like the wine.

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

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

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

he did the same with almost everything.

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

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

he made independence feel like a tantrum.

tonight was no different.

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

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

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

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

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

it wasn’t a request.

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

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

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

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

“what are you wearing?”

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

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

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

you hadn’t argued.

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

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

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

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

“i can help—”

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

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

then you walked toward his bedroom.

well—your shared bedroom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you never pushed back harder.

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

you sat on the edge of the mattress and waited.

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

“arms up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i…” you swallowed. “fuma, i—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“lie down for me.”

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

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

you nodded.

it’s all you could do.

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

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

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

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

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

your face burns. you nod again.

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

“fuu—”

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

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

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

you tensed immediately.

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

“fuma—i don’t know if im ready—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

he sounded hurt. softly, carefully hurt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he doesn’t wait for an answer.

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

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

“i wasn’t—”

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

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

fuma makes a low, approving sound in his chest.

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

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

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

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

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

“f-fuma… i… i don’t know if i can—”

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

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

he swallows every small sound you make.

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

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

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

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

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

“fuma—” you try, voice cracking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

父ちゃん.

papa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“okay,” you whisper.

fuma’s arms tighten around you.

“that’s my little girl.”

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

you always hobbled into church midway through the preachers teachings, falling unladylike into one of the back pews. the wooden surface beneath you was more uncomfortable each time, which may be a result of your shorts that you cut even shorter each morning.

and every time, taki watches you. he likes to think it’s out of concern, in hope you’ll redeem yourself within this lifetime. though, you know better. temptation is a tricky thing.

it leads him to places he only visits in his dreams, that he repents for in repeated prayer when he wakes in a sticky mess staining his sheets. it’s how he ended up here, hours after the church had emptied, with your hand palming him over the fabric of his pants.

“please.” he whispers, though he’s unsure what he’s asking for, whether that be salvation, or for you to increase the pressure on the throbbing mess under his clothes.

“hm? be a good boy and use your words.” you coo, slowing down the pace of your hand, watching how his hips jerk, chasing anything you were giving.

all he can do is whine, his head thrown back exposing his neck. losing all your edge, something twists inside you, the noises he’s making, the sweat beading on his skin — it’s all too much. you bring your lips to the skin just below his jaw, and slowly suckle.

oh, is he sensitive.

he curses beneath his breath, perhaps unnoticeable to himself, as usually he would shun all those who curse, label them sinners, but he has no reaction. nothing but jagged strings of whimpers and pleas.

you scrape your teeth, testing, against the skin closer to his nape. the skin he could cover, and you bite. the sound he makes is nothing short of pornographic, and if it wasn’t so late into the depths of the night, the town would declare taki a disgrace.

“oh taki, if only you knew how long i’ve wanted to ruin you this way.” you breathe against his neck, your hand fumbling with the waistband of his pants before tugging them down, along with his underwear.

his head falls forward, strands of his hair sticking to his forehead, wet with sweat. his eyes meet yours, glassy. his gaze tugs at your chest, and immediately you avert your eyes, fixating them on his flushed cock, the tip red, beads of precum forming at the slit.

you wrap your hand around the base, slowly gliding it up his length. he was bigger than you had assumed, having thought all obedient church boys were hiding their shame over their size behind talk of sin. he watches as you stroke him, his voice dying in his throat, nothing but heavy sighs echoing off the church walls.

you feel him twitching against your hand, accompanied by a choked whisper of your name. a warning, before he spills pretty white into your hand, silently promising himself to you as he does so.

he knows now that he’s beyond saving, nothing more than an impure sinner. but more-so, he’s addicted. perhaps, after all, he doesn’t want salvation, just you and the heaven found in your touch.

it started out small. 

glimpses of nicholas’ skin when he takes his hoodie off. your shoulders brushing when you pass each other in euijoo’s cramped one-bedroom. eye contact that went on for too long when euijoo wasn’t looking.

you felt a gnawing in your chest whenever you’d turn over these memories in your head. what’s worse is that you liked replaying it over and over, analyzing and scrutinizing down to the millisecond.

did he feel it, too? 

nicholas, of course, noticed. nothing gets past him. you can see it in the glint in his eye when he catches you staring. there’s intention in the featherlight brush of his fingers against your elbow as he gently moves you out of his way. there is no other explanation for the light squeeze he gives to your side when he hugs you.

he was toying with you. and you were toying with euijoo. sneaking behind his back with all the filthy thoughts you were conjuring up, movies playing in your head with nicholas in the starring role. 

you love euijoo. more than anything. he’d do anything for you, and you did not take that for granted. 

but the thrill of the unknown, the pull of the unexplored urge–it called to you. like an itch that’s begging to be scratched. it tormented you for weeks, all your thoughts filled with nicholas, nicholas, nicholas. he was there every time you looked up, talking animatedly with your oh-so-clueless boyfriend. he was there on euijoo’s bedroom floor, half asleep, eyes meeting yours when you get up from bed to get a glass of water. euijoo mumbled for you to come back under the covers. you said you would only be a minute. 

nicholas was there when you turned around, glass in hand, not really thirsty. not for water, anyway.

