#team fuma

by the time you left the park three hours later, your arms were full of soft pastel merch and your face hurt from smiling. fuma had bought two matching hoodies—soft gray with tiny embroidered eevees on the chest—and insisted you both put them on immediately. he’d bought you the limited-edition umbreon backpack you’d pointed at for exactly three seconds. he’d won you a giant flareon at the claw machine on the first try (showing off, obviously), then pretended he was shocked when you squealed and threw your arms around his neck in the middle of the arcade.

he’d even dragged you into the photo booth and made you take twelve strips of pictures, pressing sticky kisses to your cheek between every flash until the staff started laughing.

“you’re ridiculous,” you’d told him, breathless, while he carefully peeled the best strip and tucked it into his wallet.

“and you’re cute when you’re happy,” he’d answered, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

now the apartment door clicked shut behind you. the bags rustled as fuma set them down. outside, the late afternoon light had gone soft and gold. inside, everything felt suddenly too quiet.

you toed off your sneakers and tried to smile when he turned around, but something in your chest had started to tighten on the train ride home. it had been growing for weeks—this low, ugly hum under your ribs every time you caught your reflection next to his.

two years.

it wasn’t a lot. people said it all the time. but lately it felt enormous.

fuma was already halfway to the kitchen, still talking in that bright, easy voice. “i’m making the good hot chocolate. the one with the little marshmallows you like. and then we can open some of the card packs we got—oh and maybe play that new switch game i got us—!”

he glanced back.

whatever he saw on your face made him stop mid-sentence.

“hey.”

he crossed the room in three quiet steps. his hands came up slowly, cupping your cheeks like you might break if he moved too fast. his thumbs brushed just under your eyes.

“what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

you tried to laugh it off. the sound came out thin.

“it’s nothing. today was perfect. you’re perfect. i just…” your fingers twisted in the hem of the matching hoodie. “i keep thinking about how i’m getting older.  you’re still—fuma, you’re two years younger than me. one day you’re gonna look at me and realize—”

“don’t finish that.”

his voice was soft, but there was no room to argue.

he leaned in until his forehead rested against yours. his eyes were dark and steady.

“i already look at you every day,” he said. “and the only thing i ever think is that i hope i get to keep doing it.”

your throat closed.

fuma’s hands slid down to your waist, pulling you in until there was no space left between you. “you don’t need to be insecure baby. you’re not becoming less of anything. you’re just you. the person who steals my hoodies and falls asleep on my shoulder and makes that quiet little sound when i kiss the back of your neck. i like that person. i want that person. the fact you are getting older doesn’t change anything for me.”

he kissed the tip of your nose, then the space between your eyebrows, then the corner of your mouth—slow, deliberate, like he was trying to write the words into your skin.

“you’re my favorite thing that keeps happening,” he murmured. “every year. every version of you. i want the one who wrinkles around the eyes when she laughs too hard. i want the one who starts needing reading glasses and pretends she doesn’t. i want the one who still lets me spoil her with stupid pokémon merch when she’s thirty, thirty-five, forty. you getting older just means i get more time with you. that’s not scary to me. that’s the whole point.”

something in your chest cracked open.

you made a small, broken sound and pressed your face into the soft gray fabric of his hoodie. fuma’s arms tightened around you immediately, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, fingers gentle in your hair.

“i’ve got you,” he said against your temple. “i’ve always got you.”

you stayed like that for a long time—breathing him in, the faint scent of the park still clinging to both of you, sugar and plastic and the clean warmth of his skin. outside, the light kept softening. inside, the quiet stopped feeling sharp.

eventually fuma pulled back just enough to look at you. his thumbs stroked over your cheeks again, slower this time.

