#misstar writes

“Really?” you pressed, tilting your head. “It’s not like I have a lot of them. Just thought maybe it flew onto your side of the balcony or something.”

“Mm. No,” he repeated, pushing his keys into his lock. “Check again. Maybe it’s stuck in your dryer.”

And that was the end of it. He disappeared into his apartment with his usual cool dismissal, leaving you with the nagging thought that maybe, just maybe, he knew more than he was letting on.

What you didn’t see was the way his jaw tightened as soon as the door clicked shut behind him. Your shirt was upstairs, stretched tight around his pillow like a fitted case, the faint warmth of your scent clinging stubbornly to the fabric.

When he went to bed later, he pressed his cheek to it, eyes falling shut with a heavy sigh. He imagined you standing in the hallway earlier, teasing him about the missing shirt, the way your laugh would’ve sounded if you’d known the truth.

And even the next morning, when you asked again in passing—half joking this time—Megumi just shrugged. “Told you. Didn’t see it.” His voice was steady, but the image of your shirt against his skin was enough to make him avert his gaze before you could catch on.

It wasn’t supposed to happen—you weren’t supposed to be inside his apartment. But the building’s power had flickered out, your phone battery was dead, and Megumi was the only neighbor you trusted enough to knock on.

He’d opened the door like always, quiet and unreadable, and let you in without a word.

You sat in his living room while he looked for a candle, your eyes drifting toward the faint light spilling out from his half-open bedroom door. You shouldn’t have peeked. You knew you shouldn’t. But curiosity was a dangerous thing.

You padded closer, barefoot against the floor, and when you leaned your head just enough to peek inside—you froze.

There it was. Your missing t-shirt. Stretched tight over his pillow like a second skin. You could recognize it instantly, the fraying neckline, the faded logo. Only it wasn’t crumpled or forgotten—it had been chosen. Deliberately pulled over his pillow, like he wanted your scent to be the very last thing he felt before falling asleep and the first thing he woke up to.

Heat rushed to your face, equal parts shock and something darker twisting in your stomach. You should’ve laughed it off, should’ve walked away and pretended you never saw—but instead you stepped further inside, fingertips brushing the fabric, heart pounding when you caught the faintest trace of yourself still clinging to it.

“You shouldn’t be in here.”

His voice startled you, deep and even, though you could tell he hadn’t expected you to wander this far. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, but his eyes gave him away—dark, sharp, watching your hand still clutching the edge of the pillow.

You swallowed. “So you did see my shirt.”

For a moment, silence. Then, slow and deliberate, Megumi shrugged. “Guess I forgot to give it back.”

You let out a breathless laugh, turning fully toward him, the t-shirt still between your fingers. “Forgot? You’ve been sleeping on it.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t move. “And if I have?”

The air between you grew heavy, charged. The shirt slipped from your grasp, falling back onto his bed, and you realized with startling clarity that he wasn’t going to apologize. He wasn’t embarrassed. He’d been caught red-handed, and yet—Megumi only stared, waiting to see if you’d walk away or take another step closer.

You tilted your head, biting back a grin that was far too dangerous for the situation. “You’re not even going to try and deny it?”

Megumi’s eyes flicked down, then back up to you, steady and sharp. “What’s the point? You already know.”

Your laugh was soft, disbelieving. “So you just… what? Steal my shirt and sleep with it like some kind of—” you trailed off, smirking, “—pervert?”

The word made his fingers twitch against his crossed arms. He didn’t flinch, didn’t break eye contact. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

God, he wasn’t even ashamed. That realization sent a shiver down your spine, equal parts unsettling and thrilling. You stepped closer to his bed, tugging the shirt from his pillow and holding it up between two fingers.

“This one’s my favorite,” you said, teasing. “I wondered where it went. Guess it was keeping you company instead.”

His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking. He didn’t move, but you could feel the tension in him, like a string pulled taut. You pushed it further, lowering your voice.

“Is this the only thing you’ve taken, Megumi?”

Silence. Heavy. Loaded.

You let the shirt drop back onto his bed, brushing your hands off deliberately. “Or should I be checking my laundry basket more carefully?”

That got him. A flicker crossed his face, quick, gone in an instant,but enough. You caught it.

“Oh my god,” you laughed, eyes widening with mock realization. “You have, haven’t you?”

His arms finally uncrossed, his stance shifting, but not toward you—toward the door, like he was giving you a chance to leave. “You should go before you say something you don’t mean.”

But you didn’t move. Instead, you closed the space between you, standing close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. Your voice dipped low, daring:

“Tell me, Megumi. What else have you taken?”

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly, but his voice stayed level, rough. “...You don’t want to know.”

You smiled, leaning in just enough to brush past his shoulder, lips near his ear. “You’re wrong.”

The silence dragged, thick and dangerous, and you swore you could hear the way his pulse quickened in the space between you.

Your whisper lingered at his ear, too close, too tempting. “You’re wrong.”

His head tilted slightly, like he was trying to shake it off, but you saw the way his hands clenched at his sides, restless. Finally, his voice came out low, rasping, every word weighed down with a truth he couldn’t stuff back inside anymore.

“I’ve taken your panties.”

You froze, heat shooting straight through your veins. He didn’t flinch—didn’t even look ashamed. His eyes caught yours, sharp and unrelenting.

“Not just taken,” he continued, voice steady, shameless now, “I’ve kept them. Used them. Thought about you while I—” his jaw flexed, like the words were too filthy to drag out, but he forced them through anyway, “—while I got myself off.”

Your stomach flipped, not with disgust, but with something darker, heavier. You should have slapped him, shoved him away. Instead, your breath came quicker, a traitorous tremor in your chest.

“M-Megumi”

He stepped closer, closing the gap like it was nothing, his voice dropping into something almost intimate. “You wanted me to say it, didn’t you?”

The worst part was,he was right. Your throat was dry, your body rooted in place as his words wrapped around you like heat.

He leaned down, slow enough to give you time to stop him. His lips brushed close to your ear, the ghost of a touch that made your skin prickle.

“They smell like you,” he murmured, his tone dark, reverent. “Sweet. Familiar. Every time I close my eyes, I think about how they’d look sticking to your skin instead of crumpled in my fist.”

A shudder wracked through you, your body betraying the storm in your head.

“You should hate me,” he added, voice like gravel, though there was no apology in it. Only hunger.

You swallowed, hard, the words slipping out softer than you intended. “But I don’t.”

That made him finally smile—small, sharp, dangerous. Like a predator who’d finally been given permission to stop pretending.

Your pulse was a mess, pounding so loud you swore he could hear it. You’d let the words slip, you’d given him that opening—and Megumi wasn’t the type to let it go.

Without breaking eye contact, he slid his hand into his pocket. For a second you thought maybe he’d just brush it off, pretend he hadn’t said anything. But then—he pulled out the proof.

A pair of your panties.

Your breath hitched, a sharp little sound that only made his gaze darken further. He dangled them between his fingers, the faintest curve of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Recognize them?”

You did. Of course you did. The soft cotton, the faded lace trim—disappeared from your laundry a week ago. You’d searched everywhere, blamed the dryer, but now… your stomach twisted at the thought of where they’d actually been.

“Megumi” your voice broke, shame and arousal tangling until you couldn’t tell which one was stronger.

He didn’t let you finish. He stepped closer, pressing them into your hand before dragging your wrist down between his thighs. The bulge there was impossible to ignore, thick and heavy against your palm even through his sweats.

“I used them here,” he muttered, low and unashamed, guiding your hand to squeeze him. “Wrapped around me. Thought about your face. The way your voice would sound if I touched you instead of just” his breath hitched, sharp, “instead of fucking this.”

Your knees nearly buckled, heat crashing through you at the raw filth of it. The thought of him, quiet and restrained, fisting your panties in his hand while he bit back groans with your name stuck to his tongue—

You clenched the fabric tighter, a soft whimper slipping free before you could bite it back.

He caught it, eyes flashing. “You like that?”

You should have lied. You should have said no. But your body betrayed you, pressing closer, your thighs squeezing together.

“Yes,” you breathed.

That single word shattered the last of his restraint. He tore the panties from your hand, brought them to his mouth, and dragged his tongue over the fabric—slow, deliberate—never breaking your gaze.

Your breath stuttered, every nerve ending sparking. He looked almost reverent, eyes half-lidded, his voice rough when he finally spoke again.

“Show me.”

It wasn’t a request.

He didn’t wait for hesitation. The panties were already in his hand, twisted tight between his fingers as he caught your chin with the other, forcing you to meet his eyes.

He let the panties fall to his lap eventually, slick with his spit, his hand working faster now as his gaze never left your face.  And then—he shoved his free hand down the front of his sweats, his knuckles bulging against the fabric as he wrapped around himself, stroking slow and deliberate. The panties stayed pressed to his face, soaking up every ragged breath, every muffled groan.

“Get closer,” he ordered, voice thick with restraint that was barely holding. “If you’re gonna let me do this, you’re gonna fucking watch.”

Your body moved before your brain caught up, stepping closer, your knees brushing his.

Megumi tilted his head, almost smiling, almost soft—if not for the way his fist was moving desperately under the stretch of his sweats.

“You see what you’ve done to me?” he rasped, holding up the panties for you to see, damp and wrinkled, before pressing them flat against himself, rubbing them against the length straining beneath his clothes.

“Stay right there,” he said, breath hitching, “and don’t look away when I come all over these—your fucking panties—again.”

Megumi’s breathing grew harsher, his chest heaving under that thin black tee. The rhythm of his hand turned frantic, and the sound of him—skin dragging against skin beneath his sweats—was obscene in the quiet of your room.

The panties were pressed tight against his cock now, his knuckles straining the fabric as he rubbed himself through them. His eyes never left yours, dark and unblinking, a silent dare.

“Y’see this?” he rasped, voice breaking on the edges. “All for you. You make me this fucking pathetic.”

You couldn’t answer—not when your mouth had gone dry, not when your knees threatened to give out at the sight.

