#neighbor

“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.”