“euijoo wouldn’t mind,” nicholas said. 

it angered you at that moment. how dare he? how dare he assume what your boyfriend would feel? 

more than anything, it infuriated you how willing you were to just accept it. 

yes, he wouldn’t mind. come fuck me over the sink.

you brushed past him, ignoring the delicious shiver that overtook your body as you did so.

-

“i don’t mind.”

euijoo mutters the words as you’re astride his lap, mid-makeout on his couch. you freeze, eyeing him, mortified as the conversation you had with his best friend last night comes flooding back. 

“what?” you whisper in disbelief.

euijoo shifts under you, his erection pressing against your core. you bite your lip to keep yourself from whining at the contact. his eyes lock in on yours, lids hooded as his tongue pokes out to wet his lips

“nico told me. about last night. about all the other times,” euijoo explains. he chuckles when he sees your eyes darting to the side, a sign that you were about to lie.

“it’s okay, baby. it’s fine if you wanna fuck my best friend.”

you feel like a ton of bricks has just slammed into you. your vision swims and you feel lightheaded. you’re convinced you’re about to collapse.

“w-what…?” you begin, unable to find the proper words to articulate your thoughts. 

euijoo tucks some of your hair behind your ear. his eyes peer into your own; his are the loveliest shade of brown, soft when he looks at you with the love you know only he can give. they harden now, mingled with mischief that you only ever see when he’s plotting something. 

“i wanna watch,” euijoo simply says. 

“i want to watch you fuck my best friend.”

-

if there’s one thing to know about your boyfriend, it’s that he always enables you. 

euijoo is your biggest cheerleader and supporter. in times when you doubt yourself, he’s ready to tell you that there's nothing to worry about. in your brightest moments, he is the first to catch you after the freefall, to tell you that you’ve been great, you were amazing, you were breathtaking. 

in everything you do, no voice rises higher than euijoo’s. and with your every whim, every beck and call, euijoo is there to answer.

even when your whims involve messing around with his best friend while euijoo jerks off to the side. 

“n-nico,” you choke out, face shoved into the mattress. nicholas grasps your hip tighter, his cock dragging relentlessly against your walls.

“what is it, princess? too much?” nicholas coos, voice mockingly sweet.

“but your boyfriend just started enjoying the show.”

at this, euijoo exhales, head thrown back as his hand moves faster around his own rock-hard cock. you attempt to turn, to look euijoo in the eye, but nicholas just forces your face even further into the bed. 

“behave,” he says. “take it like a good fucking girl.”

nicholas uses both hands to hold you in place now, plowing through your soaked hole as you scramble for purchase at the sheets beneath you. there’s a burning humiliation in the pit of your stomach, shame washing over you as you realize just how much you’re enjoying this. nicholas is thicker than your boyfriend and he’s stretching you out in ways euijoo has never done before. your boyfriend is just as gone as you are; his eyes are glazed over as he watches nicholas fuck the daylight out of you. 

“why didn’t you let me sample this pussy sooner, bro?” nicholas chuckled. he lands a hard smack to your ass and you whine. “she’s squeezing me so hard. how do you not cum inside every time?”

“i do,” euijoo breathes out. “she lets me cum inside each time and she fucking loves it.”

nicholas groans, falling forward as he hammers his way in and out of you. your face is hot, the knot in your stomach twisting even tighter. they’re talking about you so callously, like you’re to be used only for their pleasure. 

the thought makes you shiver. you’re so close. 

“euijoo,” you cry out, wanting your boyfriend’s hands on you. your hair is yanked back instead, the gasp in your throat cutting out as nicholas brings you up to press his chest to your back. one of his arms wraps around you while the other tugs you back by the arm. 

you’re fully at nicholas’ mercy. 