And then his head tipped back, a sharp curse torn from his throat as his hips bucked up. White spread fast across the ruined fabric, soaking into the panties he’d stolen from you, dripping over his fist as he worked himself through the throes of release.

The sight was filthy. Raw. Completely unashamed.

When it was over, his hand loosened, his chest still rising and falling hard. He pulled the damp, messy fabric away from himself, dangling it between two fingers as he looked back at you.

“Put them on.”

Your lips parted, a protest caught on the tip of your tongue—but your body betrayed you again. The heat pulsing through you made your fingers twitch, made your thighs press together as if begging for something to happen.

Megumi saw it all. Of course he did. He always saw more than you wanted him to.

When you didn’t move fast enough, he crouched slightly, sliding his hand beneath the hem of your shorts. Your gasp filled the room as his knuckles brushed the bare skin of your thigh, and then he was tugging at your waistband—slow, unhurried, like he’d been planning this moment forever.

“Off,” he muttered, voice low, command sharp enough to make your pulse stumble.

The shorts hit the floor with a soft thud, leaving you bare and trembling in front of him. Megumi’s eyes darkened, and he lifted the panties to your hips, dragging the fabric up your legs with agonizing patience until the cotton was snug against your skin again.

But instead of stepping back, he hooked two fingers beneath the waistband and snapped it lightly against your hip, watching the way you jolted. His mouth almost curved into a smile. Almost.

“You have no idea what I’ve done with these,” he said, voice gone hoarse, the confession spilling like venom. “How many times I came holding them. How bad I wanted this” his knuckles pressed harder, dragging along the damp heat growing beneath the thin fabric, “instead of pretending.”

Your head spun, your body a live wire under his touch. The thought of him, your quiet, unreadable neighbor, unraveling in secret with nothing but your panties fisted in his hand—it should have horrified you. Instead, your thighs pressed tighter, a soft, needy sound leaving you before you could stop it.

Megumi caught it instantly. His lips brushed your ear as he leaned in, his words searing.

“Tell me to stop.”

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Your silence was all the permission he needed. His hand slipped lower, cupping you through the stolen fabric, his breath hot against your temple.

“Good,” he muttered. “Because I’m not done showing you.”

He didn’t back away after cupping you through the thin cotton. If anything, he pressed closer, crowding you until your back brushed the wall. The air between you was heavy, sticky with the knowledge that this wasn’t something he could take back.

And he didn’t want to.

With a deliberate slowness, Megumi’s fingers left your heat. He hooked them into the waistband of your panties again, tugged once, twice, before peeling them down in one smooth pull. You stepped out of them automatically, dazed, and he was already curling the damp scrap of fabric around his fist.

You expected him to pocket them like before. Hide it. Pretend.

But this time, Megumi’s gaze locked on yours as he sat back on the edge of your bed, his legs spreading casually wide. He dragged the panties up his wrist, like a band, before pressing them to his mouth—breathing you in shamelessly.

“Fuck,” he muttered against the fabric, the word broken, reverent. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. “Megumi”

He cut you off with a sharp glance. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

You should’ve looked away. Instead, you were frozen, your thighs squeezing tight, heat spiraling through your stomach as you watched your quiet neighbor unravel in the most obscene way, right there in front of you.

“Guess these don’t go back in your drawer,” he muttered, lips curling into something dangerous.

He held them out to you. Not to return them—but to show you, to make sure you saw every inch of the sticky mess he’d left behind.

Your stomach flipped. Heat coiled low.

Megumi leaned back on his palms, spent but far from softened, his gaze still sharp on you.

“Pick them up,” he said quietly. Not a plea—an order. “You’re not walking away until you do.”

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words pressing down on you. Megumi’s tone left no room for play—it was shameless, commanding, dripping with that quiet dominance he never showed outside these walls.

The panties dangled from his hand, heavy with his release. When you didn’t move right away, his brow twitched, sharp eyes narrowing.

“I said pick them up,” he repeated, voice low, dangerous.

You stepped forward on shaky legs, every nerve alight, until you were right in front of him. Slowly, hesitantly, you reached for them—but Megumi didn’t let go. His fingers tightened, forcing you to tug just enough for the fabric to smear against your skin.

“Good girl,” he murmured, watching you like a hawk, gaze dropping to your trembling hand now holding the ruined fabric.

Heat burned your cheeks, humiliation and arousal twisting deep in your stomach. You wanted to look away, but his eyes kept you there, trapped.

“Don’t just hold them.” His voice was softer now, but it made your pulse spike even higher. “Put them in your drawer. Pretend they’re clean. Pretend you don’t know exactly what I did to them.”

Your lips parted, a weak protest dying in your throat as you realized he wasn’t joking. “Or…” His hand slid up your thigh, ghosting just shy of where you burned the hottest. “…use them. Right here. While I watch.”

The water was still beating down on your shoulders when the curtain slid open just enough for Eren’s smirk to appear in the gap.

“You’re taking forever,” he said like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Eren” You didn’t even get the chance to protest before he stepped inside, shutting the curtain behind him.

The small stall suddenly felt too small, steam curling between you as his bare chest came into view. “What the hell are you doing?” you hissed, but your eyes couldn’t help flicking down.

He shrugged, completely unbothered, droplets already starting to bead on his skin. “Water’s warm. Thought I’d save some.”

“Save some—this isn’t a public pool, Eren.”

“Could be,” he teased, reaching past you for the shampoo bottle like he belonged there. His arm brushed yours, warm and slick, and you felt the heat rise in your face. “Turn around.”

You froze. “…why?”

“So I can wash your hair.” The grin he gave you was downright sinful. “What? I’m being helpful. Unless you think I’m gonna do something else.”

You knew you should’ve pushed him out right then, but instead, you turned. Slowly. His fingers worked through your wet hair, nails grazing your scalp in a way that had nothing to do with friendship.

“See?” he murmured in your ear over the sound of the water. “Nothing weird. Just me… and you… and no clothes.”

Steam still clung to the walls of the bathroom, the mirror fogged so thick you could barely see your own reflection. You’d wrapped yourself in a towel by the time Eren finally climbed out of the shower behind you, his grin lazy and satisfied, like nothing about what he’d just done was out of line.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, shaking water from his hair. “You’re the one who didn’t kick me out.”

Your glare was weak at best. “You walked in.”

“Yeah. And you didn’t exactly push me out, did you?” His voice had that cocky, matter-of-fact lilt he always used when he knew he had you cornered.

You tightened the towel around yourself, heart racing, but the silence in the room was too loud. Because the truth was, this wasn’t the first time he’d pulled something like this. Maybe not this bold, stepping into the shower with you, but Eren had always been shameless about testing the line between “best friend” and “something else.” Touches that lingered too long, the way his eyes tracked you when he thought you weren’t looking, the casual comments that always sounded like jokes but hit too close to the truth.

This time, though… he’d gone too far. And you hated how much you hadn’t hated it.

“Eren,” you said, trying to steady your voice, “you can’t just—”

He stepped closer, towel slung low on his hips, dripping water across the floor as if he didn’t care. “Can’t what? Be honest?” His hand found the edge of your towel, tugging lightly, just enough to make your pulse spike. “You think I don’t notice the way you look at me? You think I’m the only one who’s crossing lines here?”

You froze, caught between indignation and the heat rising in your chest.

Eren leaned down, his breath warm against your ear. “You could’ve told me to get out. You didn’t.” His fingers brushed your arm, teasing, deliberate. “So tell me now. Say the word, and I’ll leave.”

He was baiting you — giving you an out but daring you to take it, daring you to admit you wanted him to stay.

And that was the problem. You didn’t want him to leave.

Steam curled in the air, heavy and damp, sticking your hair against your skin. The towel clutched at your chest felt like the only barrier between you and him, and yet it was already slipping loose under the faint tug of Eren’s fingers.

“Eren…” your voice came out weaker than you wanted, almost pleading, almost warning.

But he only smiled, a sharp, crooked thing that was too smug to be innocent. “Don’t say my name like that unless you want me to do something about it.” His eyes flicked down, lingering where the terrycloth gaped.

You could’ve told him to stop. You could’ve stepped back. But your feet stayed planted, your breath catching as his hand finally flattened against your waist, thumb brushing bare skin where the towel had shifted.

He leaned in closer, wet hair dripping down your shoulder as he murmured, “You think I didn’t notice, huh? How you don’t move when I get too close. How you watch me the same way I watch you.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, shame burning through you because he was right. You never told him to stop. You’d never wanted him to.

And he knew it. He always knew it.

Eren tugged once more, slow and deliberate, and the towel slid from your fingers. It pooled uselessly on the tile floor, leaving you exposed in front of him. His breath hitched, eyes dragging down your body with none of the restraint he pretended to have around everyone else.

“Fuck…” His voice dropped, low and hungry, but he didn’t lunge like some idiot. He stayed close, savoring, almost reverent despite how filthy his smirk was. “You’re too much for me, you know that?”

Your heart thudded hard against your ribs as his hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face up until you were forced to meet his eyes.

“You really gonna act like you don’t want this?” he asked, tone maddeningly calm, like he had all the time in the world to wait for you to admit it.

And maybe it was the steam, or the way his thumb stroked your skin, or the way you were just so damn tired of pretending you didn’t crave the same thing he did—but your silence gave you away.

Because Eren didn’t wait for words. He kissed you instead.

It wasn’t soft, not at first. It was demanding, shameless, the way he always was with you. His mouth pressed against yours with years of pent-up tension, of teasing and pushing and daring. You gasped against him, hands clutching at his damp shoulders before sliding down, feeling the solid muscle beneath your palms.

The towel on his hips hung low, dangerously low, and when your fingers caught on the edge, he groaned into your mouth like you’d been starving him.

“See?” he muttered against your lips, biting lightly before pulling back just enough to look at you again. His pupils were blown wide, his chest rising and falling like he’d run a marathon. “Knew it. You’re just as fucked up as me.”

