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manicpixiedreamkira · 1 month ago

Text

kigatsukeba

part three | chapter index

megumi x reader, aged up!megumi (and others), early twenties, working as sorcerers, post shinjuku showdown arc but megumi doesn't have his face scars, megumi trying and failing to be in control of his feelings, gojo's gone, bonded through trauma, friends to fwb to lovers, drinking/getting drunk, jealousy, confusing feelings, megumi sucks at feelings, miscommunication, misinterpretation, megumi being stubborn, reader being clueless, slowish burn, idiots in love, jerking off, a bit of size kink ngl, megumi is older here so he’s taller (like 6'2?), he's also buffer (he's toji's son guys, c'mon), reader is described as smaller/shorter than him, takuma ino mentioned, smut, unprotected piv, nasty sex (multiple times), but also love making, confessions, aftercare, a bit of angst, but there's fluff here too, megumi's down bad, not beta'd

w.c: 15,860

Megumi was on his knees, looking up at you like you were something holy. Something he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch but was about to ruin anyway.

His hands came up slowly, smoothing up the backs of your calves, your thighs—big palms warm and steady, sliding up the trembling lines of your legs. When he reached the curve of your hips, he squeezed—just a little—and you gasped, your knees buckling. He grunted low in his throat, steadying you easily.

He wanted to remember this. The way you quivered. The way you looked down at him like you couldn’t believe this was real. Fuck, he barely could either.

“Stay with me,” he murmured.

The first kiss he pressed to your inner thigh was soft. Reverent. The second was rougher—his teeth scraping lightly over the sensitive skin just beside the thin piece of cloth between your legs. You whimpered, hips twitching forward.

Megumi growled low under his breath. He slid his hands up further, hooked his thumbs into the sides of your panties—he swore under his breath. You were soaked. The little scrap of fabric clung to you, wet and warm, and he groaned low in his throat, head dropping forward for a second like he was trying to get a grip.

You gasped when he peeled it down—slow, dragging the drenched lace down your legs—and you had to grab at the door behind you for balance. You didn’t get a chance to think.

He hooked one hand under your knee, lifted your leg carefully, and slung it over his broad shoulder—holding you open for him, steadying you with ease against the door with his hands locked tight around your hips.

The scent of you—hot and wet and dizzying—had been burning through his head since he stepped you out of your dress. But now, with your thighs open around him and your slick glistening against his mouth, it was devastating.

The shift in position brought you higher, made you tilt into him, made the slick, desperate heat in your core impossible to ignore. You let out a choked sound. He looked up at you once. Only once.

“You’re already shaking,” he murmured, low and syrupy. “Good.”

And then he buried his face between your legs.

The first drag of his tongue over you was slow—obscene. A long, lazy stroke from your entrance to your clit, like he was tasting you properly before he let himself get messy.

Megumi exhaled against your cunt and did it again. And again. He wasn’t rushing. Wasn’t teasing. He was devouring—sloppy and steady and slow enough to hurt. His mouth was hot, open, pressing sully, languid kisses to your folds, his tongue flattening, circling, licking with maddening control.

You cried out softly, hips jerking against his mouth. Every time you squirmed, he adjusted—hands tightening around your hips, anchoring you still. His fingers dug into your skin, sure and possessive.

“Easy, baby,” he muttered against you, the vibration making you jolt. “I’ve got you. Let me take my time.”

He went back in. Long, slow licks—deliberate. Savoring. Fucking savoring you like he’d starve if he didn’t take his time. He mouthed at your clit lazily, sloppily, wet sounds filling the small, dark hall around you. His breath came rough against your skin. Every slick pull of his tongue made your body shudder harder, your hands scrambling against the door for purchase.

You whined—high, wrecked—arching your hips helplessly into his mouth. He groaned, deep in his chest. Megumi shifted his hold, dragging you closer, pushing his tongue deeper, fucking you slow and steady with it until your thighs were shaking against his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he mumbled, lifting his head just long enough to pant the words against your skin. “Give it to me.”

He dragged his tongue flat against your clit again, then wrapped his mouth around it, sucking slow and firm. Your head hit the door with a soft thud. Your body trembled, strung tight. You grabbed at his hair without thinking—threading your fingers through the dark strands, holding on for dear life as he worked you over, messy and patient. Megumi moaned into you when you tugged, the sound vibrating through your whole core.

He was drenched in you already—his chin slick, his lips shiny. He didn’t care. Didn’t even hesitate.

You sobbed, thighs clenching helplessly around his shoulders.

“Keep them open for me, princess.” he whispered again, dizzy, half-gone. “God, you taste so good.”

He wanted to taste all of you. Drink you in. Memorize you. He kissed your clit like it was a mouth, wet and without rush, licking around it until your thighs started to tremble, your breath catching in tiny, broken gasps. He could feel your heel scraping the door, your back arching, your fingers tugging. He loved it. Loved how you were unraveling without anything but his tongue.

He licked up into you—calm and deep—and then back up again, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking soft and firm until you were crying out, high and desperate, hips jerking into his mouth.

“Atta, girl,” he breathed. “Let me have it.”

You could barely hear him over the blood rushing in your ears. Your whole body was burning—pussy leaning helplessly against his mouth. Your heel scraped uselessly against the wood as your balance faltered—but Megumi held you easily, bracing your body against his own with his broad shoulders, his mouth never leaving you for a second.

He was losing himself in it. Losing himself in you.

Every desperate twitch of your body, every breathless cry, every sweet, broken moan of his name—it all carved deeper into his chest, until there was nothing left but the need to keep you like this.

Shaking. Squirming. Coming apart for him and no one else.

You were so close—he could feel it in the way your thigh clenched around his shoulder, in the way your hands tightened, in the little whines falling constantly from your lips.

“Gumi—”

He groaned at the sound, anchoring you tighter, nudging his face deeper between your thighs. His nose pressed into you, his breath hot and ragged, and then—when he couldn’t take it anymore—he opened you with his mouth and pushed his tongue inside.

You cried out. Megumi moaned.

He fucked you with his tongue—slow thrusts, deep as he could manage, curling it up inside you while his mouth sealed tight around the rest of you. He tasted everything. Felt every flutter of your walls, every desperate clench as you tried to rock your hips into him.

“Fuck—fuck, please—”

He couldn’t tell if you were begging him to stop or begging him not to. Didn’t care.

He wanted to make you fall apart like this. With nothing but his mouth. No hands. No fingers. Just his tongue buried inside you, fucking slow and dirty and deep. The slick, obscene sounds of it filled the narrow foyer—wet and rhythmic and so fucking intimate it made his cock throb painfully in his pants. You were panting now, trembling above him, your fingers pulling at his hair, your leg tightening around his shoulder like you couldn’t decide if you needed to get away or hold him closer.

He knew what you needed.

He drew back just far enough to circle his tongue over your clit—languid, teasing strokes—before licking down again, spreading you with his tongue, pushing inside, twisting just to feel the way your whole body responded.

The way you gasped. The way your thighs tensed. The way your pussy fluttered around nothing the second he pulled back.

“God,” he breathed, voice hot against you. “You’re perfect like this.”

You made a broken sound in your throat.

He didn’t speed up. He didn’t add more. He just stayed steady. Tongue working you with calculated ruin, licking and kissing and sucking you apart one flick at a time.

“Come for me,” he whispered. “Come on my mouth.”

He sealed his lips over your clit and sucked—deep and slow—while his tongue moved in deliberate, firm strokes, slick and confident.

When you finally started to fall—when the first tremor rolled through your thighs and your body arched hard against his mouth—he growled, low and filthy, and sucked harder, pushed deeper, chasing you straight through it.

You came against his mouth with a broken cry, hands clutching at his hair, your heel digging into the door for leverage you couldn’t find.

And still—still—he didn’t stop. Kept licking you, slower now, dragging out the aftershocks, tasting every last bit of your release with reverent attention.

He worked you through it, his tongue lazy and heavy, coaxing every last ripple out of you until you sagged helplessly against the door, boneless, wrecked. When he finally pulled back, his mouth was swollen, chin slick, eyes dark and wrecked.

He licked his lips—slow—and smirked up at you from between your wobbly thighs.

“One,” he murmured, voice shredded and hot. “Still promised you at least two more.”

You were trembling.

Still pressed against the door, one leg slowly sliding down from where it had been slung over his shoulder—heel clicking weakly against the floor. Your balance was gone. Your chest rose and fell in shallow, broken pulls of breath. Your hand scrabbled weakly for the wall. You couldn’t even stand. Your body sagged against him, shaking so hard your muscles spasmed in small, uncontrollable shivers as your knees gave out beneath you.

Megumi caught you easily—large hands steadying your hips, letting your weight fold gently into his chest. He didn’t speak. Just breathed against your temple, one hand sliding up your spine to soothe you. You buried your face in his neck without thinking. His skin was warm, the faint salt of his sweat clinging to the edge of his jaw. His heartbeat pounded slow and heavy under your mouth. Then, slowly, he bent at the waist.

When he crouched down, keeping you locked safely in his arms, you gasped in confusion. You blinked, dazed, watching as he knelt again—not with heat this time, but with reverence.

He reached for your foot, lifted it carefully. Balanced your weight against his shoulders with one hand and the other moved to your shoe. They were sleek, closed-point stilettos. Elegant. Sharp. He’d been watching them all night.

His fingers brushed over your skin—warm, sure, reverent—and you shuddered harder. He cradled your foot in one hand like it was precious. The shoe slid off smoothly—just a little pressure at the heel, and it loosened—thumb dragging lightly across your arch as he did it.

He set the shoe aside in the dark without looking. Then he repeated the same slow, devastating process on the other foot. Precise. Gentle. No rush. Just quiet attentiveness. Like grounding you mattered more than taking you apart—as if it was the most sacred thing he’d ever done.

There was no flourish. No unnecessary touch. But it was intimate all the same—precise, careful, like he was unwrapping something delicate. You made a helpless, wrecked noise against your throat.

He straightened again, kissed the side of your head once, kicking off his own shoes by the door, socks a moment later. It wasn’t performative—it was reflex. His movements were methodical. Respectful. Like ritual. Like care. Cleanliness. Consideration. And something older in him—politeness ingrained.