“come on,” nicholas urges, his thrusts growing sloppier. “need you to cum all over my cock. make it worth it for your cuck boyfriend.”

it’s a slap to the face, the way that this is what brings you over the edge. you let out a string of profanities mixed with nicholas’ name, your walls clenching almost painfully around him. nicholas grunts when he spills himself inside you, pumping into you a few more times to make sure his cum is pushed all the way in. 

he lets go of you and you slump onto the bed, trembling and ashamed and guilty and so fucking turned on.

you turn your head and you swallow down a moan when you see your boyfriend absolutely debauched. his cum splattered all over the front of his shirt, his hand covered in a mess of his own spunk. euijoo catches your eye and you visibly see him stiffen once more. 

“you guys are freaks,” nicholas laughs, leaning down to kiss your temple. he pulls you closer to him, fingers sliding between your folds. 

you writhe against his hold but he pins you down to the bed.

“thankfully, so am i.”

-

since then, euijoo had no qualms about sharing you with nicholas. though, the whole setup opens up a new set of questions, an ethics can of worms that none of you feel like tackling just yet. 

for now, the three of you are happy to fuck. even if it sometimes meant watching from the sidelines while euijoo finally let himself make out with his best friend. 

a wonder, truly, what a little intervention can do. 

and an intervention is exactly what you need because another problem arises when you meet the other side of the friend group. 

you knew euijoo’s and nicholas’ other friends well enough, seeing them whenever you tagged along to some of their outings. you’re not particularly close to any one of them, but you’ve had some good conversations in the past. it’s also not beyond you to admit that they’re all good-looking. 

and they’re all here tonight.

the music is loud in the club, bass shuddering through every cell in your body, but you’re about three vodka sprites in, so you don’t really mind. in fact, it’s nice, the melodies enveloping you while nicholas’ hand is on your shoulder, maneuvering you through the crowd. a safe enough placement, one that doesn’t raise questions or looks. you are still euijoo’s girlfriend, after all.

you don’t even remember who brought up the idea of going out tonight. it must have been nicholas, because this is more his scene than euijoo’s. but you’re enjoying yourself, and you visibly light up when the rest of their friend group comes into view.

“_______’s here!” nicholas announces to the cramped booth, gently nudging you to take a seat. you squeeze into the space between jo and yuma, your alcohol-muddled brain thankfully recalling their names just in time. 

“hi yuma, hi jo,” you greet, smiling at both of them. 

jo returns with a shy upturn of his lips while yuma stretches, placing his arm on the backrest behind your head to give you more space. 

“hey, _____,” yuma responds, leaning close as the music turns up again. 

“where’s euijoo?”

you turn to look at the other man, stopping short when your noses almost brush. his eyes are bright up close, feline-like. you’ve only spoken to him a grand total of two times before, but the way his irises peer down at you makes your hands clam up. you blink, giggling nervously as you cup a hand around your mouth.

“getting drinks!” you say directly into yuma’s ear. 

he smells heavenly and you hope you’re subtle enough as you inhale, eyes fluttering slightly.

you pull back, squinting at him while the strobe lights go crazy above your heads. his face is illuminated with the different colors of the club, his eyes trained on your own features. yuma grins, his gaze dipping lower to survey your outfit.

“i like your dress,” yuma compliments, inching closer again.

“what?!” you call out over the music.

yuma chuckles, a hand sneakily sliding to your waist. his lips graze your ear as he says his next words. 

“i said i like your dress, pretty girl.”

you flush, jolting back. another tense laugh escapes you, your lips mumbling a halfhearted thanks. your heart is slamming against your ribcage and a flutter erupts in your belly. 

what is wrong with you?

just then, euijoo returns with the drinks and nicholas, who had taken a seat on the other side of the booth, immediately goes to whisper something in your boyfriend’s ear. they both glance at you and there’s a hint of mischief in nicholas’ eyes. euijoo, on the other hand, looks more inquisitive than anything.

nicholas lets euijoo go, who eventually finds his way to you, leaning down to give you a kiss. 

“hey, baby,” euijoo murmurs softly against your lips. 

“you wanna step outside for a minute?” he continues, pulling back and offering a hand to you. “we can take a smoke break.”

you take his hand in yours, the air feeling a little too stuffy all of a sudden. yuma’s eyes are still on you as you stand, his gaze unabashedly trailing down your figure. 

what you don’t see as you start walking is the brief, wordless exchange between euijoo and yuma. the younger smirks up at your boyfriend and euijoo merely raises his brows in acknowledgement. 

you and euijoo emerge into the back alley of the club, where a couple of other smokers are standing, heads bowed together as they converse amongst themselves. he steadies you on your ridiculously tall pair of heels, guiding you to the far end before pulling out the pack from his pocket. 

euijoo lights the stick that you place between your lips, leaning in further to drag his mouth down your neck as you take your first inhale. 

