. His palm settled against the curve of your hip, large and steady, thumb resting near the soft plane of your stomach.

You kept your eyes on him the entire time.

There was no performance in his face now—only concentration, and the quiet, costly decision to give you what you had asked for. When his fingers finally drifted inward and found you already warm, already slick from the simple nearness of him and the weight of the conversation that had brought you here, a soft sound left your throat before you could catch it.

He stilled at once.

“Continue,” you whispered. “Please.”

He did.

His touch remained slow, exploratory, giving you time to feel every small movement. When he found the sensitive peak at the apex of your folds and circled it with the careful pad of his thumb, your head tipped back and your breath broke into something unsteady. His free hand settled at your waist, steadying you, holding you as the newness of being touched with intention moved through your body like a current.

“You are very quiet when you feel something,” he murmured.

“I am trying to understand it.”

“And do you?”

You met his eyes. Your voice came softer than before.

“Not yet. Keep going.”

He did.

You kept your eyes on him the entire time.

There was no performance in his face now—only concentration, and the quiet, costly decision to give you what you had asked for. When his fingers finally drifted inward and found you already warm, already slick from the simple nearness of him and the weight of the conversation that had brought you here, a soft sound left your throat before you could catch it.

The room filled with the soft sound of his fingers moving against you and the uneven rhythm of your breathing. You did not guide him this time. You only felt—every careful stroke, every shift of pressure, every moment he adjusted because of the way your body answered him. The pleasure gathered slowly, then more sharply, until your fingers curled into the coverlet and a fine tremor lived low in your stomach.

When it began to crest, Fuma leaned closer. His forehead nearly touched yours.

“I can feel how close you are.”

You managed only a small nod.

“Do you want to finish?” he asked, the same question returned to you with quiet gravity.

“Yes.”

“Then look at me while you do.”

You did.

The orgasm took you in a slow, rolling wave that left you trembling against his hand, breath breaking into soft, startled sounds as the pleasure moved through you. Fuma held you through it, fingers gentling but never leaving, his eyes locked on yours the entire time. When it finally eased, you remained against the headboard, flushed and breathing hard, his hand still cupped between your legs as if he were reluctant to break the contact.

For a long while the only sound was the fire and the distant wind.

Then Fuma carefully withdrew his hand. He did not move away. He simply stayed seated on the edge of the bed, watching you with an expression that held both the weight of what he had given and the knowledge that the cost of it would not leave him when he walked back into the corridor.

You reached out and touched the side of his face, fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“Thank you,” you said, barely above a whisper.

He covered your hand with his own, rough palm against your softer one, and closed his eyes for a single heartbeat.

When he opened them again, the softness had already begun to harden into something heavier.

“This cannot continue,” he sighed and spoke quietly, as if the words that were spoken hurt. “Not any longer.”

Your fingers stilled against his cheek.

“The king will return within the fortnight,” Fuma continued, voice low and steady even as something raw lived beneath it. “He went south to settle the last of the border disputes, but that was never the only purpose. The envoys from Ōkami have been waiting. The arrangements have already been discussed at length. When he rides back through the gates…” He hesitated, the words catching for the first time. “We both know what news is most likely to come with him.”

You did not pretend ignorance.

“I know,” you said softly. “I have read the same letters you have. The southern provinces were never only about borders. Ōkami has been patient, and my father has been careful. A betrothal would secure the northern reach for a generation. It is the only conclusion that makes sense of the secrecy.” Your voice thinned. “I have been waiting for the moment it becomes real.”

Silence settled between you, thick and final.

Fuma looked away first. The guilt sat plainly on him now—in the set of his shoulders, in the way his jaw tightened, in the quiet sorrow that had nowhere else to go. He was the youngest knight of the Iron Shield, the one who had never failed a duty, and tonight he had given you something he believed he had no right to offer. The weight of it lived in every careful breath he took.