You swayed slightly in place, still dizzy. Then his arms were around you again. One swept beneath your knees, the other across your back. He lifted you with no effort, pressing your bare skin against the clean lines of his shirt. You curled into him without thinking, breath catching softly as you clung to the nape of his neck.

“You don’t have to—” you tried to argue.

“I want to.” his voice left no room for protest.

And then he was carrying you to your bedroom. Slow, steady, cradled against his frame. The light was off, but moonlight pooled faintly through the window, painting soft stripes across the sheets.

He sat first, keeping you balanced in his lap. His thigh bracketed under your ass, his chest broad against your shoulder, his mouth brushing your temple once—twice—like he couldn’t help himself. Your skin was hot against his button-down.

A moment later, he laid you gently onto the bed, sliding you across the sheets so that you were propped up against the pillow, legs sprawled open, and your breath still unsteady.

He got on top of you, barely an inch in the space between you and you couldn't stop your breath from getting caught in your throat. Because he reached for his collar.

It was slow, like torture. No fumbling, not a sliver of rush, just that sharp control he always carried himself with. His fingers worked the first button free—deliberate. You watched his knuckles flex, his wrists roll, each precise movement dragging the black fabric open, inch by inch.

The second button slipped.

Then the third.

Another button. And another. The tip of his thumb brushed your sternum—accidental, maybe. But it made your breath catch in your throat.

You whimpered quietly. Gripped the front of his shirt without meaning to. He smirked. A slow, rare, almost cruel thing.

“You gonna behave?” he murmured, voice rough at the edges. You could only nod, dazed.

He popped the last button free. Slid the black shirt off his shoulders with an easy roll—you watched it fall to the floor, leaning back just enough to look.

Broad chest. Sharp collarbones. A strong, lean build—light muscle stretching under pale skin, a long line of toned abs vanishing into the waist of his slacks. A faint trail of dark hair led below the waistband, drawing your eyes in before you could stop them.

He was gorgeous. You would never grow tired of it. But more than that— real now. Now it was just skin. Warm, firm, endless skin pressing into you, heating you from every direction. Bare in a way that made your breath catch.

You touched him, palms warm against his chest. He inhaled at the contact—deep and slow—and kissed your cheek, your temple, the corner of your mouth. Unrushed. His body curled down beside yours, one knee slotted between your thighs, and you felt the weight of him everywhere—his hand resting lightly on your stomach, his lips brushing slow across yours, again and again.

You whimpered quietly, overwhelmed. He leaned down to kiss you. No hunger this time. Just heat. Lazy, lingering kisses. The kind that whispered I’m not done with you yet.

“Take your time,” he whispered against your lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Minutes passed. Or maybe more. You didn’t know. He kissed you until your body softened beneath him again. Until the shaking eased. Until you melted.

Eventually your breathing slowed. The tremors in your legs quieted. You kissed him more confidently, mouth opening to his, your tongue dragging along his bottom lip until he groaned softly—wet, familiar. His hand began to move again. Down your side. Over your stomach. You gasped, already sensitive, already wet.

His mouth moved to your throat. He licked there, bit lightly at the skin just under your jaw, kissed the place after.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, whining softly, making him smile against your skin. Lazy. Dangerous.

His hand dipped between your thighs. Two fingers skimmed along your entrance, gathering your slick—finding you soaked and swollen and so fucking ready. You whimpered when his fingers stroked you.

“Still so sensitive,” he said, nuzzling your jaw.

He circled your clit with the pad of his thumb—gentle, slow. You arched into the touch instinctively, a soft moan spilling from your throat. Then he kissed your neck—dragging his mouth along the warm slope of your throat, biting lightly at the base, and sliding his fingers into you with maddening patience. No warning now. No teasing. Just a slow, filthy slide straight inside.

You cried out. Your body clenched hard around him. His fingers were long—slim, practiced, moving with a rhythm that made your breath catch instantly. He kissed the soft curve of your chest—his tongue dragging over the swell of your breast, sucking one nipple into his mouth just as his fingers curled deep inside you.

“So wet,” he breathed. “Fuck.”

The curl of them inside you was devastating—a long, dragging pressure that made you see stars behind your eyes. His thumb circled your clit again. Not frantic—perfect. You couldn’t stop the sounds spilling from your mouth.

“Gumi—please—”

“God, you feel incredible.” he murmured, tongue flicking over your nipple.

“I’m gonna stretch you out a bit,” he mumbled low against your skin, his fingers curling deeper, unrushed but persistent. “You’re so fucking tight. I want you ready for my cock when I finally give it to you.”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even flinch. Just bit down lightly on your chest and curled his fingers deeper.

You gasped, your entire body clenching around his fingers, and you felt the weight of his words sinking in deep. The thought of him filling you—stretching you, claiming you—made your entire body tremble.

His fingers worked you steadily, pressing against the soft walls, stretching you further as you moaned softly with each slow thrust. You weren’t used to the feeling of his fingers inside you like this—long, slim, but relentless. Each slow stroke was measured, pulling you closer to the edge with every inch.

You nearly came undone all over again.

“F-fuck—Gumi—”

“Mm,” he hummed around your skin. “There?”

He adjusted the angle. Hooked his fingers up and in—dragged them along a spot that made you see stars. You gasped so hard your chest arched off the bed.

“God, you’re so wet,” he almost whimpered. “I need you ready.”

You gripped his shoulders. Clawed at him. Desperate.

“You’re gonna come again,” he whispered. “I’m not stopping until you do.”

You choked on a breath. He watched your face now. Watched the way it changed every time he curled his fingers just right—watched your mouth fall open, your eyebrows pinch, your lips tremble.

He bit down lightly on your breast—enough to make you gasp, not enough to hurt. Kissed the mark after. Then trailed up to your jaw, licking a line beneath your ear before kissing the corner of your mouth again.

His fingers never stopped. In and out. Deep and lazy. His thumb circling your clit in slow, steady pulses while the slick sounds of you grew louder between you. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Your hips rolled into his hand, helpless. You opened your eyes—barely—and found him watching you from just above your chest, his mouth swollen, his cheeks flushed, his eyes so dark it didn’t feel fair.

“I could do this all night,” he offered, voice hoarse. “You feel too fucking good.”

You moaned, head rolling back.

“Want to see you come on my fingers.” he said, tone shredded. “Wanna feel you clench on my hand.”

He kissed your chin, your cheekbone, your temple.

“Wanna watch you come again.”

He licked over your nipple again—sucked it gently while curling his fingers deep, pushing right against that devastating spot inside you until you were panting, shaking again.

“You gonna let me?” he murmured. “Let me wreck you like this?”

You nodded, choked on it.

“Words,” he said, voice lower now.

“Y-yes—please—don’t stop—”

He kissed you hard. Filthy and open. And his fingers kept moving—dragging, curling, stroking every inch inside you he could reach while his thumb worked your clit with perfect, slow pressure.

You were spiraling again. You could feel it. The edge coming closer, your body building toward it, heat tightening low in your belly. And Megumi—above you, around you—kept watching, kept whispering against your skin.

“I love watching you fall apart.” he grunted, voice ragged. “Gonna feel even better when I’m inside you.”

Your body was already there—edging closer and closer, pressure coiling so fast it hurt. And still, Megumi stayed steady. Watching you. Loving it. His face hovering just above yours, his expression so calm and wrecked it made your head spin.

“You’re mine like this,” he whispered. “All of you.”

The edge was so close. So much closer than you thought it would be. And when he curled his fingers just right, thumb grinding softly against your clit, his mouth brushing your nipple again—

It hit.

The orgasm slammed through you, full-body. Your legs snapped tight, your cunt clenching so hard around his fingers it made you sob. You moaned something raw—his name or just a sound—and he caught it with his mouth, kissing you through it.

“That’s it,” he praised. “So fucking pretty like this.”

You heard the slick sound of his fingers moving inside you still—easing you through the waves as your whole body shook under him. He kissed your ribs. Your hip. Your shoulder. Then—very slowly—he slipped his fingers from you. You whimpered at the loss.

He brought them to his mouth. Sucked them clean, slow and filthy, his eyes never leaving yours. He kissed your jaw. Your mouth.

“Good girl,” he mumbled against your lips. “Still clenching around nothing.” he chuckled as he looked down.

He ran two fingers through your folds again, spreading you open with an absent sort of reverence. He stared—quiet, focused, like he was still trying to memorize every inch.

“I need to stretch you a little more,” he declared, voice hoarse.

You whimpered. Your hips twitched forward.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he added, pressing a kiss to the top of your thigh. “You feel too good for me to rush it.”

You were still twitching from the last orgasm, but your body ached now in a different way. You were so open. So wet. And it still wasn’t enough.

“Please,” you whispered.

He groaned, giving in with so little fight.

He rose slowly, and you watched the muscles flex along his stomach as he moved—long, smooth, sure. His hands went to the waistband of his slacks.

“Top drawer?”

You nodded.

Megumi leaned forward—kissed your mouth, your cheek, then opened your nightstand. The foil packet crinkled in his hand. You watched, dazed, as he undid his belt, popped the button of his pants, and dragged the zipper down.

Your mouth parted as he kicked the rest of his clothes to the floor. His cock was thick, flushed dark, curved slightly toward his stomach, already leaking at the tip.

The foil crinkled in his hand, quiet and precise, but your body still jolted at the sound. You were trembling. Boneless. Drenched in the ache of everything he’d already taken from you—and everything he hadn’t yet.

Your breath caught as he rolled the condom down—his hand steady, precise, fingers trembling just barely at the end—kneeling between your legs like something ancient, something reverent.

Your thighs spread wide, your knees brushing the sides of his ribs, your calves trembling where they curled around his waist. He looked down at you—eyes so dark they nearly gleamed, chest rising slow and heavy—and for a moment he didn’t move.

Just stared. Just drank you in.

“Ready?” he asked, voice hoarse. You nodded.

And then he pressed the tip of his cock against your entrance. You sucked in a breath. He was thick. You could feel it already, the blunt weight of him teasing at your folds, gathering slick as he eased forward. His eyes fluttered shut. His jaw clenched.