“can i take care of you tonight?” he asked, voice low. “properly?”

you nodded, small.

he kissed you then—soft at first, almost careful. just the press of his mouth against yours, patient, waiting for you to open for him. when you did, he deepened it with a quiet hum of approval, tongue sliding against yours in a slow, deliberate drag that made your knees go a little weak.

his hands found the hem of your matching hoodie and eased it up. you lifted your arms without thinking. the soft gray fabric whispered over your head and disappeared somewhere behind him. his own hoodie followed a moment later.

bare skin against bare skin felt different in the golden light. fuma’s palms mapped the curve of your waist, the small of your back, the place where your bra sat against your ribs. he unhooked it without looking, eyes never leaving yours, and let it fall.

“still the prettiest thing i’ve ever seen,” he said, almost to himself.

you reached for him. he caught your wrists gently and guided them up around his neck instead.

“let me.”

before you could answer, his hands slid lower, firm beneath your thighs. he lifted you in one smooth motion, like you weighed nothing. your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, bare chest pressed to bare chest, and the sudden closeness made your breath hitch. he carried you the few steps to the bed without ever breaking eye contact, the soft afternoon light catching on the curve of his shoulder, the faint flush high on his cheeks.

he set you down carefully in the middle of the mattress, following you down so he never left the circle of your arms. the sheets were cool against your back. his body was warm above you. he braced himself on his forearms, caging you in, and kissed you again—deeper this time, slower, like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it on you.

one of his hands stroked down your side, thumb tracing the soft give of your waist, the slight dip of your hip. he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and soft and completely focused.

his mouth found the hinge of your jaw, then the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. he kissed a slow path down the side of your neck, open and lingering, while his free hand drifted lower. fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, then your underwear, pushing both down together. you lifted your hips to help him. he tossed them aside without looking and settled between your thighs like he belonged there.

for a moment he just looked—gaze traveling over every inch of you like he was memorizing you all over again. the golden light made everything softer. his expression was almost reverent.

then he knelt between your legs like it was the most natural place in the world for him to be.

his hands settled on your thighs, warm and steady, gently pushing them farther apart. for a second he just looked—eyes dark, soft, completely focused—before leaning in and pressing a slow kiss to the inside of your knee. then higher. open-mouthed and lingering, like he was trying to memorize the exact temperature of your skin.

when he reached the soft place just beneath where your underwear had been, he paused. his breath ghosted over you. he looked up through his lashes, waiting.

“okay?”

“yes.”

fuma’s mouth found you with a quiet, almost reverent hum. the first drag of his tongue was slow—flat and thorough, from your entrance all the way up to your clit. your hips twitched. his hands tightened just enough to keep you still, thumbs stroking soothing circles into the soft flesh of your thighs.

he took his time.

soft, deliberate licks. the occasional gentle suck that made your breath catch. every time you made a sound he answered with a low hum that vibrated straight through you. he wasn’t rushing. he wasn’t performing. he was just learning you all over again, like time itself didn’t exist and the only thing that mattered was the way your fingers eventually found his hair and held on.

one finger slid inside you, careful. then a second. he curled them slowly while his tongue kept working in lazy, focused circles. the dual sensation made your thighs tremble around his head. heat pooled low and heavy. every time you started to tense he slowed down even more, kissing the inside of your thigh, murmuring against your skin.

“that’s it… just feel it. i’ve got you.”

the first orgasm rolled through you soft and deep—more a slow unfurling than anything sharp. you came with a quiet, shaky sigh, fingers tightening in his hair. fuma stayed with you through it, tongue gentle, fingers still moving in slow, soothing strokes until the last tremor faded and your body went loose against the sheets.

only then did he rise.

he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes heavy-lidded, and climbed back over you. the weight of him settling between your legs felt grounding. you could feel how hard he was against your hip, but he still didn’t rush. he kissed you instead—deep and unhurried, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. one of his hands found yours and laced your fingers together against the mattress.

“still with me, baby?” he asked against your mouth, voice rough.

you nodded.

he reached down, guided himself to your entrance, and pushed in slow. so slow you felt every inch stretch and fill you. your mouth fell open against his. he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

“fuuck,” he whispered. “you feel so good.”

he stayed still once he was fully seated, forehead pressed to yours, giving you time. his free hand stroked your hair back from your face.