“I should not have touched you,” he said at last, almost to himself. “I should not have let any of this begin. If the announcement comes… if the king has already chosen…” He shook his head once. “I will not be the reason your future fractures before it even begins.”

You did not argue. There was nothing left to argue.

He rose from the edge of the bed. The formal black uniform settled back into place around him as if the fabric itself were trying to restore the distance that no longer existed. He did not look at you while he adjusted the silver braid at his shoulder or while he retrieved the cloak he had set aside. Only when he reached the door did he pause, one hand resting on the frame.

“I will still stand outside your chambers,” he said without turning. “I will still walk at your side in the daylight. That much remains my duty.” A quiet, broken breath. “But this… whatever this has become… ends tonight.”

You watched him in silence, the ache already settling deep behind your ribs.

Fuma opened the door. The corridor beyond was dark and empty. He stepped through it without another word, pulling the door closed behind him with a soft, deliberate finality. The key did not turn this time. He left it unlocked—an unspoken boundary, or perhaps a quiet mercy.

You remained against the headboard long after his footsteps faded, the place where his hand had been still warm against your skin, the knowledge of what was coming pressing closer with every breath.

Outside, the rain had begun again.

And somewhere far to the south, the king of Fullcrest was already riding home—carrying whatever decision he had made, and the future neither of you could yet name with certainty.

© 2026 lunenet all rights reserved — please DO NOT translate, take, nor repost or share any of my works on other platforms. reblogs are HIGHLY appreciated and preferred! 

𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗎𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾. series taglist : @odetolune @jyuugoyasmine @yumanohime

𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗳𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗲, 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲. 𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴 𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁.

He wonders what it would be like to slide himself inside you while you’re like this: completely soft, completely unaware, deep in your dreams. To push slow and deep, filling you up until you’re stretched tight around him, warm and wet and squeezing him perfectly, while you sleep right through it. Would you stir? Would you mumble something soft, shift your hips just a little, unconsciously taking him deeper? Or would you stay perfectly still, letting him use your body however he wants, completely at his mercy?

To him, this is the purest form of devotion. Love isn’t just wanting someone when they want you back — it’s wanting them even when they don’t know you’re there. It’s giving every part of yourself, even the parts they never see. He thinks about waking up beside you, watching you stretch, slow and sleepy, your eyes still heavy, no memory at all of how he spent the whole night buried inside you, pumping load after load deep into your cunt until you were dripping full of him, his cum leaking out around his base and running down your thighs in thick, sticky rivulets. You’d be sore, shaky, your legs wobbly when you stood up, and you’d just think you slept wrong… while he’d know exactly why. He’d know every inch of you, every soft sound you made, every clench of your walls around him.

He craves that more than anything — to be infused with you, to be inside you every second he can, even when you don’t know it. To leave a part of himself inside you every night, so you carry him with you even when you’re awake. To dissolve the line between him and you until there is no “you” and “him” — only one.

And he loves the other side of it too — the thought of you using him.

Kei is a heavy sleeper; once he drifts off, he’s dead to the world, completely limp and pliant. And the idea of you climbing on top of him while he’s out cold, your hands gripping his chest, your hips rolling slow and greedy, taking whatever you want from him, selfishly chasing your own pleasure without asking, without him even knowing… it makes his head spin. He thinks: What greater purpose is there, than to be used by the one you worship? He’d lie there, cock hard and throbbing in your grip, veins pulsing under your fingers, while you rode him until you were satisfied, and he’d wake up in the morning aching, sticky, covered in your slick and his own cum, and so incredibly proud that you’d used him exactly how you liked.

One night he finally does it. He slips between your legs slow, careful not to wake you, his hands gripping your hips tight, pulling you open just enough. He spits down onto your folds, thick and warm, rubbing the wetness over your puffy clit and deep into your dripping entrance, watching your body shiver softly in your sleep. He lines himself up, the thick, flushed, glistening head of his cock pressing against your warm, soft opening, and pushes in slow, inch by inch, groaning quiet and deep when your walls suck him in tight, hot and perfect, hugging every ridge and vein like you were made only for this.