“Fuck, you’re still so wet.” he rasped. “I’m gonna go slow,” he said. “I want you to feel every inch.”

And then he began to push in.

Stretch.

You gasped. Your walls fluttered around him, struggling to take him in.

“Fuck,” Megumi whispered, voice breaking. “You’re already clenching.”

He slid in—inch by inch—your body pulling taut around him, impossibly tight. It wasn’t pain. It was pressure. Heat. Thick. Full. So deep you could barely breathe. When he bottomed out, hips pressed flush to yours, he stayed still. Letting you adjust. Letting you feel it.

“Gumi—”

“I know.” He kissed the corner of your mouth. “Just breathe.”

“Megumi…” you whined, voice breathless, desperate.

“Shh,” he breathed back, eyes dark as he looked down at where he was buried inside you. “Just let me feel you first.”

Your hands flew to his biceps—digging into the muscle, clinging to the heat of him as your body yielded. He cursed again, under his breath this time, his mouth brushing your shoulder as stayed there. Buried to the hilt. Still. You were full. So full. Every breath felt stretched to the breaking point.

“Too much?” he asked.

You shook your head against the pillow, fingers clawing into his arms. “No, just—don’t move yet.”

He stayed right there. Letting you adjust. Letting your body memorize the shape of him. When you nodded, when your hips rolled up just slightly into his—he exhaled a sharp breath through his nose and began to move.

The first few strokes were deliberate, slow glides in and out that had you gasping, your whole body shivering from the pressure of him rubbing every sensitive spot inside you. His pelvis dragged across your clit with every thrust, and your thighs twitched at the contact. Your body trembled under him, and he watched every reaction—every twitch of your brow, every shiver in your thighs, every gasp you couldn’t swallow.

“God, baby. Look at me.” You did.

He kissed you—deep and wet—tongue slow in your mouth as his cock slid in and out of you with that unrushed, devastating rhythm. Then slowly—so slowly—he pulled back, and thrust in again. Hard.

Your whole body rocked beneath him. The drag of his cock inside you was unbearably good—your slick clinging to him, your walls fluttering from the pressure alone. And the pace he set—steady, slow, deep—was maddening. Controlled. Intentional.

He was savoring it. Savoring you.

You reached for his shoulders, clinging to the bulk of him as he leaned forward, his chest brushing yours. Your legs bent instinctively around his waist, drawing him deeper.

You were soaked, your pussy clenching around him, squelching with every stroke—and he loved it. You could see it in his face. The way he looked down between your bodies. The way his lips parted when your walls sucked him back in. He whispered to you the whole time. Half-coherent things.

“So tight—fuck, you feel perfect—can’t believe I get to feel you like this—”

You moaned aloud.

He pressed deeper. His hips met yours in smooth, gliding thrusts, and your clit caught softly against the hard plane of his lower abdomen—your pelvis brushing against his with every stroke.

You whimpered.

Megumi’s rhythm didn’t change, but his breath did—sharper now, strained. His arms caged around your shoulders, keeping you still as he fucked into you slowly, deliberately, grinding your clit with every roll of his hips.

You were already building again—your walls clenching tighter, your mouth falling open, heat pooling deep in your belly.

“That’s it,” he praised. “Take it. You’re doing so fucking good.”

Your body was tipping over—every nerve alight, every inch of you raw and wet and stretched and full. He was so deep you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Megumi grunted low in his throat and pressed a hand to your belly—right above your pelvis, firm and sure.

You cried out. A bulge rose under his palm with every thrust.

“You feel that?” he asked, voice cracking. “That’s me. Right here. Deep inside.”

You nodded frantically, overwhelmed, tears springing to your eyes from the sensation.

His pace never faltered. Just kept grinding deeper, every stroke brushing your clit, his stomach dragging delicious pressure over it, tighter and tighter.

“Please,” you gasped.

And he gave it to you. A slight shift—just enough pressure, just the right angle—and the sensation sharpened.

You broke on a cry, your body jerking up into him as your climax slammed into you. Your cunt fluttered around him, pulsing hard, milking his cock with every ripple of release. He groaned—long and low—his mouth dragging down your neck, catching on sweat-slick skin.

But he didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down.

He pulled back and slid in again—deeper this time, faster now, chasing something hot and desperate. Your thighs fell open further. You couldn’t keep your hips from moving. Couldn’t stop the broken little sounds that left your mouth every time he bottomed out. Without warning, he hooked your calves over his shoulders—one at a time—and pushed deeper.

The mating press folded you under him, your knees nearly to your chest, his body heavy and firm above you. He rocked into you—hard and deep—and you screamed.

“Megumi—oh my god—”

This angle was devastating.

“So fucking deep,” he breathed. “You feel insane.”

The drag of his cock inside you was intoxicating, every inch of him feeding the hunger that was building between your thighs. You could feel him buried inside, the pressure building as he nudged the deepest parts of you.

His thumb circled your clit, soft, gentle strokes, pushing you higher. His mouth hovered above your chest, kissing softly down your sternum as he worked you open, taking his time. The friction of his dick rubbing against your sensitive walls had you gasping, already on the edge.

“Fuck, this angle…” Megumi groaned. “It’s like you were made for me.”

His hips jerked, driving deeper with each slow, perfect thrust. His fingers dug into your thighs as he pushed inside, stretching you further than you thought possible, the weight of his body sinking into yours with every move.

He picked up the pace, finally. Harder now. Rougher. The slap of skin echoed between you as he fucked you through your high, chasing his own. You were already trembling again. You were right there. Again.

“I’m not stopping,” he said. “You’re gonna come again. Come with me this time. Can you do that for me, baby?”

You cried out—louder now, wrecked.

“I—can’t—”

“Yes, you can. Be good. Let go.”

He wasn’t letting up. He wanted it. He needed it.

His pace stuttered. His rhythm turned desperate. Each thrust punched a breath out of you, the wet sounds of your bodies filling the room.

“I’m close,” he breathed. “Baby—I’m right fucking there—”

You were too.

“Look at me,” he whispered, his voice strained. “Don’t look away. I want to see you.”

You did. You forced your eyes open and locked them with his. And that’s when it happened.

You didn’t know it was coming. You didn’t expect it. But the way his cock stretched you, the way his thumb teased your clit just right, and the angle he’d pushed you into—it set everything off.

The first wave hit you like a storm. Your body tensed, your legs trembling, your clit throbbing hard against his hand as you came, crying out his name. You thought you were finished, thought it would fade away, but then another wave hit. Your body clenched around him, impossibly tight, like it couldn’t handle the overwhelming sensation.

You could feel it. That pulsing, wet release. You felt it leave you in a rush, soaking his cock, his thighs, the sheets under you. Your hands scrambled for him, your voice breaking apart—

“Megumi—oh—oh—!”

Megumi froze. Eyes wide. Mouth slack. His dick buried to the hilt inside you, twitching.

Then—he grunted. Loud. Guttural. Helpless.

“Holy shit—fuck, baby, that was—”

He was staring at you now, eyes locked on your face, his cock twitching as he watched you come undone around him.

“You just soaked me,” he whispered, awestruck.

He pulled out slightly, just to watch the mess clinging to his shaft—slick and shining, still leaking over your thighs. Then he slammed back in, moaning as he chased his own release now, raw and frantic, fucking you through the aftershocks. His name tore out of you again, voice wrecked.

“Did that feel good?” he asked quietly, though it wasn’t a question—it was a plea. He wanted to hear it from you. He needed to know he’d broken you.

You nodded, gasping for air, barely able to find your voice. “It—oh god, it was too much—”

His hands gripped your thighs again, pulling you deeper into him as he started to move again, the weight of his cock filling you once more. His hips were slow at first, just sinking in, the deep, powerful strokes setting the pace. But then he found that rhythm—grinding his navel against your clit again with each thrust, filling you up, hitting all the right spots as he fucked you deeper, harder.

You barely registered the words that fell from your lips anymore. They were just sounds—broken cries, low moans, gasps. He was relentless, though. He didn’t stop. He just kept pushing into you, groaning with each stroke.

“You’re perfect,” he muttered, his voice low and rough. “I can’t get enough of you.”

You didn’t even know what to say anymore. It was too much. But you needed it. Every inch of him, every stroke, everything he gave you.

You could feel him getting closer now, his rhythm faltering slightly as he picked up speed, his cock slamming into you harder, faster. You squeezed your eyes shut, body clenching again, desperate to hold on, to feel it all.

And when he finally reached his peak—his body tensing, his breath choking off—he didn’t pull back. He stayed deep inside you, grinding, thrusting as he came. His hands moved to your stomach, pressing down gently to feel the bulge of him inside you.

You felt the flood of warmth in the condom, the tension in his body locking him in place as he shuddered above you, hips twitching, your name falling from his lips like a confession.

When it was over, you both lay there. Breathing hard. Trembling. Still connected.

He slowly unhooked your legs from his shoulders, kissed your ankle before setting it down. Then he leaned forward, his chest pressing into yours, arms bracketing your head. His face hovered close to yours, flushed and damp.

He looked stunned. Breathless. You couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. He kissed your cheek, then your mouth. Soft. Dazed.

“You’re…” he started—and laughed quietly, breathless. “You’re unreal.”

You blinked up at him, still twitching.

“Did I…?”

“You fucking squirted,” he said, wonder still thick in his voice. “All over me.”

You groaned and tried to hide your face.

He caught your chin.

“Don’t,” he pleaded, voice soft. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

And then—he kissed you again. He looked down at your bodies—at the mess. At the sheen of you soaking his lower stomach. His expression faltered, then softened—completely undone.

“I want to make you do that again,” he whispered.

You swallowed. Your chest ached from how hard your heart was pounding.

“I think you could,” you whispered back.

Then his eyes lifted to yours. And he smiled. Like he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

He stayed inside you for a few seconds longer, his body heavy above yours, his hands planted firm against the mattress. His head dipped low near your shoulder, lips brushing your collarbone.

You felt his chest rise and fall—quick, shallow, like he still hadn’t come all the way down yet. You weren’t sure you had either. Then, slowly, he pulled back. Eased out of you with careful hands.

You winced.