“look at me.”

you did.

“i know what’s been sitting in your chest,” he said quietly, hips barely moving yet. “the getting older thing. the way you look at yourself sometimes like you’re already losing something.” his thumb brushed under your eye. “but you’re not. you’re just becoming more of the person i already love. and i want every version of her.”

fuma started moving—long, deep strokes that made your breath catch every time he bottomed out. the pace stayed almost lazy at first. he watched every flicker of expression that crossed your face like it was the only thing worth looking at.

“you’re so pretty like this,” he murmured. “all soft for me. taking me so well. and you’re still going to be pretty when there are lines around your eyes from smiling too much. still going to be pretty when your body changes and softens and keeps living. i already decided i want all of it.”

the sweetness started to fray at the edges after a while. his hips snapped a little harder. the hand that had been holding yours pinned your wrist to the mattress instead. when you moaned he caught the sound with his mouth, kissing you messy and open.

“still okay?” he asked against your lips, even as his thrusts grew rougher.

“yes—fuma, please—”

something in him unlocked at the sound of his name. he pulled almost all the way out and drove back in harder, the slap of skin on skin suddenly loud in the quiet apartment. his free hand slid under your thigh and hiked it higher against his hip, changing the angle until every thrust dragged against that perfect spot inside you.

you cried out.

fuma’s eyes went darker.

“that’s it. let me hear you.”

he fucked you properly then—deep, relentless strokes that forced soft, punched-out sounds out of your throat. the headboard knocked lightly against the wall. your free hand scrambled for purchase on his back, nails digging in. he groaned at the sting and leaned down to bite the side of your neck, not hard enough to mark but enough to make your whole body arch.

“getting older doesn’t make you less desirable,” he said against your skin, voice rough with exertion. “doesn’t make you less mine. doesn’t make me want you any less. i still get hard just looking at you. i still want to be inside you like this. that’s not going to stop just because the years keep moving. i know its scary right now but your age doesn’t change how much i love you.”

he slipped a hand between your bodies and found your clit, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts.

“come on, baby. come for me again. show me. let me feel how much you still want this too.”

the second orgasm hit harder—sharp and overwhelming, your body locking up around him as you sobbed his name. fuma fucked you through it without slowing, chasing his own release with short, desperate snaps of his hips.

“gonna fill you up,” he gritted out. “gonna—fuck—still mine. even when you’re older. especially then—”

he came with a low, broken groan, burying himself as deep as he could and holding there while he pulsed inside you. you felt every throb. his forehead dropped to your shoulder. his breathing was ragged against your neck.

for a long time neither of you moved.

eventually fuma carefully pulled out and rolled onto his side, immediately gathering you against his chest. one hand stroked up and down your back in slow, soothing passes. the other found yours again, lacing your fingers together over his heart.

you could feel the stickiness between your thighs, the pleasant ache low in your body, the way your heart was still racing.

fuma pressed a kiss to the top of your head, then another to your temple, then one more to the corner of your eye like he was trying to kiss the insecurity away.

“listen to me,” he said quietly, voice soft but firm. “getting older isn’t something you have to be scared of with me. i want the version of you that has laugh lines. the one who might need reading glasses one day. the one whose body keeps changing because it’s still here, still living, still choosing me. none of that makes you less. it just means i get more time with you.”

his fingers traced slow patterns along your spine.

“you’re not becoming less of anything. you’re becoming more of the person i already chose. and i’m going to keep choosing you. every year. every new version. okay?”

you nodded against his chest, throat tight.

fuma held you tighter, tucking your head under his chin.

“good. because i already decided. you’re stuck with me. even when we’re both older. especially then.”

eventually fuma carefully pulled out and rolled onto his side, immediately gathering you against his chest. one hand stroked up and down your back in slow, soothing passes. the other found yours again, lacing your fingers together over his heart.

you could feel the stickiness between your thighs, the pleasant ache low in your body, the way your heart was still racing.

fuma pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“still mine,” he said quietly. “even when you’re older. especially then.”