You should’ve shoved him. You should’ve said something sharp to cut through his smugness. But instead, you kissed him back—harder, needier, giving up the last shred of pretense.

And Eren, of course, took it as permission to push further. His hand slipped down your back, pulling you flush against him, skin to skin, nothing left between you but heat and steam and the years of “best friend” boundaries snapping like fragile glass.

When he finally broke away, lips swollen, breathing heavy, he laughed—low, rough, almost disbelieving. “Fuck, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Your heart was still racing, your body trembling, but you couldn’t stop yourself from whispering back, “Yeah, I think I do.”

Eren’s grin returned, sharp and dangerous. “Then stop pretending I’m the only one that wants it”

And when he kissed you again, there was no going back.

The tiles were slick under your feet, steam curling like smoke around the both of you. The towel was gone, forgotten, and Eren’s smirk only grew sharper with the way you didn’t reach for it again.

He dragged his thumb across your hipbone like he was memorizing the shape of you, lingering just long enough to make your pulse stutter. His eyes stayed locked on yours, shameless and steady, daring you to call him out.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice low enough to vibrate against your throat as he leaned in. “Not scared though… are you?”

You swallowed hard, but didn’t pull away. His closeness was suffocating, intoxicating. You hated that he knew exactly what it did to you.

“I should kick you out,” you managed, though it didn’t sound convincing, not when your hands stayed right where they were—clutching the damp fabric at his waist instead of pushing him off.

Eren’s laugh was quiet, breathy, like he found you entertaining. “You won’t. You like this too much.” His hand slid higher, brushing the underside of your ribs. “You like me too much.”

Heat flooded your face, betrayal written in the way your body leaned into his touch before your mind could argue.

He tilted his head, his wet hair brushing over your cheek as he whispered, “C’mon. Tell me to stop, and I will.”

But you didn’t. Couldn’t.

Your silence was the answer he wanted, and he grinned against your skin like the devil himself. “Knew it.”

For a moment, the shower was nothing but sound—the steady drip of water, the rush of your heartbeat, the quiet hum of his satisfaction. His hand traced over your side, teasing but not claiming, touching like he had all the time in the world to play this dangerous game.

And maybe that was worse than anything else—how patient he could be, how much he enjoyed making you realize you were the one letting it happen.

When he finally pulled back enough to meet your gaze, his green eyes were heavy, unguarded in a way that made your chest ache.

“You know I’m not gonna stop wanting you, right?” he said, like it was a promise and a threat all at once.

You bit your lip, breath shallow, and for the first time, you didn’t pretend otherwise.

The steam curled heavy between you, clinging to every inch of exposed skin. You’d told yourself a dozen times you’d shove him out, slam the bathroom door, and call it a mistake—yet you were still standing there, back to the wall of the shower, with Eren crowding into your space.

“Still not saying stop,” he muttered, a crooked grin cutting across his lips as his hand slid down from your ribs to the curve of your waist. His tone was smug, but there was heat behind it, raw and hungry. “You really gonna keep pretending this isn’t what you want?”

You sucked in a shaky breath, trying to find your voice, but his fingers squeezed at your hip and whatever protest you had died in your throat.

“God, look at you,” he whispered, leaning down until his lips brushed the damp line of your jaw. “Blushing like you don’t already know what I’m thinking about doing to you.”

When you didn’t answer, his laugh was low, almost disbelieving, like he couldn’t believe you were really letting him do this. And then—slowly, deliberately—he pressed his body against yours, chest to chest, heat radiating even through the thin barrier of fabric he still wore.

The contact tore a gasp out of you before you could bite it back.

“There it is,” he murmured, his grin widening. “Knew you’d sound pretty when I got close enough.”

His mouth ghosted over yours, not kissing, just hovering, taunting.

Your hand twitched at your side, caught between pushing him away and pulling him closer. You hated how natural the latter felt, how much your body betrayed you.

“Say the word,” Eren said, voice husky now, all pretense of casualness gone. “One word and I’ll ruin us right here.”

And you should’ve said no. Should’ve shoved him back and told him to never pull this shit again. But the only thing that came out was a shaky, “Eren…”

That was all the permission he needed.

He crashed his mouth onto yours, hard and hungry, like he’d been waiting for this for years. His wet hair clung to your skin, his hands roaming over you with a possessiveness that made your knees buckle.

The shower blurred into nothing—just heat, steam, the sound of his breath mingling with yours as he kissed you like he’d never let go.

The spray was loud, but not loud enough to drown out the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears. You pressed your palms against the slick tile at your back like it might keep you steady, but all it did was make you feel cornered.

Eren leaned in, so close you could see the way the droplets ran down the curve of his cheekbone, catching on his lashes. His grin was lazy, infuriating, and far too self-assured.

“Funny thing,” he said, his voice a low rumble under the hiss of the water. “I’ve walked in on you a dozen times, and every time you tell me to get out.” His hand slid up the wall beside your head, bracing him over you. “But you never make me.”

Your mouth opened, ready to argue, but he tilted his head and let his lips brush the edge of your ear, close enough that you felt the shape of his words.

“You like it, don’t you? Knowing I’m looking.”

Your breath hitched, and that was all the answer he needed. He chuckled, the sound dark and pleased, before he let his free hand skim down the slick line of your arm. He didn’t grab, didn’t push—you could’ve stepped away. But you didn’t.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, his lips grazing your temple now. “Not scared, though. Excited.”

“Ren—” His name slipped out, half warning, half plea.

He finally leaned back just enough to meet your eyes, his own green gaze sharp, almost daring you to deny it. The cocky smirk softened into something more dangerous: hungry, intent.

“Say you don’t want me here,” he whispered. “Say it, and I’ll leave right now.”

Your throat worked, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, your silence hung heavy in the mist, binding you both tighter than any confession.

Eren’s smile widened, softer this time but no less shameless. He dragged his thumb over the corner of your mouth, water dripping from his knuckles.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “That’s what I thought.”

The air between you thickened, charged. His hand lingered at your jaw, and though he didn’t close the gap, the weight of the moment was unbearable—like a kiss hanging in the balance, inevitable but stretched taut on a thread of restraint.

Every inch of him screamed temptation, and every nerve in your body screamed to give in.

The water poured down in steady rivulets, pounding against the tiles, soaking your skin until everything felt slick and molten. Eren pressed in behind you, his chest flush to your back, breath hot against the side of your neck despite the cool mist rising from the shower spray.

You felt the deliberate way his hands roamed—first skimming the curve of your waist, then dipping lower, lingering as though he was memorizing every inch of you under his palms. His touch wasn’t hurried; it was languid, almost taunting, the kind of pace that left your body arching instinctively into him.

When he dragged his mouth along the slope of your shoulder, teeth grazing lightly before his lips pressed in, the sound that left you was swallowed by the rush of water. Eren only smirked against your skin, tilting your head back just enough so he could catch your expression—the flush on your cheeks, the parted lips, the way your eyes had gone hazy.

“Can’t even look at me, huh?” he teased lowly, voice cracking with amusement and want all at once. His grip tightened, pulling you even closer so you could feel just how little space remained between you.

Every movement became its own rhythm: the sound of drops of water pounding down, the slick slide of his hands exploring you, the heat of his body anchoring you against the cold tiles. You caught yourself bracing with one hand on the wall, the other curling around his wrist as if to either stop him—or guide him further.

The steam blurred everything around you, but not the way your pulse raced, not the ragged sounds that mixed with his. The shower had become its own little world, where the only things that mattered were the weight of him against you, the wet press of skin on skin, the delicious wrongness of how far this had gone between best friends.

And the worst part? You didn’t want it to stop.

The shower was already running hot when he crowded in behind you, the steam clinging to your skin. Eren’s chest was pressed flush against your back, his hand sliding over your hip like he owned it.

You tried to steady yourself on the slick tile, but he wasn’t making it easy—his mouth dragging down the side of your throat, teeth catching the sensitive skin just enough to make your knees buckle. The water beat down on both of you, drowning the sounds you didn’t mean to let slip.

“Relax,” he muttered against your ear, one palm flattening against your stomach, the other already exploring lower. His touch was unhurried, teasing, like he knew exactly how long he could string you along before you begged.

You tilted your head back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as the steam wrapped around you. The rhythm he set with his hands made your breath catch, your body pushing back into him without even thinking. He chuckled when he felt it—shameless, smug—his voice low enough to send heat rushing through you.

“Best friends don’t do this, huh?” he teased, fingers tightening on your skin. “But here you are, letting me touch you like this in the bathroom.”

The spray was loud, but not loud enough to hide the way your body betrayed you—the way you clutched his wrist, not to stop him, but to drag him closer, deeper.

When you finally turned your head to catch his mouth, the kiss was messy, wet, unrestrained. His grip only grew rougher, anchoring you against the tile, moving against you with a hunger that made it clear he wasn’t going to stop until you gave him everything.

And in that steamy little corner of the world, you didn’t want to resist.

The steam clung thick in the air, drops sliding down your spine, but you couldn’t even tell if the heat was from the water or from him. Eren had you pinned to the slick tile, his body flush against yours, cock already hard and pressing insistently against the curve of your ass.

You felt the drag of his teeth at your shoulder as his hands roamed, greedy, like he’d been waiting for this far too long. One hand shoved your thigh forward to open you up, the other sliding down between your legs, two fingers parting you under the spray. The slick heat of the water mixed with the way he worked you open, slow at first, then with sharp, sure movements that made your knees tremble.

“Fuck—look at you,” he murmured against your ear, voice rough with a laugh, “so wet for your best friend. Bet you’d let me fuck you right here, huh?”

Your only answer was the sharp gasp that slipped out when he curled his fingers inside you. He grinned against your damp skin, his hips grinding forward in a slow rhythm that promised more.

When you turned your face to kiss him, he swallowed your moan like it was his own, lips wet and hungry. He pulled his fingers free, slick with you, and brought them to your mouth, tapping your bottom lip until you let him slide them past your tongue. “Good girl,” he muttered, cock twitching against your ass.