“Sorry,” he murmured, immediately touching your hip. “You okay?”

You nodded, blinking up at the ceiling, dazed. “Yeah. Just… everything’s sensitive.”

He nodded once, kissed your temple, and climbed off the bed. You didn’t even have the strength to look over your shoulder when the bathroom light flicked on. The faint sound of water. A drawer opening. The hum of his breath steadying behind the door.

Your limbs still tingled. The sheets were damp beneath your thighs. You couldn’t bring yourself to move. When the bed dipped again, it startled you. Megumi had returned—naked from the waist up, his hair slightly damp at the edges from where he’d splashed water on his face. He carried a warm cloth, a fresh towel, and moved like he’d done this before—not rushed, not nervous, just… focused.

He settled between your legs and met your gaze, pausing.

“Let me take care of you?”

You nodded. And he did. Carefully. Quietly.

He cleaned between your thighs first, slow strokes that made your legs twitch. You hissed softly when the cloth brushed your clit—still swollen, aching—and his eyes flicked up immediately.

“Too much?”

“No,” you muttered. “It’s okay.”

He continued, gentler now, wiping your stomach, the insides of your thighs, then folding the cloth away and replacing it with the soft towel—dabbing carefully where your skin was still flushed.

His jaw was tight while he worked. His expression unreadable. Like touching you like this did something to him. Like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to feel. When he was done, he tossed the towel to the floor and looked back at you, just for a moment. Then he reached under you with one arm, cradled your back, and shifted you up the bed. Pillows fluffed. Sheets straightened. He laid you down gently like something he’d built with his hands and wasn’t ready to step away from yet.

You didn’t realize how cold you’d gotten until he pulled the blanket up over both of you. Megumi slid in behind you, warm and solid, wrapping his arm around your waist. His breath found your neck, and for a few minutes, that was all there was.

Silence.

You blinked slowly, your body caught somewhere between exhaustion and awe. His hand slid up your side, fingers featherlight, then paused over your ribs.

“I think my soul left my body at some point,” you offered quietly.

Megumi’s breath caught. Then—he laughed. A short, genuine thing that pressed into your spine like warmth.

“Which part did it happen?” he asked, voice low.

You smirked faintly. “I don’t know. Somewhere between you pressing on my stomach and me… embarrassing myself.”

He went still for half a second.

“You didn’t embarrass yourself.”

You turned your head just slightly, enough to catch his eyes over your shoulder. He looked serious. Not teasing. Just honest.

“I’ve never seen anything so sexy in my entire life,” he said, voice quiet but sure.

Your face flushed. You looked away.

“…You looked kind of stunned.”

He scoffed lightly, breath warm against your skin. “I was stunned.”

A pause.

“I didn’t know it was even possible to come that hard,” you added, quieter.

Megumi didn’t reply right away. He shifted closer behind you, chest pressed to your back now, his arm tightening just slightly around your waist. There was something else in the air now. Not tension, exactly—but weight. Gravity. Like everything you’d both been holding back all this time had finally spilled over, and neither of you quite knew how to clean it up.

Still, you didn’t move.

He didn’t either.

His lips brushed the edge of your shoulder, a barely-there touch.

And in the quiet between the heartbeats, you thought:

He stayed.

Even long after the tremble in your thighs had faded.

Even long after the adrenaline gave way to something gentler. Something unnamed.

Even when sleep tugged at your lashes and you weren’t sure what the hell tomorrow would bring—

Megumi didn’t pull away.

—

Wednesday nights always carried a quieter kind of stillness.

The city wasn’t asleep, not exactly—but there was a softness to it. Streetlights glowing warmer, sidewalks emptier. Everything a little slower than it would be on a Friday. A little more hushed.

The sky was dusky—just past golden hour, that soft lavender stretch of early spring evening where everything felt gentler than it should. The breeze was soft when you stepped onto the curb outside the theater—just enough to lift strands of your hair and make you wish you’d pulled it back, cool in that early spring way, where the sun had already set but the air still held some of the day’s warmth. It was the kind of spring evening that didn’t need a jacket—but you wore one anyway. Out of habit. Out of the uncertainty that always came with early April.

The air outside the theater smelled like warm butter and sugar. Popcorn grease, synthetic chocolate, the bite of cola fizz—cloying and nostalgic, exactly how a weeknight horror marathon should. The entrance buzzed faintly, all soft neon and reflections in the glass. You spotted Nobara immediately—scrolling her phone, standing just off to the side of the doors, leaning against a poster case advertising the marathon: Six Horrors. One Ticket. Endure Everything.

She was wearing a light cropped jacket over a sleek top, wide-leg jeans hugging her hips, glossy hair pushed back with a pair of sunglasses she clearly wasn’t using. She wasn't wearing an eye patch today, the glass eye matching her real one almost perfectly—the scar around her eye barely visible now. Shoko was a god.

You waved as you approached. “Tell me you prepped for cinematic trash.”

She didn’t look up. “I brought gum and low expectations. I’m ready.”

You smirked and reached for the door.

“You look like you’re about to get scouted for a streetwear campaign,” you said as you walked in.

You glanced down at your own outfit—a pale blouse tucked loosely into faded denim, your favorite off-white sneakers scuffed just enough to be charming.

“You look cute,” she said, finally glancing at you. “In a tragic final-girl kind of way.”

“High praise.”

“I thought so.”

You nudged her shoulder. “Let’s get inside before all the good seats are taken.”

She stopped you with a tilt of her chin. “Wait—Yuuji and Megumi are grabbing snacks. We’re waiting.”

You paused mid-step. “What?”

Nobara gave you a look like you’d asked her if the sky was blue. “Yeah. Yuuji begged to come when he heard it was a horror marathon, and then Megumi agreed when he realized we were all going.”

That made your stomach do something complicated.

“He agreed?” you echoed, trying to keep your voice even. “Megumi?”

“Yeah,” she said, already turning toward the corridor that led to the screening rooms. “Said it was better than sitting at home. Whatever that means.”

You followed automatically, the soft squeak of your shoes against the floor suddenly loud.

Better than sitting at home.

The words looped in your head, uninvited. You weren’t sure what to do with that.

“Did he seem… okay?” you asked, quieter, wincing as the dumb question left your lips.

Nobara snorted. “He’s Megumi. He’s always exactly as okay as he wants people to think he is.”

You nodded, like that didn’t mean anything. “Right. Of course.”

Nobara started walking. “Come on. I want candy before the lines get bad.”

The lobby was buzzing with the scent of popcorn and synthetic sugar, the hum of the soda machine underscored by the low chatter of people loitering before their showtimes. The snack bar wasn’t crowded, but the few people waiting gave off the kind of restless energy you always associated with late-night movies. You spotted them near the far end of the counter.

Yuuji was unmistakable—bright hair, oversized clothes, grinning like he hadn’t seen you just yesterday at lunch. And of course, he was holding up the line—gesturing animatedly at the pretzel options while balancing a soda under one arm. He wore a red t-shirt under a denim overshirt, hair ruffled like he’d jogged there. His face lit up the moment he saw you.

He waved dramatically. “The warriors have assembled!”

Next to him—half a step back, quiet, hands in his pockets—stood Megumi. He looked slightly annoyed in the way he always did when Yuuji was in full chaos mode.

He wore a navy cable-knit sweater, its weave thick and textured, sleeves pulled down to his wrists. His jeans were a light-medium wash, worn-in but neat, and the tops of his brown Chelsea boots showed just beneath the cuff. He looked comfortable—more casual than you were used to seeing him—but still impossibly put-together. Clean lines. Subtle restraint. Not a thread out of place. His hair had that usual soft fall across his forehead, and his face was unreadable—until his gaze lifted. Found yours.

Held.

Your breath caught, just for a second.

He looked away.

“Perfect timing! We’re building our survival pack.” Yuuji practically beamed.

“Jesus,” Nobara muttered beside you. “He’s really letting Yuuji go full gremlin.”

You joined the line behind them, and Yuuji immediately turned to chatter about how six horror movies was “barely a challenge” and how he once stayed up for twenty hours to marathon every season of a crime documentary series.

While he launched into his snack strategy, Nobara rolled her eyes and told him to buy “literally anything edible and sour” for her.

You felt Megumi step a little closer beside you, just outside the buzz of the group.

“Hey,” he said, low enough that the others wouldn’t catch it.

You turned, pulse fluttering. He reached into the pocket of his jeans, then handed you something quietly—tucked between his fingers, like it wasn’t even worth mentioning.

Your favorite candy.

No comment. No smile. Just the offer.

You stared for a beat, then took it, your fingers brushing his.

“They were almost out, figured you’d want it.” he said simply. “Yuuji almost bought it. I had to threaten him.”

You huffed a laugh. “Chivalry lives.”

You slipped the candy into your bag and tried not to think too hard about how warm the packet felt in your hands. "Thanks.”

He shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.”

But it felt like one.

The four of you regrouped near the ticket scanner. Nobara handed over her stub with the ease of someone who'd done this routine a dozen times. Yuuji was already balancing popcorn and soda, narrating his snack choices like a sports commentator.

“Oh my god,” Nobara muttered. “I told you this was too much!”

“I bought rations,” Yuuji called out before she could say anything else. “For the war we’re about to face!”

“Of course you did,” she muttered, but her face was amused.

“I got one popcorn, two sodas, a water—because balance—and some kind of chocolate thing that might kill you from the sugar rush.”

“Sounds on-theme,” Nobara said, plucking her soda from the tray. “You have no restraint.”

“I got all the essentials!” he declared, scandalized. “This is restraint. You should’ve seen the tray I almost got.”

You trailed just behind Megumi as you entered the dark hallway toward your screen.

The theater was dark, half-filled, buzzing with the kind of energy only truly awful horror could summon. Nobara walked ahead, scanning the seats like she was evaluating real estate.

“This row,” she said. “Not too close, center-aligned, legroom.”

She slid into the aisle seat, muttering something about escape routes. Yuuji took the seat beside her, cradling the popcorn like a newborn. Megumi hesitated just behind them, glancing once toward the upper seats—then settled into the third seat in the row. Your seat was waiting. You slipped in beside him without a word.