You sigh, shifting your hips just a little, pushing back against him like you know, like your body already belongs to him even when your mind doesn’t.

“Good girl,” he whispers, voice rough and broken, starting to roll his hips slow and deep, grinding himself as far inside you as he can go until his balls are pressed tight against your ass. “Just sleep, baby. Just let me fill you up. Let me be part of you forever.”

He fucks you slow and deep for hours, dragging every stroke out, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in hard enough to make your whole body jolt, drinking in every soft little whimper and gasp you make. He reaches down to rub your clit fast while he’s buried deep, making you gush so much wetness it soaks the sheets under you, your pussy squelching loud and messy every time he moves. He fills you up over and over, hot, thick cum flooding your womb each time, until you’re absolutely overflowing, dripping with him, sticky and messy everywhere.

When morning comes, you wake up stretching, yawning, your legs sore and heavy, feeling warm and fuzzy and completely stuffed full, and you have no idea why. Kei just smiles, pulls you close, and kisses your forehead, his hand resting low on your stomach — right where he knows he still is, deep inside you, part of you forever.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ FUMA —

Fuma is always composed. Always in control. Always the calm, sophisticated man who never lets anything ruffle him, never lets anyone see what’s underneath. He bottles everything up — his desires, his hunger, his weakness — and keeps it locked tight away. To the world, he is order, reason, restraint. But you know the truth: control is just a cage he built… and you hold the key.

He’s spent his whole life believing that strength means holding on. But you taught him that true strength is letting go. That there is no greater power than surrendering completely to someone you trust.

One evening, you’re lying together in bed, tangled up in sheets, talking lazily about anything and everything, your hand resting idly on his chest, tracing slow circles over his heart. You laugh soft and low, and say, half‑joking, “y’know… I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to take control completely. To just… use you however I want, even when you’re asleep. You’re so pretty when you’re helpless.”

The second the words leave your mouth, Fuma freezes. His breath catches, his whole body goes still, and his eyes go wide, dark and blown out. It’s new. It’s foreign. It’s strange — and it makes his dick throb so hard it hurts, leaking pre‑cum instantly into his briefs. He’s never thought about it before, never imagined himself in that position… but god, does he want it. Because to be used by you isn’t weakness — it’s the highest honor he could ever receive.

He turns his head to look at you, cheeks flushed pink, voice low and shaky, barely above a whisper. “You… you could do that? Whenever you want? Without even asking?”

You grin, leaning up to kiss his jaw. “Sure. But I won’t tell you when. You’ll just have to wait and see.”

And that’s exactly what he wants.

After that, he sleeps better than he ever has. Every night he lies down, his heart beating fast, already half‑hard just thinking about it, hoping you’ll choose tonight. He makes sure he falls deep, deep asleep — heavy, relaxed, completely open for you, laying his body out like an offering on an altar.

And you do.

When he’s out cold, breathing slow and deep, face soft and peaceful, you pull the covers back, straddle his hips, and take him in your hand. He’s already hard, throbbing, veiny, the tip swollen and red and dripping clear fluid just waiting for you. You wrap your fingers tight around his thick length, twisting your wrist, rubbing your thumb hard over the sensitive slit, spreading his pre‑cum down his shaft. You stroke him slow, firm, teasing him until he’s dripping wet, until his cock is twitching and aching in your grip, until sticky strands of precum stick to your skin.

You work him perfectly — fast enough to make him writhe, slow enough to make it drag, twisting and squeezing and rubbing exactly where he’s most sensitive. You pull three, four orgasms out of him, one after another, milking every drop he has until he’s oversensitive, until tears start to leak from the corners of his eyes, rolling down his cheeks, his whole body trembling and twitching, soft broken moans falling from his lips that he won't remember making. Each time he cums, thick, hot ropes shoot out, covering your hand, his stomach, his chest, sticky and messy and endless, until he’s completely drained, his cock still hard and throbbing even though he has nothing left to give.