He didn’t wait much longer. He lined himself up with a harsh groan, pressing into you inch by inch, the tight stretch pulling a cry from your throat that echoed against the tile. His grip on your hips tightened, keeping you steady as he bottomed out.

“Fuck, that’s it—” His forehead dropped to the back of your neck as he thrust forward, the slap of skin against skin lost in the roar of the shower. Every movement was filthy, desperate, water cascading down both of you as he drove into you with sharp, relentless strokes.

Your palms flattened against the wall for balance, body rocking forward with every snap of his hips. He kept one hand around your waist, the other sneaking back down to circle your clit, rough and fast, like he needed to drag you over the edge just as badly as he needed to finish inside you.

The combination was too much—the relentless pace of his thrusts, the way he bit at your shoulder, the filthy words he groaned into your ear. You came hard, legs shaking, clenching so tight around him that his rhythm stuttered.

“Shit—fuck—” he gasped, driving in deep and staying there, grinding against you as he spilled hot and heavy inside, his groan vibrating against your skin.

Tonight’s meeting was meant to be a brief discussion with parents about the new term’s curriculum and upcoming events, but according to the email you’d received that morning, Bruce Wayne would be unable to attend. Not surprising. He was impossible to get ahold of — all business, all travel, and rarely ever showing up in person.

His assistant’s message was brief: Mr. Wayne is overseas. A family representative will attend in his place.

You sighed softly. That could mean anyone. You’d met Dick Grayson once at a gala fundraiser — polite, charming, with a smile that could defuse a bomb. Alfred Pennyworth had shown up another time, the perfect gentleman. You’d half expected him tonight too.

Instead, when the clock struck 5:55, the heavy oak door creaked open.

A man stepped in — tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark leather jacket that looked far too out of place amid the blazers and sweaters of Gotham’s teaching staff. His boots echoed on the marble as he crossed the room. His eyes scanned the space once, sharp and assessing, before settling on you.

“Jason Todd,” he said simply when he reached the head of the table. “Here on behalf of Bruce Wayne — Damian’s father.”

The murmurs started instantly — polite, curious, a few teachers whispering that they hadn’t known Bruce had another son.

You straightened in your chair, forcing a professional smile. “Ah, Mr. Todd. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

He nodded slightly. “You can just call me Jason.”

There was something disarming about him — casual but composed, with a presence that filled the room effortlessly. You gestured to an empty seat beside you.

“Please, have a seat. We were just about to start.”

Jason sat, shrugging out of his jacket just enough to rest it against the chair. The soft thud of something inside caught your attention — rectangular, heavy. A book, maybe? You tried to refocus as the meeting began.

“So,” you began, scanning your notes, “our first item tonight is the new funding proposal for advanced literature electives…”

Jason leaned back slightly, quiet, observing more than speaking. When he did glance your way, it was with an attentive curiosity — the kind that made you hyper-aware of your own gestures. The curve of his lip when you cracked a joke. The quiet nod when you mentioned Damian’s impressive grasp of classical literature — though Jason’s smirk at that suggested he already knew his little brother’s ego didn’t need the praise.

“Yeah,” he murmured under his breath at one point, “that sounds like him.”

You smiled faintly. “Sharp, isn’t he?”

“‘Sharp’ is one word,” Jason said. “Try ‘mini dictator.’”

You stifled a laugh. “He’s… passionate.”

“Sure,” Jason replied, his mouth twitching. “That’s one way to put it.”

You tried to hide your grin behind the meeting agenda.

The conversation drifted back to test scores, curriculum changes, and field trip approvals. But your eyes flickered again to his jacket, to the small rectangular bulge pressing against the leather pocket. You knew that outline anywhere. You were a literature teacher, after all.

Finally, during a lull, your curiosity won.

“Sorry,” you said quietly, leaning closer so only he could hear, “but is that… a book in your jacket?”

Jason blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah,” he admitted after a beat. “Couldn’t leave it at home.” He pulled it halfway out — a black-and-white paperback, edges worn.

You recognized it instantly. “Wait. Is that Lapvona?”

He raised a brow. “You know it?”

You couldn’t help laughing. “I’m reading it right now.”

Jason’s eyes lit up, the faintest grin tugging at his mouth. “No kidding.”

“No kidding,” you said, and pulled your own copy from your tote bag like proof of fate.

A few teachers looked over, mildly amused at your exchange, but neither of you cared.

“What page?” you asked.

Jason flipped his open. “Uh… one seventy-three.”

Your laugh came out bright and genuine. You turned your copy around. “One seventy-three.”

He chuckled lowly, leaning back in his chair. “So we’re literally on the same page, huh?”

“Seems like it,” you said, unable to hide your smile.

The moment lingered — quiet, oddly charged. Then the conversation resumed, and you had to force yourself to look away from him.

By the time the meeting ended, the sun had dipped low, painting Gotham’s skyline in shades of burnt gold. Teachers began filing out, gathering their bags, while you stayed behind to pack your folders. Jason lingered too.

“Thanks for running that,” he said finally. “Didn’t think I’d survive an hour of school bureaucracy.”

“You did fine,” you teased. “Better than most parents.”

He snorted softly. “I’m not a parent.”

“No, but you definitely have the exasperation of one.”

That earned a laugh from him — a real one. “You know Damian, then.”

“I do,” you said with a knowing smile. “He’s brilliant, but he likes to test limits.”

Jason smirked. “That’s putting it lightly.”

“Still,” you said, slipping your folders into your bag, “he’s got potential. You can tell he wants to prove himself.”

Jason’s expression softened. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You noticed his gaze drift to the copy of Lapvona again. You tilted your head. “You really picked that one up just for fun?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “Sort of. Saw someone online talking about it — thought I’d give it a shot.”

“Someone online?” you echoed, curious.

He hesitated — just long enough for the silence to feel heavy. Then, quietly: “You’ve got a book blog, don’t you?”

You blinked. “Wait — you read my blog?”

He gave a small, guilty grin. “Yeah. Been following for a while, actually. You’ve got good taste.”

You stared at him, surprised. “I didn’t think anyone from the Wayne family even read my stuff.”

Jason shrugged. “Guess I’m the odd one out.”

You tilted your head, teasing. “And here I thought Damian was the prodigy.”

“He gets that from someone,” Jason said, grinning.

The last teacher exited the room, leaving the two of you alone. The faint hum of the city drifted through the tall windows.

“So,” you said lightly, “you take all my recommendations, then?”

“Most of them,” he said. “Not sure I’ll ever recover from that Russian lit streak you went on last winter, though.”

You laughed — and he looked at you like he was memorizing the sound.

“I’ll keep that in mind next time,” you said. “Maybe I’ll post something lighter.”

“Lighter?” he asked, smirking. “What’s that mean for you?”

“Murder mystery, probably.”

He chuckled. “I like your definition of light.”

You raised a brow. “You really shouldn’t say things like that to a teacher, Mr. Todd.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Good thing class is over, then.”

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter.

He straightened again, slipping Lapvona back into his jacket. “Anyway, I should go. Gotta make sure the kid’s not painting the manor walls with oil pastels or something.”

You smiled. “Tell Damian to finish his poetry assignment first.”

Jason groaned. “He’s got one of those?”

“He does. And if he claims he’s too advanced for it, tell him I said even Tolstoy had to do his homework.”

Jason laughed under his breath. “I’ll pass that along.”

He started toward the door, then paused. “Hey,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, “you still posting your thoughts Sunday nights?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Usually.”

“Good to know,” he said, smirking. “But I might prefer hearing them in person.”

Before you could respond, he was already halfway down the hall, boots echoing softly on the marble.

You stood there for a moment, heart still racing, staring at the door he’d just walked through. You looked down at your copy of Lapvona, tracing your thumb over the spine. Same page. Same book. Same strange coincidence.

Later that night, when you opened your laptop to draft your next post, a new comment popped up beneath your latest review.

JasonT_92: still on page 173. thinking the shepherd might be worse than the priest. thoughts?

You smiled, typing back before you could second-guess it.

LitTeacher: definitely worse. but you’ll have to keep reading to find out why.

A minute later, the reply blinked into existence.

JasonT_92: guess i’ll see you on the next page.

You leaned back, grinning at the screen.

Across the city, Jason Todd tucked his own copy of Lapvona into his jacket before climbing onto his motorcycle, the engine growling to life. The city lights glimmered in his visor as he rode into the dark, the faintest smirk playing at his lips.

For once, Gotham felt a little less heavy — and maybe, just maybe, a little more like a story worth turning the page on.

The next week blurred by in the usual Gotham rhythm — lesson plans, grading, coffee, more grading. You hadn’t heard from Jason Todd again, not directly anyway, but you caught yourself checking the comments section of your book blog every night before bed.

He hadn’t replied since that last message: guess i’ll see you on the next page.

And yet, you’d reread it more times than you’d ever admit.

On Friday afternoon, the Academy’s annual “Literature and Arts Showcase” filled the hallways — a chaotic blend of students rehearsing poetry, painting backdrops, and juggling nervous energy. Damian Wayne, as expected, was in the middle of it all, directing two students twice his age with the authority of a small general.

You smiled faintly from across the hall, clipboard in hand. “Damian, maybe let them breathe,” you called.

“They are ruining the pacing,” he argued. “Art demands discipline, Miss.”

You bit back a laugh. “Maybe art also needs a break once in a while.”

He huffed but obeyed, stalking toward the refreshment table. As he passed, he mumbled, “My father will be attending this evening.”

“Oh,” you said, arching a brow. “Really?”

He gave a faint shrug — and, if you weren’t mistaken, a ghost of a smirk. “He’s sending someone in his place.”

You blinked. “Someone?”

But Damian had already walked off.

By the time the showcase began that evening, the auditorium filled with parents and faculty. You stood near the stage, making sure the microphone worked, when the back doors opened.

Leather jacket.

Jason Todd.

