nakakita yuma

the house had gone quiet hours ago. only the soft creak of old wood and the low hiss of the dying fire in the irori remained. most of the household had already settled into their corners for the night, leaving the main room half in shadow.

you were still there, back to the doorway, carefully arranging the low table the way it needed to be for morning. neat rows, everything in its place. the same careful habit you always kept.

yuma had been watching from the dark of the hallway for a long time. not hiding exactly, just waiting. arms loose, head tilted a little to the side the way he did when something already belonged to him and he was simply deciding when to take it. he didn’t rush. never did. he let the silence stretch until you were fully focused on the work in front of you, then stepped forward on quiet feet.

the short blade was already in his hand by the time he reached you. one arm slid around your middle from behind, firm and unhurried, pulling you back against the solid warmth of his chest while the other brought the cool edge of the knife up under your chin. he held it there lightly, almost gently, the metal resting against skin like a promise rather than a threat.

“easy,” he murmured near your ear, voice low and almost fond. “don’t make a sound.”

he didn’t give you space to turn or pull away. the arm around your waist tightened just enough to keep you locked against him as he began guiding you backward, away from the table, toward the corner where your own thin futon still lay waiting. the knife stayed under your jaw the whole time, not pressing hard, just present. a quiet reminder that struggling would only make things messier.

when you tensed or tried to dig your heels in he simply adjusted, using his weight and the steady pressure of the blade to keep you moving. it wasn’t a violent fight so much as a slow, inevitable wrestling match he already knew he would win. he guided you down onto the futon with that same unhurried strength, following you to the floor, one knee settling between yours as he pinned you there. the knife never left the soft skin of your throat. he shifted it just enough so the flat of the blade rested against the side of your neck now, cool and steady, while his free hand began pushing fabric out of the way.

“you’ve been so polite every time i tried the soft way,” he said, still calm, almost conversational, like he was commenting on the weather.

“always finding some reason to ignore me... im sick of it.” his fingers moved without hurry, proprietary and unhurried, as if he was simply taking inventory of something that already belonged to him. “so i figured i’d stop asking... doesnt that sound fair ?”

he kept you pinned there on the futon, body warm and solid over yours, the knife a constant cool line against your neck. no rush. no raised voice. just that same laid-back certainty, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment and was perfectly content to take his time now that it was here.

“you’re going to stay right here and let me take what ive been oh so rudely denied,” he murmured, voice still soft, almost kind in a way that somehow made it worse. “if you so much as whine,”

“ill gut you like the disgusting pig you are.”