To him, this is freedom. Absolute liberation. To be stripped of all dignity, all control, all sense of self — and to be left with only you.

When you’re done, you clean him up gently, licking every last drop of his cum off his skin, kissing every inch of him, his face, his neck, his chest, whispering how good he was, how perfect he is for you.

In the morning, he wakes up dizzy, heavy‑limbed, feeling like he’s been fucked through the mattress, his skin sticky and sensitive, but unbelievably well‑rested. He blinks awake, and you’re already there, smiling sweet, kissing his lips soft and slow.

“Good morning, baby,” you murmur, stroking his hair. “You did so well last night. So perfect for me.”

He doesn’t remember exactly what happened, but he feels it deep in his bones — the pleasure, the release, the feeling of being completely yours. He pulls you close, burying his face in your neck, and smiles. “Anything for you. Always. I exist only to be used by you.”

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ TAKI —

If Kei wants to be infused with you, Taki wants to cease to exist as anything but part of you.

He’s always been insatiable — hungry for touch, hungry for affection, hungry for you. But it’s more than just lust. He’s thought about it a thousand times: Why should we be two separate people? Why should there be skin and bone between us? If he could have it his way then he would want stop existing as an independent person and instead exist only as extension of you. He needs you more than air, more than sleep, more than anything else in the world. You are his oxygen, his blood, his heart. Without you, he is nothing.

It doesn’t matter if he's tired, sick, awake or asleep — if you want him, he’s yours. If he wants you, he takes you. And the idea of you using him while he sleeps? Or him waking up already buried deep inside you? It drives him absolutely wild. Because even in his dreams, his soul is already reaching for you. 

He falls asleep hard and fast, always tangled up with you, one leg thrown over yours, his hand resting somewhere on your body — your waist, your hip, your breast — like even in sleep he can’t stand to be far away. His cock is already half hard, pressed heavy against your thigh, warm and waiting.

You’ll wake up in the middle of the night to find him already hard, fully erect and throbbing, his hips rolling slow, sleepy and mindless, grinding his fat, leaking cock against your ass, trying to push inside you even while he’s dreaming. Or you’ll climb on top of him, sink down onto his dick slow and wet, your pussy swallowing him inch by inch until he’s completely buried inside you, and ride him hard and fast, bouncing up and down, your tits bouncing in his face, your walls squeezing him tight.

He doesn’t even wake up fully — his eyes stay closed, head thrown back, mouth hanging open, drool slipping down his chin, and he just moans loud and happy, his hands flying to your hips to grip them tight, helping you slam down onto him over and over.

“Mmm… y/n… feels so good… s’deep… so tight…” he’ll mumble, grinding up into you hard, his balls slapping against your ass wet and loud. “Need more… need all of it… never stop… wanna live inside you forever…” 

And when its his turn? He fucks you like a starved animal, messy and loud and greedy. He pulls out and slams back in so hard the bed frame creaks and shakes, his cock dragging against your walls, hitting that sweet spot deep inside you every single time. You’re both soaked — your slick dripping down his shaft, coating his balls, pooling under you, making everything wet and slippery and squelching with every movement. He cums over and over, thick loads flooding your pussy, filling you up until it leaks out around his base and runs down your legs in thick, sticky streams, and he still doesn’t stop. He keeps going, over‑stimulated and sensitive, whining and crying, because he needs to be as deep inside you as physically possible.

To him, every time he comes inside you is a promise: I am here. I am yours. I will never leave.