He looked slightly out of place in a room full of blazers and pearls — and completely unbothered by it. His hair was a little mussed, his hands tucked casually into his pockets as he scanned the crowd until his eyes found yours.

You didn’t expect your pulse to spike like that.

He smiled — small, knowing, enough to make your chest tighten.

“Evening, teach,” he said when he reached you.

You folded your arms, trying to look composed. “Back representing the Wayne dynasty again?”

“Someone’s gotta do it,” he replied. “Bruce is out of the country, Dick’s in Blüdhaven, and Damian made it sound like this showcase was life or death.”

“That sounds about right,” you said, smiling. “He’s been… intense.”

“Intense is our family brand,” Jason said, half-joking.

You caught a glimmer in his eyes then — warmth under the humor, maybe even pride. It was strange, seeing that from someone who carried himself like he lived behind walls.

When Damian stepped up to perform his reading — a dramatic monologue adapted from Macbeth — you and Jason both turned to watch. Damian’s diction was sharp, his posture precise, and he commanded the stage like he owned it.

“He’s good,” Jason murmured.

“Very,” you said quietly. “He’s got your family’s presence.”

Jason chuckled softly. “You mean arrogance?”

You smiled, but didn’t deny it. “Confidence,” you corrected.

The performance ended with polite applause. Damian gave a single, imperious nod to the audience before leaving the stage.

Jason leaned closer. “He’s gonna be unbearable after this.”

You laughed, glancing up at him. “Oh, definitely.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you shifted — warmer, denser somehow. You were suddenly aware of how close he stood, of the faint smell of his cologne mixed with the leather of his jacket.

Jason noticed it too. His gaze lingered on you, his smirk fading into something quieter.

“You really got through to him, you know,” he said after a moment. “He actually likes your class.”

You tilted your head. “That’s not what he tells me.”

“Yeah, well. Kid’s allergic to admitting things.”

“That sounds familiar,” you teased.

Jason’s lips twitched. “You saying I’ve got a lot in common with him?”

“Maybe just the stubborn part.”

He let out a soft laugh, but his eyes never left yours.

The principal called you to help with the next segment, breaking the spell. You nodded to Jason — maybe too quickly — and stepped away, focusing on anything but the heat in your chest.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of student recitations and applause. When it finally ended and the crowd began to thin, you stayed behind to tidy the stage. Jason lingered again, leaning against the edge of a table, watching you.

“You always stay this late?” he asked.

“Part of the job,” you said, gathering papers. “Besides, someone has to make sure the podium doesn’t collapse before Monday.”

He pushed off the table and walked closer. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

You looked up, startled to find him right there — close enough that you could see the faint scar at the corner of his jaw, the one he usually kept in shadow.

“I don’t mind,” you said quietly.

“I know,” he murmured.

Something in his tone made you stop moving. The auditorium was nearly empty now, the echo of footsteps fading in the hall. The air hung still between you.

Jason’s gaze dropped briefly to the stack of books you were holding — your students’ reading copies. Lapvona sat on top, its spine slightly bent.

“You finished it yet?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Not yet. Almost.”

“Me too,” he said. “Been waiting to read the ending.”

“Waiting for what?”

Jason hesitated, then smiled faintly. “For you to catch up.”

You felt your pulse skip. “So you could talk about it?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Something like that.”

The silence stretched again — not uncomfortable, but charged.

You shifted the books in your arms, trying to break the spell. “Well, if you want my thoughts, you’ll just have to check the blog.”

“I already do,” he said softly.

You looked up. His voice had dropped, low and smooth, the kind that settled into your spine. He didn’t look away.

For a heartbeat, it felt like the whole world had gone still — just the two of you, standing too close under the soft auditorium lights, both aware that something was changing.

Then Damian’s voice echoed faintly from the hall: “Todd, we are leaving!”

Jason huffed a quiet laugh, stepping back just enough to let the air move again. “Duty calls.”

You smiled, though part of you didn’t want him to go. “You better not let him drive.”

Jason grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He took a step backward, still watching you. “See you online, teach.”

“See you, Jason.”

He turned and walked out, the door swinging shut behind him.

You stood there, books in hand, heart still drumming, the faintest trace of his cologne lingering in the air.

Later that night, when you opened your blog, a new comment appeared beneath your latest post.

JasonT_92: finally finished. can’t believe the ending. you free to discuss in person?

You stared at the screen for a long moment before typing your reply.

LitTeacher: depends. are you bringing spoilers or coffee?

His answer came almost immediately.

JasonT_92: both.

You smiled, leaning back in your chair. Outside, the Gotham skyline shimmered under the city lights. Somewhere out there, Jason Todd was probably grinning at his own screen, thinking the same thing you were.

That this — whatever it was — wasn’t over.

Not yet.

Because sometimes, being on the same page was only the beginning.

The café was quieter than you expected for a Saturday evening — low jazz humming from the speakers, the smell of espresso and rain hanging in the air. You sat near the window, a copy of Lapvona resting on the table beside your half-empty cup, watching the city shimmer under the wet Gotham light.

He was late. Not that you minded. Not really.

You’d told yourself you were calm, that this was just two people meeting to talk about a book. But the minute you saw him push through the door — leather jacket, damp hair, eyes scanning until they landed on you — your calm evaporated.

Jason smiled when he saw you, that small crooked grin that did dangerous things to your pulse.

“You beat me here,” he said, dropping into the seat across from you. “Guess I owe you a coffee.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You already said you’d bring one.”

He lifted a paper cup from the counter and slid it toward you. “See? I keep my promises.”

You took it, hiding a smile. “So, we’re really doing this. A book club for two.”

Jason leaned back, stretching one arm over the back of the chair. “Hey, I take literature very seriously.”

“You’ve got a reputation to uphold, Mr. Pocket Book,” you teased.

He laughed softly, the sound low and warm. “You still remember that?”

“How could I forget?” you said. “Not every day I see a guy with Lapvona stuffed in his jacket.”

“Guilty as charged,” he said. “But it worked, didn’t it? Got your attention.”

You felt your cheeks warm. “Maybe a little.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “That’s all I needed.”

You pretended to focus on your cup, trying to steady the sudden flutter in your chest. “So,” you said, clearing your throat, “what did you think of the ending?”

Jason’s expression shifted, thoughtful. “Dark. But honest. Kind of reminds me of Gotham — no one gets a clean escape, but there’s beauty in the chaos.”

You looked at him for a long moment. “You read deeper than I expected.”

He smirked faintly. “You thought I was just a guy in a leather jacket?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “But I’ll admit… you surprised me too. Not many people catch my attention the way you did.”

The air changed between you — subtle but undeniable. The playful rhythm of the conversation slowed, replaced by something heavier, quieter. You could feel the heat from where his fingers brushed the table, inches from yours.

Outside, thunder rolled softly over the city. The café lights flickered once, and for a heartbeat, everything felt suspended — you, him, the space between.

“You always this charming with teachers?” you asked, your voice lower now.

“Only the ones who make me want to read books I’d never pick up on my own,” he said.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You really take my recommendations?”

“Every single one,” he admitted. “Started following that blog months ago. Didn’t even know it was you until the meeting with Damian.”

That made your breath catch. “So when you said we were on the same page…”

He smiled slowly. “I wasn’t lying.”

For a long second, neither of you moved. You could hear the faint tap of rain against the window, the hum of the lights, the rhythm of your own heartbeat.

Then Jason reached across the table, his hand brushing over yours. His touch was careful — testing, deliberate. You didn’t pull away.

“I’ve been wanting to see you again,” he said quietly. “Not just for the books.”

Your voice barely came out. “I know.”

He smiled at that — small, real — and then he stood, walking around to your side of the table.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the window. “It’s clearing up.”

The rain had slowed to a soft drizzle, the streets glistening with reflected light. You followed him outside, the cool air sharp against your skin.

He walked beside you in silence for a while, hands tucked into his jacket, the world narrowing to the sound of your footsteps and the glow of street lamps. At the corner, you both stopped under a canopy.

Jason looked down at you, eyes shadowed but warm. “You ever notice how quiet the city gets after it rains?”

You nodded. “It’s like Gotham exhales.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Feels like it’s holding its breath the rest of the time.”

You met his gaze then — steady, searching — and for once, neither of you looked away.

He stepped closer. Slowly. Giving you every chance to pull back.

You didn’t.

When his hand came up to brush a strand of hair from your face, your pulse tripped. His fingers lingered, tracing the line of your jaw, and then his thumb brushed your cheek.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured.

You shook your head, barely breathing. “Don’t.”

The space between you vanished. His lips met yours — soft at first, almost hesitant, but it deepened quickly, the kind of kiss that said everything words couldn’t. You felt the tension of every near-moment before this one pour into it, something sharp and sweet all at once.

When he finally drew back, your foreheads stayed pressed together, both of you caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

Jason’s voice was a whisper against your skin. “Guess we really are on the same page.”

You smiled, eyes half-open, your hand still resting against his chest. “Careful, Jason. You might make me think you read for the plot.”

He laughed softly — the sound low and real — and brushed another quick kiss against your temple.

“Only when the story’s worth it,” he said.

The rain started again — light, gentle — as the two of you stood there under the awning, the city stretching endlessly around you. Somewhere in the distance, Gotham rumbled, restless as always, but for once, you didn’t care.

You had your story — and this time, you weren’t reading it alone.

It started with a simple offer.

“Let me give you a ride,” Jason said as the rain thickened again, voice steady but eyes warm.

You hesitated for a heartbeat — maybe out of habit, maybe out of caution — but something in his tone, that quiet care he didn’t try to hide, made you nod.

The drive through Gotham was mostly silent. The streets gleamed slick and silver under the streetlights, and the city moved around you like a restless dream. Jason’s hand rested loosely on the wheel, the other tapping in rhythm to the muffled hum of the radio.

When he stopped in front of your apartment building, you realized you weren’t ready for the night to end.

He must’ve noticed, because he glanced at you, half a smile tugging at his mouth. “You look like you’ve still got a few words left in you,” he said.