“euijoo…,” you sigh, blowing out the smoke into the chilly night air. he straightens and looks at you, eyes focused as if assessing something. 

“you like my friends, don’t you, baby?” euijoo says, more statement than question. 

you swallow, brows knitting together, mildly confused by the sudden declaration. 

“of course, i like your friends. they’re all really fun,” you supply. “why?”

“that’s not what i meant, angel,” euijoo clarifies, crowding into your space. he walks you backward toward the wall, his large hands resting on your hips to keep you in place. you drop your cigarette in surprise, cussing under your breath at the waste of a perfectly good smoke.

“you fuck nicholas on the regular. of course you’d think he’s fun,” euijoo continues, smirking when he sees you visibly stiffen at the mention of your…arrangement with nicholas. 

“th-that’s different, juju,” you stammer, pouting up at your boyfriend. “what are you getting at?”

euijoo slides a hand up your thigh, slipping his fingers beneath your dress. you gasp, head swiveling to the side to see if any of the other people out here can see you. to your surprise, it’s just you and euijoo out here. 

“anyone else you want to add to your roster?” euijoo questions with an arch of his brow. he hooks his thumb into the waistband of your underwear, tugging it down. 

“euijoo, n-!”

“no?” your boyfriend interrupts. he’s looking at you, towering over you, waiting for your response. his gaze figuratively shrinks you in size. stern, stoic.

he’s waiting to see if you’ll use your safeword, if the idea of letting him play with you out here is a hard no. 

“please,” is all you can say. 

euijoo yanks at your underwear, making you gasp as the fabric rips. it falls into a pathetic heap on the ground and he kicks it away, tongue clicking as he feels between your legs. you’re soaked because of course, you are. you can’t help it when you’re around him.

euijoo lightly presses his middle finger onto your clit and you shiver, hands clutching at his arms. he starts to stroke your cunt, gathering your wetness and spreading it around. 

“nicholas told me you practically let yuma grope you earlier. and you didn’t even try to stop him.” euijoo’s voice is quiet, but it’s rough around the edges. 

“that’s not true,” you say defensively. euijoo slips one finger into your leaking hole and you whine. 

“try again,” euijoo demands. he fucks you shallowly with his finger, watching you squirm as you try to keep yourself upright. 

“yuma told me he liked my outfit. that’s all,” you explain, grinding your hips against his hand, trying to create more friction. 

you realize anyone can walk out and see you like this. the tattered pink lace on the ground is evidence enough of what you’re up to. 

you can’t find it in yourself to care.

euijoo adds a second finger in and you almost sigh in relief. he starts to fuck you properly now, curling his digits against that spot within you. 

“he likes you, you know,” euijoo whispers, his other hand coming up to hold you by your chin. his grip is solid, tight enough to keep you still. 

“he told me himself some time ago,” he adds.

“so when he says he likes your outfit, he really means he wants to see you out of it,” euijoo concludes. the squelch of his fingers ramming in and out of your pussy is loud in the alleyway and a new wave of embarrassment washes over you. 

“i-i didn’t know!” you whine, nails digging into euijoo’s arms. he’s hitting all the right spots and you can feel yourself approaching your release. 

“of course you didn’t,” euijoo says through gritted teeth. 

“you want that, though, right? you want another one of my friends to have his way with you?”

you gasp, clenching around euijoo’s fingers as the words register in your mind. without meaning to, your hand reaches down to rub at your clit. you can’t help it. you need it. you need to cum. you’re just so desperate for it.

“yeah, that’s right. i fucking thought so,” euijoo mocks, sneering at your blissed-out face. 

euijoo pumps his fingers in and out of you a few more times before you’re cumming all over his hand. you feel tears slip down your cheeks as euijoo keeps you in place, watching as your whole face crumples in pleasure. he doesn’t stop even when you’re pushing his hand away in protest. 

your knees feel like jelly, and thankfully, euijoo finally lets you slump against him, spent and gasping from the intensity of your orgasm. 

euijoo wraps his arms around you, keeping you upright as you catch your breath and the rest of your bearings. he presses a kiss to your temple.

“your birthday’s coming up,” euijoo says. there’s a conspiratorial tone to his voice and you pull back just enough to look at him. 