He doesn’t care how, doesn’t care when, doesn’t care who starts it. As long as he’s inside you, as long as he’s filled you up, as long as he belongs to you completely — that’s all that matters. He’ll cum until he’s drained, until you’re both messy and sticky and exhausted, and he’ll still be holding you tight, his softening cock still buried deep inside you, whispering how much he loves you, how he never wants to leave your body.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ MAKI —

Everyone sees Maki as big, strong, capable. They mistake broad shoulders and easy confidence for authority, assuming he's the one calling the shots. But you know the truth: strength is only useful if it’s used for the right thing. And his only purpose, his only true strength, is serving you. 

He’s spent his whole trying to build the image of the protector, being the one who stands tall. But with you? He loves the way all that strength melts away. He loves the way he becomes soft, pliable, useless — yours. He thinks: What is the point of power, if not to give it to the person you worship? To be strong for the world… but weak only for you. That is his greatest pride.

If you ask him for anything, at any time, anywhere, he will drop everything and give it to you immediately. He never says no. He can’t say no to you. You are his master, his god, his whole world.

One night, you’re talking about fantasies, lying side by side, and the topic of somnophilia comes up. You shrug, casual, “I mean… it sounds fun. No harm in it, right? Just taking what’s mine.”

Maki thinks about it for a second, his cheeks turning pink, his eyes darkening. He imagines it — big, powerful him, completely helpless, fast asleep, while you use his body however you please. No decisions to make, no responsibilities, just pure, unadulterated belonging.

“Yeah… that sounds… really exciting,” he admits, voice deep and rumbling. “Knowing I’m completely yours even when I don’t know it. That I’m safe, that I’m loved… that I’m exactly where I belong.”

That night, he falls asleep fast, heavy and deep, his big body relaxed and loose, spread out for you like a gift, arms open, legs parted, completely vulnerable. You wait until his breathing is slow and even, until he’s totally out, then you pull the covers down.

He’s already fully hard, his cock thick and heavy, long and veiny, resting proudly against his stomach, the tip swollen, red, and glistening with pre‑cum, dripping down his skin. You crawl between his legs, wrap your hand tight around his warm, throbbing dick, and start slow — stroking him firm and steady, twisting your wrist, squeezing the base, occasionally licking his tip, rubbing your thumb hard over the sensitive slit, spreading his slick fluid all over him.

He whimpers soft, his hips twitching, but he doesn’t wake up. His first orgasm hits him fast, his cock throbbing and pulsing violently in your grip, thick, hot ropes of cum shooting out, splashing all over his chest, his neck, even his jaw, sticky and white and endless. His back arches off the mattress for just a second, a deep groan tearing out of his throat, before he relaxes again, still asleep, completely unaware. It's absolutely bewitching seeing him like this — losing all that calm and cool demeanor, and it only drives you continue.

You don’t stop. You wipe the mess on your hand, spit on his cock to make it wetter, and keep going, stroking him faster, harder, rubbing and squeezing exactly where it hurts the best. And soon enough, he starts stirring. He moans louder now, high and desperate, his hands fisting in the sheets, his head tossing back and forth, sweat beading all over his big, muscular body. He’s confused, half‑asleep, half‑lost in pleasure, and he genuinely thinks this is his first time cumming — he has absolutely no idea you already took everything from him once before.

“Ah… ah! — feels so good… wait, I’m — I’m gonna cum again?! Already?!” he whines, voice broken and shaky, eyes still closed, completely dazed, his thighs shaking uncontrollably.

You just smile, lean down, and wrap your lips around the tip, sucking hard and fast, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head while you stroke the base fast.

“That’s it, baby,” you whisper against his skin, loud enough for his sleepy brain to catch it. “Just take it. Let me use you. You’re such a good, big toy for me. So perfect, so useful.”

And he does. He lets you take every single thing he has, over and over, until he’s oversensitive, until he’s crying soft happy tears, until he’s completely wrecked — twitching, shaking, covered in his own cum and your saliva, completely spent — and he never even realizes how much you really got from him.

To him, there is no greater glory than this: to be strong enough to carry the world, but humble enough to be your toy.