“Maybe,” you admitted. “You?”

“Always,” he said, and then, quieter: “Come up for a bit. I’ll make coffee. No strings.”

You hesitated again — not out of fear, but because you knew this was the edge of something new. Still, when you met his eyes, there was only patience there, and warmth.

“Okay,” you said softly.

His apartment was exactly what you expected — lived-in, dimly lit, the faint smell of leather and coffee lingering in the air. Books lined the shelves in mismatched stacks; you caught sight of Lapvona on his table, half open and marked with a torn napkin.

“You dog-eared a napkin,” you said, amused.

He shrugged, pulling off his jacket. “Couldn’t find a bookmark.”

You smiled. “That’s criminal.”

“Guilty,” he said. “Want a drink?”

You shook your head. “I’m fine.”

He nodded, stepping closer. “Then sit. You don’t have to stand like you’re grading me.”

You laughed softly, letting him guide you toward the couch. The air between you was warm — not stifling, but alive. You could feel it in the way his fingers brushed yours as he handed you a mug, in the way his knee rested close to yours when he sat down.

“I still can’t believe you read all my recommendations,” you said, looking into your coffee.

“I told you,” he said. “You’ve got good taste.”

“You barely knew me.”

“Didn’t need to,” he said, voice low now. “Sometimes you just know when something’s worth your time.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward — it pulsed, steady and full. Jason’s gaze lingered on you, soft but intent, and you could feel the pull between you like a current.

You tried to say something — anything — but your words tangled in your throat. When you finally looked up, he was already leaning in.

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t rushed. It was a slow, inevitable gravity — a quiet pull that neither of you tried to fight.

His hand lifted, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face, tracing the edge of your jaw. You felt his breath before you felt his lips — warm, hesitant, asking rather than taking.

You nodded once, barely, and that was all it took.

The kiss was soft at first, careful, almost questioning — then it deepened, as if both of you had been waiting too long to find out what this would feel like. His hand slid to the back of your neck, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. The world outside could have vanished and you wouldn’t have noticed.

When you finally pulled apart, the space between you was barely there — his forehead against yours, both of you trying to steady your breath.

Jason smiled, his voice quiet and rough around the edges. “So… this is the part where I say I’m glad we’re on the same page again.”

You laughed softly, fingers still caught in his collar. “You’ve used that line before.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “But it’s still true.”

The rain outside started again, tapping against the windows in slow rhythm. You leaned back slightly, and Jason’s hand stayed in yours — not possessive, not uncertain, just there.

Neither of you said another word. You didn’t have to. The night had already filled in the rest. 

As you leaned back, Jason’s gaze darkened, his breath catching slightly. The tension in the air thickened, charged with unspoken desire. His thumb brushed along your jaw, tracing the line of your face, and you felt a shiver run down your spine.

“Can I kiss you again?” he asked, his voice low and husky, as if he were trying to contain the heat between you.

You nodded, barely able to find your voice. “Please.”

The moment his lips connected with yours again, it was a different kind of kiss—more urgent, more desperate. His hand cradled the back of your neck, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss as if he wanted to memorize every curve of your mouth. You responded eagerly, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him even closer.

Jason’s other hand explored your waist, his fingers pressing into your side, igniting fire wherever he touched. You felt your heart race, every nerve ending alive with anticipation. As he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, you could feel the heat radiating off him, surrounding you like a warm, inviting cocoon.

“God, you’re incredible,” he murmured against your lips, breaking the kiss just enough to gaze into your eyes. His breath was warm, mingling with yours, and you could see the desire flickering in his dark gaze.

You smiled softly, emboldened by his words. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He grinned, mischief dancing in his eyes. “You have no idea what kind of trouble you’re getting into, do you?”

“I think I might like a little trouble,” you teased, your voice barely above a whisper.

With a swift motion, Jason stood, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. You laughed in surprise, wrapping your arms around his neck as he carried you to the couch, setting you down gently but with a deliberate intention. He settled beside you, the space between your bodies shrinking as he leaned closer.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice low and serious, searching your face for confirmation.

“More than okay,” you replied, your heart racing as you leaned in, capturing his lips again.

This time, the kiss ignited a wildfire, both of you losing yourselves in the moment. Jason’s hands roamed your body, sliding under your shirt, his fingertips brushing against your skin, sending sparks of electricity throughout your body. You gasped at the sensation, arching into his touch, craving more.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes trailing over your face, lips swollen and flushed. “You’re stunning,” he murmured, eyes dark with desire.

“Show me,” you breathed, the words spilling from your lips before you could think them through.

Jason’s expression shifted, a mixture of surprise and excitement crossing his features. He leaned down, capturing your lips again, but this time, he trailed kisses down your neck, his mouth leaving a blazing path of fire across your skin. You moaned softly, tilting your head back, giving him more access, urging him to continue.

His hands explored your sides, fingers dancing along the hem of your shirt. With a teasing smile, he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. “Are you sure?”

“More than sure,” you replied, voice thick with need.

With that, Jason wasted no time, his hands finding the hem of your shirt and lifting it over your head, exposing your skin to him. His eyes darkened, hungry with desire, and he pressed soft kisses against your collarbone, trailing lower down your chest.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.

You couldn’t help but smile, feeling a rush of confidence as his lips continued their exploration. As he worshipped your body with soft kisses and gentle touches, you felt like you were melting into the couch, every kiss igniting a deeper need.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, pulling back to look into your eyes, his own smoldering with intensity.

You took a deep breath, feeling bold. “I want you, Jason. All of you.”

His breath is ragged, uneven, each exhale a slow, deliberate tease against your lips, hot and humid, igniting every nerve ending. You shudder involuntarily, feeling the wildfire of need ignite in your core, spreading from your stomach to your fingertips. His eyes, dark and hungry, hold you captive, like a predator savoring his prey, his gaze burning into yours, unyielding, as if nothing else exists but this moment. Every glance, every breath, every tiny shift of his weight feels like an unspoken promise, a silent acknowledgment of the fire burning uncontrollably between you, threatening to consume everything in its path.

His fingertips brush the tender curve of your ribs, grazing lightly over the hollow of your waist, featherlight, almost tentative. The contact sends a jolt up your spine, making your breath hitch. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he dips his head, capturing your lips again—softer this time, more reverent, lingering, molding to yours, memorizing your taste, your scent, as if he’s trying to etch it into his memory forever. The softness of his lips, the roughness of his beard, the heat of his breath, all of it becomes an intoxicating symphony that spins your senses out of control.

His hand slides lower, trailing along your side, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of your cotton panties, ghosting over your skin with a featherlight touch that makes you shiver. His thumb strokes the delicate hollow of your hip, and your breath hitsched sharply. “Do you  feel how wet you are?” he murmurs against your lips, voice thick with raw need, the words coated in a possessive hunger that makes your pulse race even faster. The vulnerability, the raw honesty in that confession, makes your cheeks flush and your body respond instinctively,  heat pooling low, ache deepening.

Your voice is a whisper, thick with want, trembling as you respond, “Yes,” your body responding to every word, every touch. His jaw tightens, a flicker of restraint flickering behind his eyes, but your words seem to undo him entirely. He slides his hand up your back, fingers tangling in your damp hair, tilting your head so he can kiss along your jawline with slow, reverent strokes, each movement a silent declaration that he’s savoring you, claiming you in every gesture.

“God, you drive me insane,” he whispers fiercely against your neck, teeth catching softly at your pulse. You arch instinctively, hips lifting in a silent, desperate plea — an invitation you know he can’t resist. Without hesitation, he responds ,  hauling you into a fierce, pressed-up against him, feeling the undeniable hardness of his cock throbbing through his jeans, aching to be buried deep inside you. The contact makes you gasp, a breathless, helpless sound that spills from your lips as your body trembles at the raw, primal heat of him — his scent, his presence, his hunger. It’s as if every part of him is a wild animal, tamed only by this fragile vulnerability, this desperate need to be close.

He closes his eyes briefly, savoring the feeling of your heated center pressed against him,  your wetness soaking through the fabric, sealing him in a forbidden, intoxicating trap. Your mind spirals with need, but you fight to hold yourself back, to savor every second of this fragile, explosive connection. You know, deep down, that once you cross this line, there’s no going back.

“Careful,” he manages, voice husky with restraint and longing. “I can’t… I can’t hold back.” His words hang thick between you, a dark promise—an acknowledgment that he’s teetering on the edge of losing control. You brush your lips over his neck in a gentle, teasing promise. “Don’t,” you whisper.

His low chuckle vibrates against your skin, dark and dangerous, as he responds with a hunger that borders on feral. One hand slides beneath your shirt, warm fingertips grazing the curve of your breast, so delicate, yet so full of promise. Your soft moan escapes your lips, trembling with anticipation, and he takes that as the signal to act. Slowly, worshipfully, he peels your shirt upward, exposing your smooth, creamy skin to the cool air — his eyes darkening at the sight of your vulnerability, the vulnerability that fuels his obsession.

His lips press softly against your collarbone, then trail down along your shoulder, leaving gentle, lingering kisses that make your skin prickle with anticipation. He worships you—slow, deliberate, reverent, capturing one nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak until you arch again, clutching the cushions as your body responds with every flick, every gentle nip. His teeth catch softly, teasing, while his fingers pinch and roll your other breast, eliciting a guttural gasp from your lips. Your fingers tangle in his damp hair, pulling him closer, hungry for more, for everything he’s willing to give.

He draws back, lips and teeth tracing a slow, deliberate path down your sternum, across the hollow of your stomach—every movement sacred—until he reaches the waistband of your jeans. With swift, confident motions, he pushes them down your hips, along with your panties, exposing the glistening evidence of your desire—the swollen, slick folds parted invitingly. Your body is impossibly wet, your core gleaming with need, and he inhales sharply at the sight, as if he’s drinking in your essence.