The moment you sat, your elbow brushed his—soft knit against your arm—and he didn’t shift away. Just settled back. There were four seats between your group and the next person. Enough privacy to feel insulated. Comfortable.

The room buzzed quietly around you. Megumi shifted slightly in his seat, thigh brushing yours for a second as he got comfortable. He didn’t move away. Neither did you.

The scent of the snacks was warm in the dark. The screen flickered softly. You looked down the row—Nobara stealing popcorn from Yuuji’s lap, Yuuji complaining with his mouth full and Nobara shushing him with practiced ease.

You sat back, hands in your lap, heart still stubbornly out of rhythm. It was nothing. Just a group outing. Just four friends at the movies.

But you caught yourself thinking—if his shoulder brushed yours again, if his hand rested close enough to touch…

No one would notice.

And maybe—just maybe—he was thinking the same thing.

Maybe it was nothing. Just coincidence.

But maybe not.

The thought made your skin buzz. You fixed your eyes on the screen. Tried not to think too hard. But that tiny, ridiculous part of you—that had been mostly quiet since Monday, since his body had pressed into yours and his voice had cracked on your name—suddenly wanted to believe it was on purpose.

Wanted to believe maybe, if the lights stayed low, and no one was paying attention…

You might feel him lean just a little closer.

—

By the middle of the third movie, your brain had started to blur the blood-soaked plotlines together. your body had settled comfortably into the rhythm of the marathon—legs curled loosely beneath you, your drink long gone, your focus fully locked on the screen.

The acting was bad. The logic was worse. It was bad. Objectively. The plot made no sense, the effects were cheap, and the villain was somehow both underdeveloped and too much. But you liked it. You liked all of it. The pacing. The tension. The overdone sound design and the predictable gore.

The energy in the theater had shifted from snide commentary to a sort of reverent focus—as if everyone had decided to stop mocking the movie and simply give in. You had.

The too-cold AC, the rise and fall of dramatic strings, the flicker of flashing red and green light washing over your skin. Your heart rate barely ticked up when a shriek rang out from the screen or another pair of limbs got lopped off in slow motion.

Beside you, Megumi hadn’t moved much. He didn’t say anything during the second film, hadn’t reacted to anything louder than a footstep. But you’d felt him the entire time—the weight of his leg close to yours, the occasional brush of his sweater against your arm. He was probably hating the whole thing.

You loved it. You didn’t care that the plot was nonsense or that the actors had all delivered their lines like they were reading cue cards for the first time. You liked the rhythm of it. The predictability in the unpredictability—when the music dropped and the silence stretched just a second too long before—

The roar of a chainsaw ripped through the speakers, high and shrill and unapologetically loud. On screen, the killer barreled through a barn door, face dripping in makeup blood, arm swinging a blade so over-the-top it might’ve been crafted from aluminum foil.

You grinned, quietly delighted. And that’s when you felt it. A shift beside you. A flicker of heat against your cheek. And then—

Megumi’s voice, low and quiet and far too close to your ear.

“You’re actually into this stuff?”

It wasn’t the question—it was the way he asked it. Soft. Just for you. His mouth close enough that the shape of his words skimmed your skin.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you smiled at the screen and murmured, “What, too much for you?”

You felt, more than heard, the small exhale of amusement he let out. Close. Warm. Gone too quickly.

“No,” he said. “Didn’t peg you for the gore-and-scream type.”

“You’ve known us for how many years?” you murmured back. “You’re acting brand new.”

“Just confirming,” he said. “In case you all outgrew the part where screaming equals fun.”

“I like knowing who makes it out,” you whispered, eyes still on the screen. “It’s a good reminder.”

He didn’t answer right away. But you felt him shift, just barely, like the words had landed somewhere he wasn’t expecting. And just like that, he leaned back again, sinking slowly into the shadows beside you. His thigh brushed yours once more—light, almost thoughtless. But it didn’t move.

Neither did you.

The rest of the movie passed in flickers and shadows. Your hands shifted on the armrest—closer. His leg angled slightly toward yours. You caught him glance at you once, during a long, silent pan of the killer stalking a cornfield.

You didn’t look back.

But your pulse had started to move a little faster. Not from the movie. From him.

By the end of the third movie, Yuuji had slumped slightly in his seat, one hand half-buried in the popcorn bucket. Nobara was fully reclined, knees up on the empty seat in front of her, one arm crossed over her chest, eyes still locked on the screen like she was mentally rewriting the script herself. She yawned, then reached for her drink with the kind of tired dignity only she could pull off.

You sat forward, slowly, rubbing the back of your neck. Your shoulder brushed Megumi’s as you moved. He didn’t pull away. You turned to him just slightly—intending to make some offhand comment, maybe joke about the chainsaw scene again—but then you stopped.

Because he was already looking at you.

And then he moved—quiet and deliberate. Just a tilt of his arm. An open space between his side and his elbow. A subtle invitation.

Your chest tightened. It wasn’t a question out loud. He wouldn’t say it like that. But you knew what it meant.

You leaned in, slow and careful, and settled into the curve of him. Your head rested lightly against his chest, the thick cable knit of his sweater soft beneath your cheek.

His arm came around you a beat later, loose but sure. He didn’t pull you tighter. Didn’t press. Just held you there—quiet, steady, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The fourth movie started up in the background—screams and synth and a thudding bass line that barely registered.

You stayed exactly where you were.

And so did he.

—

The fifth movie had barely started when you slipped quietly out of the theater, easing past Yuuji’s slumped legs and Nobara’s soda without disturbing either. The cool hallway air hit your skin like a breath of relief after hours of recycled popcorn air and overacted screaming.

You padded down the carpeted hallway, quiet in your sneakers, and slipped into the bathroom. The cool water against your hands helped wake you up, the silence oddly still after the hours of screams and flickering color.

When you stepped back into the lobby, the lighting felt almost harsh—soft overhead fluorescents buzzing faintly, the hum of vending machines off to the right, and not much else.

Except him.

Megumi stood near the snack counter, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the overhead menu with the kind of disinterested focus he probably used in line at the grocery store. But he looked good. Stupidly good. That navy sweater stretched across his back, jeans sitting low on his hips, his brown boots worn in just enough to look lived-in—planted solid on the scuffed floor.

He hadn’t noticed you yet. And maybe you watched him a second longer than you meant to. You crossed the floor quietly, letting your voice carry as you stepped up beside him.

“Didn’t think I’d find you out here.”

He looked over. “You disappeared.”

“I’m allowed to pee,” you said with a grin.

He didn’t rise to it. Just nodded toward the counter. “Figured I’d check if you were getting anything.”

“I was just gonna grab water,” you said. “But if you’re eating—”

“We could split something,” he offered, already looking at the menu.

You moved a little closer, peering over his shoulder. “Fries?”

“I can live with fries.”

You stepped forward with him in line. The counter ahead was half-empty. A few employees moved slowly behind the glass, refilling trays of nachos and lukewarm fries.

As you looked up at the overhead board, you didn’t notice the group of guys leaning against the other end of the counter—four of them, maybe five. Loud enough to be heard, though not enough to interrupt the quiet mood. Their laughter was low, their glances sideways.

You didn’t notice them.

But Megumi did.

You shifted a little closer. “God, do you remember the last time we got fries after a movie? We were still in school. That awful night in Harajuku. Yuuji ordered three large sodas and then left all of them on the train.”

He didn’t respond. You didn’t notice.

“He tried to lie about it too, like they just vanished. I think Nobara threatened to knock his head into the next prefecture.”

Still nothing. You were mid-sentence when his gaze flicked toward them again. One of the guys was looking at you too long. The others had that same tilt of posture—angled toward you like they were deciding something.

You didn’t register any of it. But you noticed the shift in him. How he turned toward you slightly. How his jaw tensed for half a second.

Then he reached for you—slow, deliberate. His fingers touched your chin first, guiding your face up to meet his. Your words died on your tongue.

And then he kissed you. It wasn’t a soft test or a hesitant ask. It wasn’t for show. It was quiet, full, and certain. His fingers curved beneath your jaw, his other hand finding your waist like it had been waiting for this moment—like it knew exactly where it belonged. His body pressed close, solid and warm, chest brushing yours through the thick knit of his sweater.

You froze for only a second, then sank into it, hands lifting on instinct to grip the nape of his neck. He kissed you like he didn’t care who saw. And when he finally pulled back, your heart was thudding somewhere up in your throat.

Your voice came out barely above a breath. “What was that for?”

He held your gaze. No hesitation. Just a slow blink, the barest flicker of something warm at the corner of his mouth.

“Just wanted to.”

Then—without explanation, without apology—he slipped his arm fully around your waist and drew you into him. His other hand settled at your hip now, low and grounding, the hard lines of his body pressed into yours. Not performative. Not forceful.

Just his.

The noise of the lobby faded out around you—the soda machine humming faintly, the buzz of the light overhead. Distant footsteps passed from another hallway, but none of it touched you.

Your fingers curled against the hem of his sweater. His head dipped slightly toward yours. He didn’t kiss you again. Not right away. But you didn’t need him to. Not with the way he was holding you like that. Like he wasn’t planning to let go.

—

The house lights came on the moment the sixth film cut to black, washing the theater in harsh, stale fluorescence. Nobara groaned like she’d aged ten years.

“That was straight-up psychological warfare.”

Yuuji stretched his arms over his head. “I feel like I survived a trial. Like I should get a badge.”

“I want my time back,” Nobara said, slipping her bag over her shoulder. “I want my money back. I want my standards back. I’m officially brain dead.”

Yuuji yawned so hard he didn’t even try to cover it. “I’m scared to sleep now. Not because of the ghosts—just because of what I’ll dream about those movies.”

“I’m gonna have flashbacks,” Nobara said, already halfway down the aisle. “Not to the horror. To the dialogue.”

You stood slowly, blinking against the sudden brightness. “Come on, the lake monster was kind of fun.”

“It looked like a soggy sponge,” she shot back.

You laughed and followed the others toward the lobby, still a little unsteady from the weight of the last few hours—and from Megumi’s warmth still lingering along your side. He was already up, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his empty water bottle. He didn’t say anything, just looked back once to make sure you were following.