“okay…?” you begin, waiting for euijoo to continue.

your boyfriend chuckles, smoothing down your dress, concealing any indication that you’ve gone full commando. 

“let’s talk about it later. but i have a feeling i already know what to get you.”

-

third time’s the charm, they say. and, indeed, this is the third time your boyfriend has bitched you out like some common whore. 

“happy birthday, baby,” euijoo greets, kissing down your neck, hands smoothing over your naked body. 

you move to wind your arms around him, but the bite of the handcuffs stops you from moving any further. you whine pathetically and you hear nicholas chuckle from the other end of the room. he’s the one to blame for these wretched restraints. 

“relax, baby,” nicholas drawls as he approaches the bed on which you lie. he kisses you fully on the lips, cradling your face gently. 

“let us do all the work, hm?”

you nod reluctantly, eyes wide as you look between your two lovers. 

your soon-to-be third one sits at the corner.

yuma eyes you hungrily from where he’s seated. you’re completely bare, a feast before his eyes. 

euijoo approached him with a proposal immediately after that night at the club. you and your boyfriend had talked at length about it, gauging both your interest and capacity for yet another unexplored facet of your sex lives. 

“can he keep coming around even after my birthday?” you had asked.

euijoo smiled at you then, pinching your cheek playfully. 

‘if you want him to. but you’re getting so greedy, babe,” euijoo had said with an incredulous laugh.

you rolled your eyes at him, toying with the ends of his hair near the nape of his neck. you tugged just enough to have euijoo humming in contentment. 

“baby, it’s your fault for spoiling me.”

euijoo’s voice snaps you back to the present, his hand leaving a warm trail down your outstretched leg. 

“let’s let our newcomer have a go first.”

yuma grins as he pushes off his chair, approaching you like a tiger on the prowl. the bed dips where he kneels over you, his eyes raking over every inch of your body. 

“you’ve been keeping this to yourselves?” yuma asks, giving a low whistle. “don’t mind if i do.”

“play with her nipples,” nicholas directs. “she likes that.”

yuma smiles at you, reaching over to roll both your stiff buds between his fingers. you buck up at the contact, handcuffs rattling against the headboard. 

“she’s a sensitive one, isn’t she?” yuma observes, ducking down to take one into his mouth. you moan, squirming under his touch. 

yuma flicks his tongue harshly against your nipple, his hand sliding down between your legs. you whimper, thighs automatically parting for him. 

“is she always this easy?” yuma asks, grinning up at you with your nipple still between his teeth.

“yes, she is,” euijoo confirms. you turn to him, eyes pleading as yuma slips two fingers in one go. you moan, hips already chasing after yuma’s hand.

euijoo just snickers at your helpless expression. 

“you wanted this, babe. don’t come crying to me now.”

yuma pulls away from your chest and hurriedly levels his face with your pussy. he licks the two fingers that were just in you, groaning when he gets a taste of your arousal. 

“fuck, she tastes good,” yuma says, sucking his fingers clean of you.

the way they’re talking around you and not to you adds to the thrill building up in your belly. it’s mortifying, being laid out like some prize for them to take. but you like it. god, you like it so much. 

your restraint clatters loudly once more when you feel yuma seal his mouth over your core, zeroing in on your clit. he wastes no time, sucking and licking all over. 

“yuma!” you cry out. 

he hums against your pussy, eyes fluttering shut as he feasts on your soaked folds. euijoo and nicholas watch from separate seats, hands palming the bulges in their pants. 

you whine and whimper and beg, grinding your hips against yuma’s eager mouth. he leaves you on the edge, working you to your limit. one moment, he’s sucking hungrily on your clit, the next, he’s plunging his tongue deep inside you. your head spins as you try to keep up, but it’s already too much. yuma shakes his head side to side, lapping messily at your core. a broken whine leaves your lips.

your wrists protest as you strain against the handcuffs again, your body seizing up as your orgasm crashes down on you unexpectedly. yuma doesn’t let up and you’re left to sob, to plead for him to stop.

but you don’t really want him to stop. 

