pairing: megumi fushiguro x f!reader
synopsis: 18+, dead girl walking, in which you sneak through megumi's window and insist he takes your virginity on what may very well be your last night alive.
your fate was sealed as of friday.
typed out on imessage, a paragraph so long you have to tap the blue arrow just to see the rest of it, the glow of your phone harsh against the dark of your bedroom as the words keep coming and coming, each sentence precise and deliberate.
mai had written the message with the kind of care that means there is no room left for misunderstanding, no space for negotiation, only the quiet certainty settling in your chest as you read it twice, then a third time, your thumb hovering uselessly over the screen.
by monday, 8:00 a.m., you will be nothing again.Â
the realization follows you through the weekend, clinging to you as you wake up, as you brush your teeth, as you lie awake at night staring at the ceiling, counting down hours you cannot slow.Â
you picture the way the halls will feel different by first period, the way eyes will slide past you instead of landing, the way conversations will hush when you step too close.Â
you will lose the small, fragile privileges you had only just learned to enjoy, the casual way you slide into a seat at lunch with people who once waved you over without thinking, everyone there except yuko ozawa, who has always stayed.Â
you will stop getting last-minute invitations to pool parties and tailgates, stop feeling the weight of attention when teenage boys look at you openly, unapologetic, as if wanting you is the most natural thing in the world.Â
that brief sense of arrival, the belief that your twelve years of schooling finally added up to something real, something recognizable, will dissolve, taking with it that borrowed feeling of living inside a high school movie, where popularity feels permanent and happiness looks effortless.
by the end of the day, you will be a nobody.Â
you can already imagine how the rest of your junior year, then subsequently senior year will stretch out in front of you, long and humiliating, lunches eaten in bathroom stalls with the lock pressed firmly into your back, the air smelling faintly of disinfectant and cheap perfume.Â
you know mai will have done her work by then, piecing together every detail she could find about you, every mistake and half-truth, and you can almost hear it already, the soft whispers following you down the hall, your name passed from mouth to mouth like something ugly people cannot stop examining.Â
the thought settles heavy and unmoving, and even now, before monday arrives, it feels like walking with a ghost of yourself, already dead, already gone, just waiting for the bell to ring, every second stretching thin and sharp as if time itself is watching you with interest.Â
your mind drifts, unbidden, to the animal documentaries your dad used to watch with you when you were small, national geographic blaring too loudly from the living room television while you lay on the carpet, chin in your hands, absorbing scenes you did not yet have language for.Â
you remember one episode in particular, the camera lingering on a lone gazelle standing too still on an open plain, ears twitching, eyes wide and glassy as a lion crept closer through the tall grass, the tension drawn out cruelly slow, the prey knowing, always knowing, exactly what was coming and being unable to outrun the certainty of it.Â
that is what you are now, the gazelle frozen mid-step, muscles locked, breath shallow, waiting for the countdown to your final moments.
you imagine them hunting you down in study hall, circling desks and whispers tightening like a net, pinning you in place until there is nowhere left to look.Â
they will stuff you and mount you on the wall, leave you hanging there for the entire school to see, your name fossilized into rumor and cautionary tale, something underclassmen will stare at long after you have graduated, gawking at the remains and wondering what you could have possibly done to ruin your life like this.Â
thirty hours until public humiliation, the number repeating itself in your head like a digital clock you cannot turn off, and still, you do not want to be the gazelle, do not want to stand still and wait for your suffering to arrive on schedule.
your thoughts spiral toward escape, reckless and desperate.
 you consider changing your name, the feel of it dissolving off your tongue, imagine sneaking into the safe in your parentsâ room, fingers shaking as you grab every stack of cash you can, promising yourself they will understand one day, that forgiveness might find them after you have already arrived in seattle, already remade yourself into someone untouchable.Â
the idea collapses almost as soon as it forms. you have no way to get there, no car, no scooter, hell, not even a fucking motorbikeâ
the thought snaps into focus immediately, sharp and bright, like a lightbulb flicking on above your head, the same idiotic beacon that has guided you into trouble with the zenâin twins, fueled by that stubborn internal insistence that you are incapable of doing what you are told, that defiance feels instinctual, necessary.Â
your mind drifts, inevitably, to megumi fushiguro, brooding and handsome in a way that feels almost unfair, dark hair forever falling into his eyes, an inexplicable devotion to slushies, a cloudy past shaped by an alcoholic father who moves him too often, clothes always pulled from a palette of london gray skies.Â
you think of his beauty in fragments, the subtle pinkness of his lips when he concentrates, the memory of his knuckles two months ago, pale and split, blood smeared across sukunaâs face as he straddled him, breathing hard.Â
he had looked almost ethereal then, a fallen angel carved out of violence, and there is something unsettlingly beautiful about boys when they fight, the raw grace of motion, muscles taut and intent, anger stripped down to something honest and elemental, bodies colliding with a precision that feels intimate, unforgettable, and dangerously alive.