You filed out into the lobby with the others, blinking against the fluorescent lights. Everything looked too sharp after so many hours in the dark. The floor was littered with stray popcorn kernels, someone’s crumpled hoodie, and a soda spill that had congealed into something tragic.

“I need protein,” Yuuji muttered. “And actual light. I haven’t seen the sun in, like, a week.”

“It’s 2:30 in the morning,” Nobara replied. “You’re not seeing the sun for a few hours more.”

Megumi was already heading for the exit, keys out. “I’ll drive.”

“No shit you’ll drive,” Nobara said, slipping on her coat. “None of us are functional.”

You followed the group into the parking lot. The night air was cooler now, the pavement still holding a faint warmth from earlier. Megumi’s car chirped as he unlocked it. Without thinking, you moved toward the passenger side door. He didn’t stop you.

“Dibs on the front—too slow,” you said to Nobara, just to be safe.

“I wasn’t gonna fight you for it,” she muttered. “I want to lie down and die in the back seat.”

“Same.” Yuuji added. “Can we get food on the way? I know it’s 2AM, but—”

“No,” Nobara and Megumi said at the same time.

Your pink haired friend groaned and slumped into the seat. “Why are all of you so mean when I’m vulnerable?”

Once you were all in, Megumi started the car. The interior lights dimmed automatically, and for a moment, no one spoke.

“Nakano, right?” he asked Nobara, glancing into the rearview.

“Yeah. Left at the combini.”

Yuuji perked up from where he was already half-asleep. “Are we sure we can’t detour for food?”

“I’ll throw you out the window,” Nobara said.

“You’d miss me.”

“I really wouldn’t.”

You hid a smile, staring out the window as the car rolled into motion.

The city at night felt gentler somehow—less crowded, less sharp. The breeze through the cracked windows brought the scent of faint cherry blossoms and asphalt, a strange mix of spring and exhaustion.

Nobara cracked her knuckles. “That fifth movie had potential. If they had removed the script, the cast, and the ending, it would’ve been solid.”

“They killed the dog for no reason,” Yuuji muttered.

“That was personal,” you agreed.

Megumi said nothing. You glanced over at him, half-expecting him to meet your eyes. But he was focused on the road, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift like always. Your heart did something quiet and nervous.

The car was quiet again after the next red light.

“Megumi,” Nobara said suddenly, “rate the movies. Worst to best.”

He didn’t look over. “They were all bad.”

“No. Rank them. I want suffering in order.”

He exhaled, barely audible. “Fourth. Then second. Sixth. First. Fifth. Third.”

Nobara blinked. “Wait. You thought the third was the best?”

“The acting was the least unbearable.”

Yuuji laughed. “That’s such a Megumi answer. No ‘this one had heart’ or ‘the monster design was sick.’ Just, ‘the suffering was slightly less acute.’”

When he finally pulled up outside Nobara’s apartment, she opened the door and stretched like a cat. “Thanks for the ride, chauffeur. Don’t crash on the way home.”

She leaned down slightly, poking her head back in. “Text me if either of you wakes up in a cold sweat.”

“Text me if you start seeing lake monsters,” you said.

“I already do,” she muttered, jerking her thumb at Yuuji. “Night, losers.”

And with that, the door thunked shut behind her. The silence that settled after she left felt different. Heavier.

You glanced at Megumi, who still hadn’t looked your way. Yuuji was already half-asleep in the back, humming faintly to whatever lo-fi beat Megumi had turned on during the ride.

Your heart picked up again—for no good reason. Maybe he’d drop you off last. Maybe he’d come up. Maybe he’d say something about earlier. About the kiss. About the way he’d held you like he’d meant it. Maybe he'd stay the night.

When he made the turn you weren’t expecting—your street, not Yuuji’s—your chest went cold.

You turned to look at him. “Oh. You’re dropping me first?”

His eyes stayed on the road. “Made the most sense.”

Your throat felt suddenly tight. “Right.” you said, trying not to sound surprised. “I thought…”

Megumi kept quiet—just slowed near your building. You hesitated, fingers tightening around your bag.

He didn’t meet your eyes. Just let his fingers tap the wheel once. “You good?”

You forced a smile. “Yeah. Thanks for the ride.”

He nodded. “Night.”

Just like that. No pause. No flicker of his hand. No suggestion of more.

You opened the door slowly, stepping out into the stillness of your block. The car’s interior light flicked on behind you, pale and warm. Yuuji mumbled something from the back—maybe a sleepy goodbye. You didn’t respond.

The door shut with a soft click. You stood on the sidewalk and watched the taillights blur into the dark, waiting—stupidly, stubbornly—for the car to stop. Or slow. Or reverse.

It didn’t.

And you stood there, alone on your sidewalk, wondering if you’d imagined all of it.

—

The week that followed was… normal. Annoyingly normal. Life didn’t stop—just smoothed over like it hadn’t split open at all.

You ran errands in the morning. Did laundry. Trained. Had lunch with Yuuji, who told you about a cursed tree in Aichi that screamed when someone picked its fruit. You responded with half-laughs and polite questions, but your mind was somewhere else the entire time.

Missions. De-briefs. Late lunches grabbed from street stalls or convenience stores between cursed sightings. You shared quiet trains, walked the same winding Tokyo streets with Yuuji’s laughter spilling between you and Nobara’s pointed commentary filling the gaps. The routine stayed the same.

Steady. Familiar.

So why did it all feel different?

He’d kissed you.

Not like someone testing a boundary. Not like a mistake.

He’d kissed you like he’d needed it. Like he’d been holding back so long it nearly broke him.

Worse than the silence was the way it all felt so… normal.

Like nothing had ever happened.

Like the sex hadn’t happened.

Like you hadn’t spent a night trembling under him, letting him wreck you slow with his mouth, his fingers, his cock—whispering things into your neck in that voice that barely held itself together.

A week since that kiss. A week since the way he pulled you into him like he’d finally let something snap. Since the way he tasted like heat and silence, like restraint breaking open.

And then—nothing.

Not distant, not cold. Just—Megumi. Thoughtful. Sharp. Careful. Sometimes funny. Always respectful. Quiet. Steady. Occasionally dry-witted when Nobara said something outrageous. Occasionally warm when Yuuji needed reassurance. Responsible. Focused. Still partnered with you more than anyone else.

Life had gone on. Missions were assigned. You trained. Ate. Laughed when you were supposed to. Nodded when your name was called. He was there through it all—at group lunches, beside you in staff briefings, lingering at Yuuji’s side when Nobara made another sarcastic dig.

And he was perfectly normal. Not distant. Not awkward. Not cold. Just maddeningly, unfalteringly normal. You talked like nothing had changed, even though it had. Even though your body remembered things your mouth couldn’t say. His hands. His mouth. His voice, low and hoarse against your skin.

You remembered the way he’d held you like he couldn’t believe he got to.

But he didn’t bring it up. Not the kiss. Not the sex. Not a single thing.

The longer it stretched, the more your mind twisted.

You caught yourself watching him in the smallest ways—his hands when he reached for his tea, the edge of his mouth when he smiled at something Yuuji said, the faint crease between his brows when he was reading a mission brief.

Wondering too much. Overanalyzing every shift in his face, every blink, every word. Was that a look? Did his hand brush yours on purpose? Why hadn’t he said anything?

Once, during a field assignment in Shibuya, he’d reached for your arm to steady you on a crumbling slope. His hand had been warm around your elbow. The pressure firm, protective.

And he’d dropped it the second you found your footing.

Gone.

Like it never happened.

None of it gave him away. Not one hint.

You talked about assignments, schedules, what Nobara wore to a sorcerer gala that she absolutely was not invited to. He laughed once when Yuuji nearly walked into traffic, called you out for mispronouncing the name of a cursed tool, even handed you his half-finished drink during lunch when yours was too sweet.

But he never touched you. Never looked at you like he had in that movie theater, never said a single word about that kiss. Or anything else.

You tried not to act different either. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t press. Just joked when the others did, stayed professional when you needed to, and tried—desperately—not to care that the person who had kissed you like he couldn’t stop himself was now acting like it never happened.

Another week passed. You had dinner with Nobara. Ran errands with Yuuji. Got partnered with Megumi for two local missions in a row. He was careful. Precise. Perfectly focused.

It burned.

Maybe he hadn’t meant for it to happen again. Maybe that night was just… tension. A one-time indulgence. A scratch of an itch he didn’t have anymore. The kiss? Maybe it was a whim. Maybe you were the one who had made it more than it was. Maybe it had been casual for him. You’d convinced yourself that maybe he needed release, needed closeness for one night, and now he was back to baseline. And you were just—what you’d always been. A friend.

You told yourself you were just giving him space. Time. Letting him lead. You didn’t want to seem needy or insecure or like you couldn’t handle something as simple as sex between friends.

You told yourself a lot of things.

Maybe you’d read too far into everything. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. And it wouldn’t be fair to ask.

This wasn’t supposed to be complicated. You hadn’t defined it. Hadn’t demanded anything. Hadn’t even asked if it would happen again.

So you swallowed it.

Buried the ache when you sat beside him and he didn’t touch you. When your fingers brushed and he didn’t react. When he leaned back in his seat with his usual silence and gave you a soft, blank smile that made your chest burn anyway.

And you carried on. Same friends. Same rhythm. Same him. Except it wasn’t the same anymore—not for you.

You couldn’t stop remembering the way he looked at you in the dark. The way he sounded when he was inside you. The way he held your body like it was something he’d never meant to have and couldn’t bear to let go of.

You couldn’t stop wanting it again. You just didn’t think he ever would.

So when your phone buzzed at 9:47 PM that Thursday night, you weren’t expecting anything. You were freshly showered, hair damp, legs tucked under your blanket on the couch. A half-watched show played low on the screen. The text lit up your phone like a flare.

[you home?]

Your breath stuttered. You blinked at the screen. Typed back before your brain could catch up.

[yeah, why?]

No reply. For exactly eight minutes. Then the buzzer rang.

You stood frozen in your living room, hair still half-wrapped in a towel, your heart slamming so hard it echoed in your ears.

He didn’t text again. Just waited. You threw on a hoodie over the soft shorts you wore, wiped your palms on the hem, and buzzed him in.