Leaning in, he presses his tongue against your slit, tasting you, warm, salty, intoxicating, an essence only he can claim. His fingers press gently at your entrance, teasing your swollen lips apart as his tongue flicks in long, slow strokes over your sensitive nerves. Your cry escapes involuntarily, hips lifting seeking more of him, your body trembling with need. Every lick, every flick, feels like a vow—an act of devotion that leaves you trembling and desperate for more.

He obliges, licking you with slow, controlled movements, then flicking his tongue against your clit in rhythmic, torturous circles, curling his fingers inside your hot, pulsing core, stroking your deepest, most sensitive spot. Your back arches violently, nails digging into the cushions, your voice a guttural moan that vibrates through the room. You feel every nerve ending ignite, every muscle tense, as your body threatens to shatter into a thousand pieces.

“Fucking yes,” you gasp, voice raw and trembling, as your hips jerk uncontrollably beneath him. The orgasm hits like a tidal wave, your body convulsing, muscles tightening, trembling uncontrollably, clutching at the cushions as white-hot pleasure floods your veins. Your cries echo in the quiet room, unfiltered and primal, as your release washes over you in waves.

But Jason isn’t done. His lips move instantly to your neck, teeth catching softly on your pulse as he presses his body against yours. His hands grip your hips, lifting you with a brutal, possessive force, and then, before you can even catch your breath, he’s flipping you onto your stomach, rough hands gripping your waist. His mouth presses fiercely against your shoulder, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, as he pulls you up onto your knees.

“You’re not done yet,” he growls, voice thick with hunger. “Not even close.” His fist clenches in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to expose your throat, and he delivers a savage, open-mouthed kiss that leaves a mark, an imprint of his hunger. His other hand grips your hip, guiding himself behind you, the thick head of him pressing against your dripping slit.

You gasp, trembling in anticipation, as he thrusts into you with a brutal, relentless rhythm, pounding into your hot, pulsing core with a primal force that leaves you breathless. His hips snap against yours, each thrust a declaration of dominance, of possession. The sound of skin slapping and breathless moans fill the room, raw and unfiltered, as he drives you closer and closer to the edge.

“Fuck—yes,” you cry out, voice ragged, as your body tightens with the impending storm. His hand grips your waist tightly, pulling you back against him, sealing you in this savage, desperate rhythm. Your nails claw into the cushions, your body trembling with the effort to hold on. The pressure builds, your muscles tightening, your breath hitching—until, finally, your release explodes in a shattering wave, convulsing through every fiber of your being.

Jason’s own climax follows immediately, his body tightening, trembling as he spills himself deep inside you, growling your name in a primal, guttural sound. His hips jerk wildly, bucking into you one last time before he collapses against your back, both of you trembling from the force of it.

He holds you there, breath ragged, pressing his forehead against your shoulder, feeling your trembling body beneath him. Not even seconds later Jason starts the second round with the same, or even more hunger. 

His lips devour yours with a ferocity that leaves no room for hesitation, teeth grazing your lower lip before plunging into a searing, desperate kiss. His tongue explores yours hungrily, fighting for dominance in a chaotic dance fueled by primal need. His body presses down into yours, every muscle taut and trembling with anticipation, as if he's trying to merge your souls through sheer force of will. The rough scrape of his beard against your skin, damp from sweat and rain, sends shivers racing down your spine. Your bodies are slick with a mixture of rain, sweat, and the heat of your passion, creating a slick, sticky symphony of friction and desire.

His hand grips your waist with bruising intensity, fingers digging into your flesh as he shifts his hips, pressing his throbbing cock against your trembling core. The sensation makes you gasp sharply, your body arching instinctively, desperate to feel more, to be overcome completely. Without warning, he thrusts into you with a brutal, relentless rhythm—deep, hard, and unyielding—filling every inch of you with his presence. Your cry escapes your lips, raw, primal, resonating in the small, suffocating space as he takes control, pounding into you with savage hunger, each thrust a declaration of possession.

His hips snap forward again, faster and more ferocious, skin slapping against skin in a relentless, primal cadence. The sound echoes through the room—wet, loud, unfiltered. His fingers grip your hips like a man trying to stake his claim, bruising your flesh while he drives into you harder and faster. The cushions beneath you creak and squeak with each brutal impact, your nails leaving red, angry streaks on the fabric as your body shudders from the sheer power of his assault.

“Fucking hell,” he growls, voice thick and gravelly, teeth clenched with exertion. “You feel so fucking good—so tight—so fucking mine.” His words are a rough whisper, but they cut deep, fueling your own desire to surrender completely. You push your hips back into him, craving even more, desperate to be overwhelmed by his relentless pounding.

His hand snakes around your waist, gripping your stomach with bruising force as he pulls you into him, tightening his grip with each merciless thrust. His breath is hot and ragged against your ear, whispering hoarsely, “You’re gonna take every inch of me, aren’t you?” His voice trembles with raw need, and his hips snap faster, deeper, each thrust an unyielding assault that reverberates through your entire body. The room is filled with the sounds of skin slapping, heavy breathing, and the wet, slick noises of your bodies colliding in chaotic harmony.

Your legs tremble uncontrollably, muscles burning from the relentless assault. Every nerve ending is on fire, pleasure, pain, and everything in between, until your body reaches the brink of explosion. Your muscles tighten, your breath hitching as your senses sharpen, every touch, every sound amplified.

“Jason—oh God—yes—more—fucking harder—” you scream, voice trembling, raw with lust and desperation. Your plea seems to ignite him further. His hips drive into you with renewed vigor, each thrust claiming you anew—an unstoppable force of desire. His grip on your hips tightens, pulling you back into him, forcing every inch of him into your most sensitive places. The sensation becomes overwhelming, your body trembling violently, muscles spasming as if trying to hold on to the moment just before the inevitable climax.

The tension in your core coils tighter and tighter, spiraling toward the inevitable release. Your nails claw into the cushions, leaving angry red streaks, as your body trembles from the sheer intensity. Your breath hitches as your vision blurs, every nerve ending aflame, your mind consumed by the primal rhythm of your bodies colliding.

And then, suddenly, the tidal wave crashes over you—an unstoppable surge of pleasure that shatters your composure. Your muscles convulse uncontrollably, trembling as wave after wave of orgasm overtakes your trembling form. Your cries become primal howls, echoing through the room, as you shatter into countless shimmering fragments. Your nails clutch the cushions desperately, your thighs tense and quivering, as the orgasm rips through you like a storm.

Jason's own climax follows immediately, his hips jerk erratically, muscles taut with tension, spilling himself deep inside you with a guttural growl that reverberates through the small space. His body shudders violently, trembling with the force of his release, then collapses onto your back, breath ragged and wild. His grip tightens around your hips, holding you close as he rides out the storm, both of you trembling from the aftershocks of your ferocious union.

The room is thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and raw desire. Neither of you moves, just panting heavily, hearts pounding in unison, bodies slick and trembling from exhaustion. His hands trail down your trembling thighs, gripping your flesh with bruising strength, anchoring himself as he presses his forehead into your shoulder, trembling with exhaustion and satisfaction.

Finally, he begins to relax, his breath slow and ragged, and softly presses gentle kisses along your sweat-slicked skin—along your shoulder, your neck, your collarbone—each one a tender contrast to the intensity of moments before. His voice, rough and low, whispers into your ear, “We’re not running anymore.”

You turn your head, your lips trembling into a satisfied, breathless smile despite the ache pulsing through your body. “No,” you whisper, voice trembling with emotion and fulfillment. “Never again.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes blazing with possessive hunger and raw affection. “Good,” he murmurs, capturing your lips once more in a softer, more intimate kiss—one that promises more chaos, more passion, and more unspoken promises of forever. His hands stroke your damp hair gently, holding you close as you both lie tangled in a mess of limbs, sweat, and breathless intimacy.

Heat rushed to your face. “Megumi—”

“Don’t bother lying. I saw the brand.” He shifted closer, not enough to touch, but close enough that you could feel the weight of his presence. “You picked them for yourself… but I want a show.”

You froze, your throat tight, pulse hammering. He said it so simply, like asking you to borrow sugar.

“I—”

“You don’t even have to take them off,” he cut in, his voice dropping lower, rougher. “Just let me see how they look on you. Right now.”

There was no mocking in his tone, no teasing—only sharp, hungry intent. His eyes traced the edge of your shorts like he could already picture them beneath.

You hated how your stomach twisted, how part of you ached at the thought of giving in, how badly you wanted his gaze heavy on you like it always was.

“Megumi…” you whispered, the warning thin, trembling.

He tilted his head, stepping closer at last, so close you had to press back against your own door. His hand braced by your head, dripping with casual dominance.

“Show me, or I’ll just have to find them in your laundry again.”

Your back hit the door, your palms curling tight against the wood as Megumi leaned in. His eyes were steady, heavy, pulling you apart without laying a single finger on you.

The silence stretched, your chest rising and falling too fast. You hated how your body betrayed you—how your pulse throbbed low just from the way he looked at you, from the way his voice wrapped around the demand.

“…Fine,” you breathed, the word barely audible.

Megumi’s lips curved, not into a smile but something darker, smug and sharp. He stepped back just enough to give you space, though his gaze never left you.

Your fingers trembled as you hooked them into the waistband of your shorts, dragging them down slowly, almost clumsily, until the hem pooled at your ankles. His eyes caught immediately on the soft fabric you’d been hiding—delicate lace, pale against your skin, hugging you in a way you hadn’t meant anyone to see.

The sound he made was low, a quiet exhale through his nose, like he’d been holding back all evening.

“Turn,” he said, voice gravel-thick.

You hesitated, shame prickling at your skin… but you obeyed. Turning, slowly, heat burning through you as the thin lace clung tight, leaving so little to imagination.

You heard him step closer, the faint brush of air shifting. His hand didn’t touch you—didn’t have to.

“Perfect,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Better than I pictured.”

Your knees threatened to buckle. You weren’t supposed to want this, to feed into his perversions—but the way his voice broke over the word made something twist inside you, made you ache for more.