megumi is a mystery, a boy of few words and even more anger, and you have caught your thoughts drifting to him more than once under the cover of night, curled beneath your blanket with the room dark and quiet, the idea of him lingering where it should not, taboo in a way you are sure no one else would understand.Â
anyone else would pick a blonde, sexist prick like naoya, or an asshole like sukuna, or even someone like choso, the palatable kind of strange, the soft-spoken quiet popular girls are expected to like, the kind that folds easily, that settles into your palm with a simple hello.Â
megumi is not that kind of quiet. even when he says nothing, there is a tension to him, a coiled patience, like a dog that watches closely, waiting for you to offer your hand before deciding whether to bite.Â
you like that about him, the danger threaded through his stillness, the sense that he cannot be owned or guided.
and that is where your second thought arrives, heavier and far more reckless, the same thought that has led you here, standing outside on megumi fushiguroâs front lawn at two oâclock in the morning on a sunday night before school, the grass damp beneath your shoes, the house dark and silent.Â
your palms are clammy, heart skidding hard against your ribs, and the lace bra mai gifted you for your birthday last month digs uncomfortably into your chest as if it knows something is about to happen.Â
the thought settles with terrifying clarity, steady and resolved: you are going to cross a line with megumi fushiguro, and there is no part of you that wants to stop.Â
the dampness of the grass seeps through the soles of your shoes, cold soaking in until your toes begin to numb, a quiet reminder that you are standing in the middle of a yard you do not belong in, beneath a moon that hangs too bright and too exposed, like a spotlight trained directly on your chest.Â
you tilt your head back and find the dark rectangle of his window, the one you recognize immediately because the screen is bent inward at the corner, warped from being pushed open and shut too many times.Â
for a split second, the sheer weight of the next thirty hours presses down on you hard enough that your lungs stutter, breath dragging shallow and tight, and you have to brace your hands on your thighs to steady yourself.Â
you are not just a dead girl walking; you are a dead girl running out of time, and every inhale feels thin, like the air is being pulled through a straw.
you consider knocking, the image forming halfheartedly before dissolving just as fast, replaced by the memory of offhand comments megumi has made about mr. fushiguro, the casual way he mentioned his fatherâs tendency to always have a forty-ounce malt liquor in hand.Â
a shiver runs through you at the thought of what would happen if that door opened instead, at what a man like that might do to a girl standing on his porch at this hour.Â
and beyond that, knocking is for people who have a tomorrow, for people who still operate within manners and unspoken rules, the social contract that keeps things orderly. you do not have that luxury anymore.
instead, you grip the siding, fingers scraping against the rough exterior of the house, skin catching and burning as you haul yourself upward. the adrenaline dulls the sting, replaces it with a frantic heat, and your feet slip slightly on the dampness, shoes squeaking softly as they struggle for purchase.Â
your movements are clumsy, ungraceful, driven by a jagged, urgent energy, a refusal that flares bright in your chest, a decision to keep moving rather than standing still and waiting.Â
when your hand closes around the window lock, you do not hesitate. you have watched him do this a dozen times, memorized the motion without meaning to, the practiced flick of his wrist. the latch slides open with a soft, metallic snick, a sound that cracks through the quiet night like a gunshot, loud and final.
you tumble into the room smelling of cold air and sweat, hitting the carpet with a thud that feels enormous in your ears, your breath knocking out of you in a sharp exhale.Â
the room swallows you immediately, a cavern of shadows layered with familiar scents, clean laundry and dust and that faint, metallic trace of oil and grease that clings to someone who spends too many afternoons bent over an old engine.Â
megumi is awake before you fully register the floor beneath your palms, shifting with that same predator-like economy of motion you have always noticed from afar.Â
heâs upright in an instant, a dark silhouette against the pale gray of his sheets, hair sticking up in uneven, ink-black spikes, eyes narrowed and alert even through the haze of sleep.