The knock came seconds later.

When you opened the door, Megumi stood there in black— hoodie, jeans. Casual. Hands in his pockets. No words. His hair was a little messy from the wind, eyes dark and unreadable. He looked like something had been keeping him up for days.

“Hey,” you said, soft.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you.

Then: “Can I come in?”

You stepped aside. “Yeah.”

He walked past you without a sound, like he’d been here a thousand times before. The door clicked shut behind you. You turned to ask him something—what was this, what are you doing, do you ever think about that kiss—

Instead, you asked, “Is everything alright?”

He was closed now. Closer than you had realised. He reached up—gentle now—and brushed your hair behind your ear. His hand lingered at your cheek.

His voice came low in the space between you. “Is this okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Tell me to go,” he said softly. “I will.”

You didn’t.

His mouth found yours with zero preamble—there was nothing tentative about it.

His lips crushed against yours, one hand sliding up the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist like he didn’t trust you wouldn’t disappear if he didn’t hold. You gasped softly, lips parting under his, and he groaned into your mouth like he’d been imagining this exact sound for weeks. He kissed you like it had been building.

Your fingers curled into his chest, clutching at him like you could pull him inside you.

When he broke for air, his voice was ragged. “You trust me?”

You breathed. “Always.”

He kissed you once more, softer now, and then—

“Kitchen,” he murmured against your lips. “Counter. Now.”

You blinked. “What?”

His voice dropped another octave. “Please.”

There was no build-up this time. No slow lean-in. Just his mouth on yours—hot, open, almost desperate. You kissed him back with everything you’d been holding in for weeks. Your hands in his chest. His arms around your waist.

He groaned softly into your mouth, one hand dragging down the length of your spine. You didn’t realize he was walking you backward until you back bumped the kitchen counter.

You gasped. “Megumi—”

He kissed your jaw. “Let me.”

His hands slid under your sweater. Gripped your thighs.

“You’re so fucking soft,” he muttered. “Been thinking about this, way too fucking much.”

Then—quietly, urgently—he broke away.

“Turn around.”

His voice was low. Hoarse. Not demanding, just... full.

When you turned, he helped—hands warm at your hips, guiding you up. You lay flat over the marble, chest and stomach against the cool surface, arms folded under your cheek. The hoodie rode up a little as you shifted to get comfortable, the hem of your shorts dragging higher.

Your feet didn’t reach the floor. They dangled. Bare, twitching slightly as you caught your breath.

Your breath caught. “Megumi—?”

“I’ve been thinking about this every night,” he mumbled against your nape. “You. Right here.”

He leaned back again, nudging your thighs apart.

“Legs open,” he said, so quiet you barely heard it.

You did what he asked.

“Just like that,” he whispered.

You looked over your shoulder—just in time to see him pull out a chair.

And sit.

“Stay there,” he said. “Don’t move.”

He dragged your shorts down slowly, one side at a time, eyes never leaving your body. Then your underwear. Then nothing.

Just open air. Cold marble. His breath. Warm. Focused.

“Been going insane,” his tone was pure awe. “Thinking about this.”

Your stomach flipped. You were spread out across the counter, laid bare.

“Good?” he asked, voice rough but careful.

You nodded, cheek pressed to the counter. “Yeah.”

“I can’t wait anymore.”

You reached behind to brace yourself, breath shaky.

“What—what are you doing?”

He looked up, eyes dark.

“Eating.”

And then his hands curled around your thighs, spreading them apart. Positioning you.

“I—I didn’t expect—”

“Shhh.” he pleaded. “Just let me taste you,”

“You—” You twisted slightly. “You came all the way here just to—”

“Yes.”

Your cheeks flushed hot. The kitchen suddenly felt too still. He sat there, calmly. Like he had all the time in the world.

His thumbs spread you open. And then his mouth was on you. No warning. No hesitation. No teasing.

Your whole body jerked.

“Megu—”

His hands pressed firmer. “Relax.”

It wasn’t just a command. It was a promise.

Then his mouth sealed to you like it was instinct. He licked like he was savoring something he hadn’t earned—slow, deliberate swipes between your folds, tongue curling around your clit, then slipping back to fuck into you with slow, hot strokes.

You choked on a sound. Your elbows slipped forward. He adjusted his grip immediately, pulling your hips toward the edge of the counter again. One hand gripped your thigh, the other smoothed over your lower back, holding you still. Every part of you was under control.

You couldn’t see him. Couldn’t reach him. Only feel—his breath, his mouth, the warm rasp of his voice when he finally spoke.

“I missed this.”

You whimpered.

He groaned low in his throat and licked again—deeper this time. Then higher. Then slow, perfect circles over your clit that made your knees buckle. His hands held you steady. His chair scraped a little closer. He sat there like he could stay all night.

Every movement was precise. Intentional. His tongue fucked into you, long and deep, while his nose nudged your ass cheek. You bit your arm, nearly sobbing as your knees buckled.

“You taste,” he murmured between strokes, “so fucking good.”

His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs pressing into soft skin, holding you open and helpless. You gasped, hips lifting slightly off the counter.

“Fuck, Megumi—”

His grip tightened. His tongue circled again—then again—until your toes curled and your stomach clenched tight.

“You’re shaking,” he mumbled against your skin.

“You’re—fuck—you’re making me—”

“Good.” His voice was dark. Hoarse.

He leaned in further. Wrapped his arms beneath your thighs, lifted your legs just enough to pull you toward the edge. Your calves rested on his shoulders now, heels kicking slightly in the air.

Your legs dangled—helpless, trembling—and he licked into you like a man possessed. Tongue fucking you slow and filthy, mouth sealing over your clit in long, sucking pulses until tears pricked the corners of your eyes.

You whimpered. “You—you’re just gonna sit there and—”

“Eat,” he said. “Yeah.”

He kissed your inner thigh. “You’re the only thing I’ve wanted all week.”

Then he dove back in.

Sloppier this time. Sucking gently at your clit, then teasing it with the tip of his tongue until your legs kicked helplessly in the air behind you. You tried to brace yourself, nails scratching the marble, the position making every nerve more sensitive—your ass tipped up, thighs trembling, chest pressed hard against the counter.

His hands didn’t leave you. They held your thighs open, kept your hips still, thumbs pressing gentle circles into your skin like he was soothing you—like you were something to be handled carefully even as he devoured you.

And he did.

Devour you.

You squirmed, soft moans leaving your mouth before you could stop them.

“Don’t run,” he said, voice rasping against the backs of your thighs.

“I—I’m not—” you whined. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He exhaled hot against your pussy. “Not done.”

He just groaned—low, deep in his chest—and latched onto your clit with his mouth, sucking until your vision blurred. Kept you open with his lips and hands until you were grinding helplessly into his face, trembling like you couldn’t stop.

His tongue pushed inside you again, spreading slick heat through your core. He took his time, no rush, every movement precise—controlled, but slow like punishment. Like something he needed to prove. Something he was still holding himself back from.

You moaned into the marble, legs twitching. “Too good—”

His voice came rough against your skin. “Then let it be.”

He licked upward—slow and steady—then circled your clit with the flat of his tongue, over and over until your thighs began to shake. The sound of it was obscene.

“Fuck—Megumi—please—”

He grunted, and you could feel it—hot and guttural against your skin.

He didn’t speak again. Just kept you where he wanted you, licking messily, tongue flicking and stroking and tasting you through every soft gasp and stuttered moan. It built and built—pressure curling hard and hot at the base of your spine.

When you came—hard, sudden, overwhelming—it was like your whole body unraveled in his mouth. You cried out, forehead pressed to your arm, thighs clenching helplessly around his head, hands clawing at the slick marble for something to hold.

But he didn’t stop. He licked you through it—slower now, tender. Cleaning you. Savoring you. Only when your hips twitched from sensitivity did he finally pull back.

“Too much—‘Gumi—fuck—”

His face was flushed, lips pink and glistening, his hair mussed from your thighs.

“Megumi…” you managed.

He kissed the inside of your knee. “Still with me?”

You nodded, dizzy.

“Good.” He stood. “C’mere.”

You let him lift you gently off the counter. Your legs buckled, and he caught you immediately, laughing under his breath.

“Okay, I maybe overdid it.”

You glared at him weakly. “You think?”

He bent down—you felt his lips at your lower back, then your spine—helped you step back into your underwear and shorts, smoothing the fabric up over your hips with maddening care. He kissed the back of your neck. Just once.

Then hooked an arm under your legs and another behind your back—and lifted you like you weighed nothing.

“Wait, I can walk—” you started.

“You’re shaking,” he said simply.

He carried you to the couch, sat with you for a second before carefully laying you down. Your head rested against a pillow. He tugged the throw blanket over your legs, fixed your sweater where it had ridden up. Brushed the backs of his fingers along your cheek.

You stared up at him, dazed. “You’re… really good at that.”

He huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. “Yeah.”

He didn’t try to stay. But he lingered. Adjusted the throw blanket. Ran his hand once down your arm.

He swallowed. His gaze softened. You leaned up, and this time you kissed him.

It was slower. Warmer. He melted into it just slightly, one hand curling at your hip like he didn’t want to stop.

When you broke away, he brushed your hair back gently, studying you like he couldn’t help it.

“I have a mission in five hours,” he said, smiling faintly. “Didn’t plan on staying. Just…”

You saw the rest of the sentence in his eyes.

Had to see you.

You didn’t push. He bent down. Kissed your cheek. Then your forehead.

“I’ll text when I’m back.”

You nodded, throat tight. He stood slowly. Looked at you for a long moment, like he wanted to say something else.

Then crouched down briefly as Satoru padded into the room. Megumi scratched gently behind his ears.

“Keep an eye on her for me, yeah?”

The cat purred, tail curling around his leg.

Megumi rose again, and you watched as he stepped toward the door—quiet, calm, unreadable. But before he opened it, he glanced back at you one last time.

The door clicked shut. And then he was gone. Leaving behind the ghost of his mouth, the echo of his voice, and the warmth you hadn’t realized you’d missed until it nearly broke you.

—

A few days passed, and everything went back to normal again. Or close enough to pretend.

