𓊆ྀི ♡ 𓊇ྀི @lunenet - Tumblr Blog

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ父ちゃん, dearest ── m. fuma

( 5589 ) ‎‎ ── ‎‎ warnings ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎𓋰‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎explicit sexual content ﹕ dead dove do not eat, noncon, dubcon, large age gap, unhealthy relationship dynamics, power imbalance, slight infantilization, , controlling behavior, heavy manipulation, icky relationship, fuma has dad like traits., fingering, reader is inexperienced.

( lua's receipt ) idk how coherent and cohesive this is because i finished it at 4:30am... but i hope u all enjoy it ! first full fic on this blog hehe

you had been dating fuma for six months.

six months of him picking you up from your university lectures even when you told him the train was fine. six months of him quietly paying off the last of your student fees because “it’s one less thing for you to worry about, baby.” six months of waking up in his sleek tokyo apartment to find he had already laid out your clothes, made your coffee exactly how you liked it, and canceled the part-time job shift you had secretly picked up because “you’re stretching yourself too thin.”

he never raised his voice. he never had to.

you still weren’t sure how it had started. one day you were twenty-one and freshly out of your second failed relationship—another boy your age who forgot plans, left you on read for days, and made you feel like wanting consistency was “too much.” the next day fuma was there. twenty eight, already established in his career, quiet in the way that made people listen when he finally spoke. he had seen you crying outside the convenience store near campus after that last breakup and simply… stayed. bought you a warm can of coffee. walked you home without asking questions. he somehow within a week became a quiet constant in your life.

you told yourself it was just kindness at first. then it became routine. then it became the only thing that made sense.

he never raised his voice. that was the worst part. he didn’t have to. when you tried to insist on paying for something, he would just look at you with that soft, patient expression and say, “baby, put your card away. i’ve got it.” when you reached for a heavy grocery bag, his hand would close gently over yours and move it aside. “let me. your wrists are still sore from last week.” he remembered things like that. the small aches. the way your shoulders tensed when you were overwhelmed. the exact brand of strawberry milk you liked when you were stressed.

he liked knowing those things. he liked being the only one who did.

it showed in the little ways most people would call sweet.

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.”

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

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