“stay fucking still,” yuma curses against your quivering cunt. he continues to eat you out, as if he hadn’t just shattered you less than thirty seconds ago. 

it hits you like a freight train when you cum again, twitching and begging yuma to please stop, no more, no more!

you can hear euijoo and nicholas’ moans and grunts but your vision blurs from the back-to-back orgasms. you can vaguely make out their hands furiously pumping up and down their cocks as they watch you unravel under yuma.

yuma resurfaces, thankfully, mercifully, leaning down to kiss you hard. you taste yourself on him and he makes sure you get a good mouthful, his tongue slipping in between your lips as he sloppily makes out with you. 

he pulls away just enough to discard his bottoms and underwear, cock already stiff and eager. he’s similar to euijoo, but his tip curves ever so slightly. you lick your lips, impatient to have yuma inside you. 

he angles himself against your waiting hole, slipping just the tip in first, both of you sighing at the first stretch. 

“god, you make the prettiest sounds,” yuma praises before kissing you again. he pushes all the way in and you squeal against his lips. 

yuma fucks like an animal in heat, loud and unrestrained. he grunts in your ear, pounding into you while you gasp and sob from the sensation. your arms and wrists hurt but your entire body is alight with pleasure, yuma’s dick dragging deliciously against your walls. 

“fuck, look at you,” nicholas’ voice drifts into your consciousness. he’s standing by the left side of the bed, still jerking himself off to the sight of you and yuma. 

“i get why euijoo’s addicted to seeing you get fucked by other guys,” nicholas adds with a breathless laugh.

“shut up,” comes euijoo’s response from the right side of the bed. his arm reaches over to tug nicholas closer to him. their lips meet in a heated kiss and both their hands speed up around their cocks. 

“woah,” yuma chuckles, grunting with the effort of sliding in and out of you while you’re clamped down around him. “gotta get in on that action later.”

you whimper in response, too fucked out to formulate any audible words. nicholas and euijoo pull away from each other and yuma takes this opportunity to pause, adjusting his stance, bracing his knees firmer on the bed. he takes your legs and throws them over his shoulders, folding your knees to your chest.

your eyes roll into the back of your head at the new angle, yuma reaching deeper into you. you don’t think either euijoo or nicholas had even reached that deep into you before. 

you feel yourself hurtling towards yet another orgasm as yuma slams into you over and over again. your fists are clenched, your body tense from the unnatural position, but the coil in your abdomen grows taut, tighter and tighter with each thrust from yuma.

it’s like a dam breaking when you finally cum again, a cry ripping from your throat as the world goes white. yuma’s hips stutter, then he stops altogether, cumming inside you a moment later. he presses your knees even harder against your chest, making sure not one drop of him escapes you. 

“shit, move, i wanna cum inside her, too.”

you hear euijoo’s frantic voice first before you feel yuma abruptly pull out. a second later, euijoo pushes in, and you sob from the sudden intrusion. euijoo ekes out three cursory thrusts before he’s spilling himself in you. 

“holy fuck,” nicholas whines. “fuck, fuck, fuck, get out, juju–”

all you can do is whimper when nicholas slots himself inside you, filling you up yet again with hot, sticky cum. he starts to move once he’s relieved, fucking his, euijoo’s, and yuma’s cum further into your messy pussy. 

you feel warm lips press against your forehead, pulling you back to this plane of existence. at least partially.

“still with us, angel?” you look up to see euijoo eyeing you carefully. you smile tiredly at him, nodding.

“yeah,” you affirm.

“good,” euijoo responds almost too quickly. 

obviously yuma is one of the shorter teamies but he knows how to make himself big when he’s fucking his tiny little pocket pussy for him, so that’s why i give you guys

yuma ♡︎ mating press!

his knees are digging into the mattress as your feet are up in the air, your knees hooked on his shoulders. his hands are at the side of your head, yours are desperately clinging onto his wrists. yuma’s breaths are ragged, deep, and almost primal. your hitched moans are getting roughed out by how hard yuma’s cock is drilling itself, pressed into your cervix.

“yu—ma! s’ big—!” you whimper under him as his hips keep at their animalistic pace. “huh—? yeah, big? but you can— take it— right? this pussy can take it— don’t lie to me,” yuma grunts out as your pussy feels tighter. your cunt is getting fucked so raw, but god you love it so much. even if he’s pressing his entire weight down to fuck your pussy, you feel so full, fucked, and numb.

as your cunt is getting stuffed so full of yuma’s cock, you can’t help but babble away. if feels as if your brain is smushed as how your pussy feels. his arms are pressing further into the mattress, you feel so fucked in, you can’t even move. his cock is just repeatedly knocking your cunt in.

short letter but i have no other words to say besides that yuma would absolutely love doing mating press, even when he wants to do anal too. he loves the way he’s pressing all of his strength and weight on top of you to take his cock ♡︎

MATING PRESS IS FUCKING DESTINED FOR HIM