“Megumi…” you whispered, as if saying his name could ground you.

He hummed low, leaning just enough that his breath grazed your ear. “Keep them on. Just like that. Next time, I want to watch you try them all for me.”

The heat of his words wrapped around you like a vice, and you hated—loved—how easily you nodded, your body surrendering before your mind could catch up.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, every nerve alive under his stare. He didn’t move, didn’t reach for you—he just leaned back against your counter like he was settling in for a private performance you hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t walk away from now.

“Keep going,” Megumi said, voice like gravel, like command. “Let me see what else you bought.”

Your breath hitched. You swallowed, heat coiling low as your hands slid under the hem of your shirt, tugging it up inch by inch. His eyes followed every movement, sharp, hungry. The shirt fell to the floor, leaving you in nothing but the delicate lace that hugged your curves.

“Fuck…” he murmured, low, like he couldn’t help himself.

You shifted, embarrassed under the weight of his attention, but his gaze pinned you there, holding you tighter than his hands ever could.

“Turn around again,” he ordered, slower this time.

You obeyed, the flimsy excuse of lace stretching tight as you twisted. His breath caught behind you. You heard the faint scrape of his teeth over his lip, the restless flex of his fingers against the counter like he was one second away from grabbing you.

“Bend a little,” he added, voice low, coaxing.

Your heart stuttered. Shame and heat warred in your veins, but your body tilted anyway, hips angling just enough that the fabric shifted, clinging in places it shouldn’t.

A curse hissed out of him, raw and unfiltered. “You’re killing me.”

You turned back slowly, your skin on fire. His gaze hadn’t softened—it was darker now, edged with restraint that looked ready to snap.

“Next time,” he said, voice tight, “don’t make me ask. Just show me.”

Your knees nearly gave out at the weight of it. You shouldn’t have nodded. You shouldn’t have wanted to nod. But you did.

Megumi didn’t last.

You knew it the second his jaw tightened, the second his hand flexed against the counter like he was deciding whether to burn the whole thing down or keep pretending. You turned, the lace tugging with the movement, and his self-control snapped like a wire pulled too tight.

Two steps and he was in front of you, so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. His hand slid down your side, rougher than you expected, tracing over your waist and settling low, thumb dragging along the edge of the lace like it was his.

“You think I can just watch you like this?” His voice was a growl against your ear, breath hot, sharp with restraint that was already gone. “Parading in my face, showing me what you buy?”

You shivered, but your hands didn’t push him away. They curled into his shirt instead, dragging him closer.

His other hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face up so he could see every flicker of hesitation, every drop of want. Then his mouth brushed your temple—not gentle, not soft, just claiming—and his fingers tugged at the lace waistband, snapping it lightly against your skin.

“You wore them for me,” he accused, almost daring you to deny it. His hand slid lower, knuckles pressing against heat, and you gasped, your back hitting the counter.

His mouth curved against your cheek, not quite a smile, more like a secret. “Good,” he murmured. “Show’s over.”

Megumi leaned back against your counter, arms folded like he wasn’t about to combust on the spot. His eyes dragged over you, slow, lazy, but his jaw ticked with every second you didn’t move.

“C’mon,” he said finally, tone flat but laced with something heavier. “Don’t buy new lace just to keep it hidden. Let me see it proper.”

Your stomach twisted at the shameless demand. You should’ve told him no, should’ve walked away, but instead you found yourself turning in place, tugging your shirt up just enough so he could get a full view. The heat of his stare felt like it burned right through the fabric.

“Mm,” he hummed low, the sound almost mocking, almost reverent. “Spin again.”

You did, cheeks hot, pulse racing. His eyes never left you, dragging, lingering, like he was memorizing every curve the lace clung to. You thought maybe he’d keep it there, keep the game going—until you caught the way his fingers twitched against his arm.

The mask cracked.

Two strides and he was in front of you, eyes dark, hands at your waist. The playful distance he’d tried to hold shattered the moment he touched you, dragging you flush against him. His thumb pressed into the waistband, testing the give of the lace like he owned it.

“Pretty little show,” he murmured against your ear, his voice low, husky, almost mocking. “But you don’t get to tease me and walk away.”

Then his other hand slipped lower, wandering, deliberate, rougher than you expected—claiming what he’d just spent the last few minutes staring at.

His fingers found your waist like they belonged there, tugging you into him before you could even finish your turn. It wasn’t new, not anymore — the sharp pull, the way his knuckles brushed the lace like it was his right to test the fit.

“You keep buying these,” he muttered, voice low, warm against your neck. “What, just to drive me insane?”

You huffed, half a laugh, half a protest that melted the second his hand slipped lower. “You’ve seen me in worse,” you shot back, but your tone lacked bite — because you knew exactly where this was going.

“Yeah,” he said, lips grazing your skin now, tone smug, possessive. “But now I know how you sound in them, too.”

The reminder made your stomach clench. Heat flashed up your neck, not from shame but from the heavy, undeniable fact that this wasn’t just some first-time slip-up anymore. He’d already had you bent over your counter, already made you come undone once, twice — and the memory only made his hands wander more confidently now.

His palm dragged slow over your ass, fingers flexing against the thin barrier of lace. Then he squeezed, rough, claiming, like he was reminding you that you’d already let him this far before.

“You didn’t buy these to keep them clean,” he said, voice husky now, the smugness burning down into need. “So let me ruin them again.”

Your back was still turned when you felt him — that familiar shadow at your shoulder, the warmth of his presence sinking into your skin before he even touched you. Then came his hands, sliding low around your waist like they’d done a dozen times before, as if your body already belonged to him.

“New?” Megumi’s voice was low, edged with something between curiosity and hunger. His fingertips toyed with the band at your hip, brushing the delicate lace like he was testing its strength.

You exhaled sharply, caught but not surprised. Of course he’d notice. He always noticed. “They’re just panties,” you muttered, but even you heard the weakness in your voice.

He hummed, the sound dark and unamused. “You don’t buy just panties.” His palm flattened against your stomach, pulling you back flush into his chest. “You buy them because you know I’ll look. Because you want me to.”

You wanted to deny it, but the words stuck in your throat. He wasn’t wrong — and worse, you both knew it.

“You already—” your voice cracked, then steadied. “You’ve already seen me in worse.”

His lips curved against the side of your neck, brushing the sensitive spot he’d bitten before. “I’ve seen you,” he murmured, breath hot against your skin. “I’ve heard you. I've been inside you. You think I can forget that?”

The reminder made your pulse spike. Your body betrayed you, pressing back into him, thighs clenching as his hand slid lower, hovering just shy of where you needed him.

“You bought them for me,” he said, voice dipping to that dangerous quiet tone that always melted your defenses. His knuckles traced the thin fabric, dragging over the heat beneath, deliberate and slow. “You wanted me to watch. To touch. To ruin them.”

The confession — accusation — landed heavy, and you couldn’t bring yourself to deny it. Not when he already had his fingers sliding under the lace, not when your breath was stuttering from the smallest touch.

“Say it,” he pressed, thumb brushing your clit through the fabric. “Say you wanted me to see.”

“I…” Your knees weakened, body bowing against his. You hated how easy he could pull it out of you, how much truth spilled when his hand was on you. “I wanted you to.”

That broke the last of his restraint. He pushed the lace aside, not even bothering to drag them down, just enough to press his fingers inside you, sharp and sudden. You gasped, back arching against him, the memory of every other time rushing back at once — the kitchen counter, the couch, the laundry room.

Megumi’s other hand slid up, closing around your throat, holding you steady as he worked you open, pace firm and possessive. His lips brushed your ear, voice nothing but gravel now.

“You keep pretending this is just once, twice, an accident,” he growled. “But you keep buying new panties. You keep letting me in. You fucking want this.”

You did. God, you did. The heat, the shame, the need — all tangled up in the same breathless moans you tried to swallow but couldn’t.

“Don’t worry,” he muttered, fingers curling deep inside you as his palm ground against your clit. “I’ll ruin this pair, too.”

Your body trembled against him, every nerve caught between his grip on your throat and the relentless pace of his fingers. The lace clung damp to your skin, already ruined, and he seemed determined to destroy it further — pushing harder, curling deeper, rubbing your clit with every drag of his hand.

“Fuck—Megumi,” you gasped, one hand reaching back to clutch at his hair, needing something to hold onto.

He only chuckled darkly against your ear, his breath hot as his lips grazed your jaw. “That’s it. Say my name like you mean it.” His thumb pressed harder, circling cruelly, and your hips jerked helplessly against him.

The sound of it — the wet, obscene squelch of his fingers moving inside you — mixed with your broken moans, filling the room with a lewd soundtrack you couldn’t escape. Every time you thought he might let you fall over the edge, he pulled back just enough, keeping you on that unbearable brink.

“You keep pretending it’s wrong,” he murmured, teeth scraping lightly over your neck, “but listen to yourself. You’re already dripping all over my hand. All over your new panties.”

Your thighs shook, your breath came fast and uneven, and your body betrayed you with a desperate whine. “Don’t—don’t stop—”

He grinned against your skin, sharp and triumphant. “I wasn’t planning to.”

His pace snapped rougher, faster, thrusting into you with a rhythm that left you gasping. His hand tightened on your throat, grounding you there against his chest while his other hand worked you mercilessly. The lace finally tore at the seam with the force of his fingers dragging through, but neither of you cared — the ruined fabric only added to the filth of it all.

You came hard, your body seizing around his fingers, the sound tearing out of you too loud, too shameless to disguise. Megumi groaned low at the feel of you clenching, grinding against you as if he could take it all for himself.

“That’s it,” he growled, slowing only slightly, dragging out your release. “That’s the sound I wanted. That’s the mess I wanted.”

When you finally slumped against him, trembling, he pulled his soaked fingers free and shoved the ruined panties further to the side, smearing slick over your skin like a claim.

Then, casually, like it was nothing, he brought his hand to his lips and sucked his fingers clean — eyes fixed on yours, daring you to look away.