You still hadn’t talked about it—the kitchen, his mouth, the way he’d left you trembling on your couch with nothing but a soft “I’ll text you.” And then the text did come, but it was simple. Casual. Like he hadn’t tasted every inch of you with reverence a few nights ago.

And yet, here you were. Sitting next to him again. Same routine. Same silence.

Same quiet burn that made it hard to sit still.

It was early—barely past six. The city hadn’t fully woken yet. Pale morning light crawled along the streets as Ijichi’s car rolled to a stop in a sleepy industrial neighborhood miles outside of downtown Tokyo—mostly rusting warehouses and quiet stretches of asphalt, the kind of place too empty to feel real at this hour, fog hanging low.

The mission briefing had come in quiet, barely at dawn.

A cursed signature spotted outside one of the old refineries on the edge of Chōfu. Just strong enough to warrant precaution, but weak enough to not need a team. You and Megumi had taken the assignment without much thought. Low-risk. Quick check.

You sat in the back seat, your knee drawn up, head tipped toward the window. Megumi beside you. Close, but not close enough to touch.

Ijichi had stepped out a few minutes earlier, muttering something about the sighting zone and going ahead on foot. Said he’d take a while. You nodded, adjusting the cuffs of your jacket. Megumi leaned back against the headrest, long legs bent slightly where the front seat cut into his knees.

“I’ll walk the area, see if anything’s flaring up,” he’d said, adjusting his collar. “You two can nap if you want. I’ll be a while.”

Then he’d closed the front door gently behind him and disappeared between a row of leaning fenceposts and half-buried traffic cones.

Now, the car was still. The silence stretched.

Megumi's eyes were closed but not asleep. His hair was still damp from his morning shower, and he smelled like his usual, dark cedar and quiet citrus—bare, clean, him.

He hadn’t said much since you climbed in that morning—just a soft greeting, a nod when you offered him coffee. It was like always.

You leaned your head back, then whispered, “I think Ijichi should retire.”

Megumi’s eyes stayed closed, but his brow twitched slightly.

You smiled to yourself. “I mean, after what happened in Shibuya? I know he's dependable and all, but I don't think the man has a shred of cartilage left in his knees.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t open his eyes. He moved instead.

You caught the rustle of his jacket sleeve as he leaned forward, arm stretching toward the center console. You turned your head just in time to see him press something.

The divider began to rise. A soft mechanical hum filled the space as the smoked glass slid up smoothly between you and the empty front seat.

You blinked. “What are you—”

Then—click. The back doors locked.

Your breath caught mid-sentence. Slowly, you turned to look at him. He was sitting back again, this time more squarely toward you, one leg angled, arm draped along the edge of the seat. His lashes were low, eyes fixed on you like he hadn’t looked away in minutes.

He said nothing. Just watched. The morning silence tightened like a noose.

You shifted slightly, breath shallow. “...What are you doing?”

A beat. Then, soft, barely audible, “I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

The words hit like a match to dry leaves.

You sat still. The air between your bodies was electric—warm and tight, like it could snap with the smallest movement. He leaned in slightly, voice low.

“I tried not to. But I can’t sit this close and pretend.”

You opened your mouth—but nothing came out. His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up.

“If you don’t want—”

“I didn’t say that,” you breathed.

And that’s when his hand came up, slow and quiet, resting against the edge of your seat between you—not touching you yet, but close enough that you felt the heat of him through the space.

He was watching you like a man trying not to fall apart.

The tension didn’t break. It bent.

You weren’t sure how he’d gotten so close—how his fingers had found your thigh, how the kiss had started so quietly, without any warning—but the second his mouth was on yours, you felt it: the exhaustion, the ache, the caffeine on his tongue. His mouth warm and soft against yours like it was just another morning habit. His fingers skimmed up your jaw, caught in the edge of your hair.

The kiss didn’t burn. It simmered—lazy and heady, half-asleep, like neither of you had fully woken up and this was the first thing your bodies remembered how to do. It wasn’t greedy. It was indulgent. A quiet kind of want. Like his body had already decided and your mouth was just catching up.

Megumi didn’t rush, he never truly did. He kissed you like it was inevitable, like you’d both known the quiet would eventually give way to something else. You inhaled sharply as his fingers skimmed the top of your thigh, nudging your legs apart just enough to fit between them. The heel of his palm pressed gently between your knees, his breath still brushing yours.

He kissed you again—deeper now—and shifted closer, guiding you gently until your back was pressed against the car door. The cold of it made you gasp. His hand trailed up higher, fingers gliding over the seam of your panties, featherlight.

Your hands flew up to his chest. ““Megumi—Ijichi could be back any second—”

Your knee jerked in. You squirmed just enough to try and shift your hips away, but his hand clamped you tighter—not mean, not too hard. His fingers curled and pinched the side of your thigh, a sharp thing, more warning than cruelty.

Megumi smirked—a rare, crooked thing—right before he leaned down to kiss along your jaw. His voice came out rough, quiet, amused, muffled against your skin, but it left no room for arguing, like he wasn’t going to entertain you the thought of stopping.

“Let me have my breakfast.”

The words hit your stomach like heat and you let out a pathetic little sound as it was the only thing your brain could muster.

He kissed you again, brief and soft, before ducking lower. You let your head fall back against the door as his hands gripped your hips, adjusting your position. One palm hooked behind your knee, guiding it up—awkwardly, carefully—until your leg bent over his shoulder. Then the other. His fingers curled into your skin, dragging you closer.

He didn’t care how cramped the space was. One of his knees was pressed into the floor of the car, the other wedged awkwardly, bent against the center hump between seats at an angle that had to hurt. The leather under you creaked faintly. His body was all sharp lines and tight corners, shoulders nearly too wide for the space, barely fitting between your legs—broad, steady, filling the tight space like it didn’t faze him.

Megumi’s palms slid under your ass, his long fingers spanning the backs of your thighs as he secured your legs on his shoulders and lifted you—actually lifted—just enough to angle you right, to bring you flush to his mouth, your skirt pushed up and your panties tugged to the side like he’d done this in his head a hundred times already.

The pressure on your back pushed you slightly against the door. Your hands flailed for something to hold. The ceiling of the car felt too low. The windows too dark. The seatbelt buckle pressed awkwardly into your spine. None of it mattered.

His mouth met you with a low exhale. The first lick was unrushed. Firm. A long drag through your folds that made your hips jolt in his hands. He didn’t pause. Didn’t ease into it. He just groaned low in his throat and buried himself, licking deep through your pussy, tongue flicking and dragging and pushing like he had every intention of making a mess out of you before the sun had fully risen.

“Fuck—Megumi—”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t pause. He just gripped the underside of your thighs tighter, mouth opening wider against you as his tongue flicked over your clit, then slid back down to your entrance. He sucked slowly. Licked deeper. It was filthy, almost reverent.

You felt it all—every shift, every drag, every wet sound echoing off the sealed walls of the car. His body twisted again, adjusting the angle, one arm sliding under your ass to lift your hips higher into his mouth. The pressure hit different now.

You moaned softly, your body already starting to tremble, your toes curling, vision blurring around the edges.

It was too much.

Too early.

Too fucking good.

You clenched your fist against the seatbelt buckle. He didn’t speak. Didn’t make a sound. Just ate you with terrifying focus. His tongue slipped inside you again—slow, insistent. Then circled your clit, soft and perfect, until your legs twitched around his head and your jaw dropped open around a broken gasp.

“Oh my god—”

He pressed closer. Pinned you there, groaning against your cunt, the sound low and quiet like everything he did, but it vibrated through you like a shockwave.

You weren’t sure how long it lasted. How long he licked, sucked, and stroked you with his mouth until your thoughts dissolved. But when it broke—when your orgasm tore through you, fast and heavy and hot—it took your breath with it, loud in your chest even though your voice barely made it past your lips.

You shook through it, legs twitching, hips bucking into his face before falling back limp. And he still didn’t stop. He licked you through it. Slower now. A little softer. A little cruel.

When he finally let you go, easing your legs down, the leather seat felt cold beneath your skin. You blinked at the ceiling, breath sharp and uneven, trying to gather the pieces of your mind.

Megumi sat back in one slow, compact movement, the leather squeaking faintly. And without a word—without even asking—he reached up and gently caught your face in his palm. Eased you down. Your cheek met the fabric of his uniform, your head pillowed against his thigh, knees curled beneath you. You barely realized what was happening before his fingers were in your hair—stroking once, then again. Thumb grazing the edge of your ear.

You blinked up at him, dazed. Still flushed. Still confused. Still… untouched. You didn’t understand. Was he not going to…?

You waited. No belt unbuckled. No fingers shoved in after. No greedy grip of your waist. Just his mouth. And this. This stillness. You’d come, again—and he hadn’t. And it made no sense.

Your heart was still pounding. Your body humming. And still—

Still he hadn’t taken anything. Why?

You blinked again. He’s not going to fuck me? Again? This was the second time now. Slow, thorough, completely one-sided. You stared at the dash. Mind spinning.

What is this? Isn’t this supposed to be casual? Friends with benefits? Why does he only do this? Why won’t he take more? Why doesn’t he fuck me? Does he get off on this? Does he think I don’t want more? Is he just trying to be nice?

You wanted to ask. But you didn’t. He hadn’t touched himself. Hadn’t even looked like he was going to. You didn’t understand.

What is he getting out of this?

Wasn’t this supposed to be about taking what you needed? So, why does he only do this? Why won’t he take more? How could he keep giving without taking?

You couldn’t ask and he didn’t offer. So you laid there, skin still buzzing, the weight of him warm and steady beneath your cheek, and let the questions blur—even though they burned through your stomach, sparking at your throat, your body had other plans. The low-grade tremble still in your legs, the warmth of his hand at your scalp, the pulse of release still echoing between your thighs…

You were still sticky with slick. Your panties shoved to the side. And Megumi just sat there—quiet, solid, stroking your hair like this was the end of something, not the beginning. You closed your eyes and before you could untangle even one thought, sleep pulled you under.

He never shifted. Didn’t speak. Didn’t stop touching you. And when Ijichi’s steps returned—distant, steady—neither of you moved.

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