ây/n?â he breathes, voice rough and low, scraped raw by the night, the name carrying a sharp edge of alarm as he leans forward. âwhat the hell are you doing in my room?â
he sits there frozen for a beat, chest bare, shoulders lean and angular beneath the moonlight spilling through the window, the pale lines of muscle standing out softly against his skin.Â
you notice the way his pulse jumps in the hollow of his throat, fast and unguarded, and the way his hands curl slightly into the sheets as if he is bracing for impact. his face is all sharp planes and tension, jaw set, brows drawn together in that familiar frown that makes him look perpetually on the verge of snapping.Â
even half-awake, even startled, there is an intensity to him that fills the room, something contained and watchful, like he is already calculating what comes next, and whether you are a threat, a problem, or something far more dangerous.
your chest rises and falls too fast, breath catching high and shallow, each inhale scraping your ribs, and the lace of the bra presses into your skin like a brand, an itchy, insistent reminder of why you are here and how exposed you feel standing in the middle of his room.
you take a step toward him, then another, feet sinking into the carpet, until you are standing at the edge of his bed, looking down at him while the moonlight cuts pale lines across his shoulders.Â
the silence between you swells, thick and swollen with everything you have never said out loud and everything mai is already sharpening her tongue to say for you by monday morning, every rumor waiting just outside the door.
âi have thirty hours, megumi,â you whisper, your voice barely holding together, thin and frayed in the stillness. âthirty hours until iâm nobody. thirty hours until they put my head on a pike in the courtyard.â
his reaction is instinctive, immediate in a way that tells you his body has already decided something before his brain can catch up.Â
he reaches out, fingers lifting off the mattress and stopping just short of your wrist, hovering there with visible hesitation, the space between skin and skin charged and fragile. his hand trembles almost imperceptibly, cautious in the way someone gets when they are trying to confirm reality, when they are not sure if what they are seeing will vanish the second they blink.
his brows draw together slowly, confusion carving sharp lines into his face as he tilts his head up to look at you properly, eyes adjusting to the dim light and then widening just a fraction when he takes you in.Â
âwhat the fuck are you talking about?â he asks, voice low and rough, urgency slipping into the edges as if he is already bracing for bad news. âdid you hit your head or something?âÂ
his gaze flicks past you toward the door, quick and nervous, lingering there a beat too long before snapping back to your face. his jaw tightens, shoulders pulling in.Â
âyou really need to go home,â he adds, quieter now, words compressed. âif my dad wakes upââ
âshut up,â you snap, the word cutting through the room sharper than you intended, landing hard in the silence. the defiance hits first, hot and reflexive, before your chest tightens around it.Â
you draw in a shaky breath, forcing it down, steadying yourself just enough to speak again.Â
âiâm really sorry i woke you up,â you say, the apology tumbling out unevenly, urgency bleeding through despite your effort to sound composed. âbut i need a favor.â
âwhatââ he starts, the sound catching awkwardly in his throat as his shoulders tense, confusion tightening his posture and pulling his brows together even harder, like he is trying to physically wrestle your words into something that makes sense.Â
his mouth opens again, then closes, jaw shifting as he searches your face for context, for some sign that this is a joke he is missing or a breakdown he does not know how to handle.
âmegumi, you have to take my virginity.â
the sentence lands wrong, flat and absurd in the charged quiet of his room.Â
he blinks once. then again. his hand drops back to the mattress with a soft thud, fingers splaying slightly as if he needs the contact to ground himself.Â
his head tilts, eyes narrowing, confusion deepening rather than clearing, and when he speaks again there is a sharp, disoriented edge to his voice.Â
ây/n, what are you talking aboutââ he trails off, words stumbling as he shakes his head, disbelief creeping in, his gaze darting briefly to the door and back to you, as if expecting someone else to appear and explain this for him.
âwill you please, just shut up for once, megumi?â the words spill out of you in a rush, unfiltered and jagged, your voice pitching higher as panic finally breaks through the surface.Â
your hands curl at your sides, nails biting into your palms as you lean closer without realizing it.Â
âthe twins are literally going to kill me tomorrow.â you insist, breath hitching hard between syllables. âand iâm not joking, either!â
you know how you must look, standing there in the middle of his room, eyes too bright, breathing too fast, hair a mess from climbing through the window, desperation written all over you like a warning sign.Â
before he can say anything else, before doubt can creep in and root you to the floor, you climb onto the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight, springs groaning softly, and the proximity makes the air feel suddenly scarce.Â
you watch his jaw tighten, a muscle jumping there as he swallows, his breath hitching once before he can stop it, eyes never leaving your face as if he is bracing for impact.Â
your own heart is pounding hard enough that you feel it in your throat, each beat loud and frantic, your nerves buzzing as you shift closer on the mattress.Â
his gaze flickers, betraying him for half a second as his eyes dart to your lips before snapping back up, the movement so quick it almost feels accidental, like his body reacting faster than his restraint allows.Â
his breathing has gone shallow, chest rising and falling in uneven pulls, fingers curling slightly into the sheets at his sides.
