Her hips lifted to meet his thrusts, not the frantic, desperate grind of their roleplays, but something deeper, slower, more connected. Something terrifyingly real.
His hands found hers again, their fingers lacing together as he moved inside her.
He looked into her eyes, a silent, shared world passing between them with each slow, deliberate thrust.
"This feels… different," he whispered, the words a raw, honest confession. "It feels like you're mine, Yuna. How do you feel?"
Yuna's eyes widened, not in performance, but in genuine, unfeigned shock. Her breath hitched with each slow, deep thrust. "I…"
She swallowed hard, her fingers digging into his biceps. "…hate it."
He paused, a flicker of confusion and hurt passing through him. But she immediately locked her ankles behind his back, a silent, desperate command.
"Don't stop, you idiot," she gasped, her voice a ragged whisper. "I hate that…"
Her voice cracked as he sank deeper inside her. "…it feels like you're claiming me. For real, Makoto."
She clawed at his back, dragging him impossibly closer. "I hate that your fat belly against mine feels right."
A single tear leaked from the corner of her eye, a glistening testament to the war raging inside her. "I hate that I don't want you to pull out."
Her legs trembled around him, her body a taut, quivering bowstring of pleasure and pain. "And most of all…"
She choked on a sob as he hit that spot deep inside her that made her see stars. "…I hate that I'll miss this tomorrow."
"Then we can do it again tomorrow," he whispered, the words a promise, a vow. "And the day after that."
He kept plunging his cock into her, his movements slow and deliberate, as he rained kisses on her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids, his eyes never leaving her face.
Yuna let out a wet, broken sob, a sound that was half-laugh, half-despair.
"Stop making promises you can't keep!" she cried, but her hips rolled desperately against his, pulling him deeper, a silent, physical contradiction to her words. "We'll hate ourselves tomorrow…"
She kissed him back fiercely, her teeth clashing with his, her tears salty between their lips. "Idiot… pervert… stepbrother…" she gasped against his mouth with each thrust, the words a desperate, confused litany.
Her walls fluttered around him, not a practiced performance, but a raw, involuntary expression of her overwhelming need.
Suddenly, her back arched off the bed with a choked cry, her body seizing as her orgasm ripped through her with a violent, uncontrollable force.
"F-fuck... cum inside..." she babbled, her nails raking down his back, leaving bloody trails in their wake. "Now, claim me properly...!"
He grunted, his own control shattering as he shot thick, hot cum into her, a silent, possessive branding.
He stayed silent during their shared climax, just grinding his body against hers, trying to absorb every last sensation, to burn this moment into his memory.
Yuna's entire body locked around him: her legs, her arms, her pussy, squeezing him like she was trying to fuse them together.
A choked sob vibrated against his sweat-slicked chest as his seed flooded her womb.
"Disgusting…" she gasped, but her hips ground down greedily, milking every last drop from him.
"You're filling me up like a fucking breeding bitch…" Her voice broke as another shudder ripped through her, her nails drawing blood down his spine.
When he finally collapsed onto her, a spent, trembling weight, she didn't shove him off.
Instead, her trembling fingers threaded through his hair, holding his face against her throat.
The room reeked of sex and salt: her tears, his sweat, the sticky proof of their union pooling between her thighs.
"…I hate you, Makoto," she whispered hoarsely into the dark.
It wasn't a hiss. It wasn't a taunt. It was a raw, fractured, and utterly honest confession. "I hate how real that felt."
He kissed her forehead, her cheek, then her lips, a soft, tender sealing of their new, unspoken contract. "Let's do this… every weekend?"
Yuna stiffened in his arms.
For a long, silent moment, her heartbeat was a frantic, trapped bird against his chest.
Then, she laughed, a jagged, broken sound. "Weekends?"
She shoved at his chest half-heartedly, a pathetic attempt at resistance. "You think this is a fucking subscription service now?"
But her fingers curled into his shirt, anchoring him to her. "Fine," she muttered into his collarbone, the word a reluctant surrender.
"The Weekend Girlfriend Package. Price: you cook. And…"
Her voice dropped to a whisper, a final, fragile condition. "…you hold me after. Like this. No pretending it didn't happen."
She traced the fresh, bloody nail marks she'd just left on his back. "But if you bring home an actual girlfriend…"
Her nails dug in, a sharp, painful warning. "…I'm showing her the Klee costume photo last I took time."
Her breath hitched as he pulled her closer, a silent agreement. "Deal, big bro?"