âmegumi, i need you to make me forget monday,â you whisper, leaning in until your lips are inches from his, close enough that the warmth of his breath ghosts across your skin. the scent of him fills your head, clean soap layered with salt and something distinctly him, grounding and overwhelming all at once. âmake this whole town disappear, megumi. just for tonight.â
he sits there staring at you, mouth parted just enough that you can see the soft hitch of his breath, his features stripped of their usual sharpness by the dim light of his room.Â
his eyes are a deep, shadowed green, darker at the edges, catching faint reflections of moonlight as they move over your face like he is memorizing it. he looks younger like this, quieter, caught between alarm and something gentler he does not know how to name.
âareâŠâ his voice comes out low, uncertain, trailing as he exhales slowly, eyes searching yours. âare you sure about this?â
for a heartbeat, he does not move. he just watches you, gaze intent and unblinking, as if waiting for a reason to stop, for you to pull back, for the moment to dissolve. the silence stretches, taut and fragile.
âi swear,â you say first, the word slipping out on a breath as your throat tightens, fingers curling slightly against the fabric beneath you while your heart hammers hard enough to make your chest ache. âiâm all yours tonight,â you finish softly, lifting your chin a fraction as if committing to the words physically, emotionally, the promise settling between you even as your chest tightens and your breathing goes uneven.
his eyes widen just a fraction, surprise flashing there alongside something raw and unguarded, a flicker of hunger he does not bother hiding. his breath stutters, and when he finally answers, his voice is quiet, resolved, and unmistakably present.
the mattress stays dipped under your combined weight, the silence of the room suddenly feeling too small, too heavy, as you lean in and press your lips to his.Â
he freezes instantlyâa sharp, jagged tension locking his joints as if heâs forgotten how to breathe, his mouth closed and startled against the sudden, soft heat of yours.Â
itâs a clumsy collision at first, the kind of friction that happens when one person is moving at a hundred miles an hour and the other is still stuck in the quiet of a sunday night, but then you feel itâthe slow, tectonic shift as he finally registers the reality of you.
his eyes drift shut, his eyelashes fluttering against the tops of his cheekbones before he finally gives in, his head tilting just a fraction to find the right angle.Â
youâve only kissed a handful of people, memories of clumsy fumblings at parties that felt more like a performance than a feeling, and then there was that one blurred, sharp-edged night with sukuna, only a few weeks ago.Â
that kiss had been all teeth and bruising pressure, a frantic mess of too much tongue and the metallic taste of a split lip that lasted for a lifetime, leaving you feeling more hunted than wanted.
it registers immediately in the way his mouth begins to work with yours in tandem, a quiet, rhythmic synchronization that feels instinctive rather than practiced.Â
his lips are unexpectedly soft, yielding against yours with a gentleness that catches you off guard, yet there is a hidden strength in the way he deepens the contact.Â
he doesn't rush; he moves with a slow, careful deliberation, his mouth opening just enough to let the heat of your breath mingle with his.
your hand moves of its own accord, fingers sliding up to the nape of his neck where his hair is soft and unruly, your thumb resting against the sharp, warm line of his jaw, and you feel the hitch in his throat, a jagged swallow that vibrates against your palm.Â
heâs hesitant, his own hands hovering awkwardly in the air near your waist, fingers twitching as if heâs terrified that touching you will shatter the moment or wake him up. he's acting like you're something fragile, something that might break if he grips too hard, a stark contrast to the way he carries himself in the school hallways.
you reach down, your fingers finding his mid-air, and you guide his hand to your waist, pressing his palm firmly against the dip of your side as he exhales a shaky, broken breath into your mouth at the contact, his fingers finally curling, gripping you with a warmth that is steady and grounding.
then, he lets his tongue slip past the seam of your lipsânot with the aggressive force youâve come to expect from boys, but with a quiet, searching curiosity.Â
itâs a soft, wet glide that sends a jolt of static straight to your chest, his tongue tasting of the cold water he must have been drinking before he fell asleep.Â
itâs the basics, done with a devastating, accidental precision, every movement of his mouth feeling like he's trying to learn the shape of you by heart.Â
the mattress shifts beneath you as he moves, a subtle, heavy pull of his hands at your waist that tells you he wants the distance between you to vanish entirely. itâs a quiet, wordless request, his fingers digging just a fraction deeper into your sides to draw you in, and you respond by hitching yourself upward, your knees sliding along the sheets until you are straddling him.Â
you settle into his lap, the weight of you sinking into the cradle of his thighs, and the air between you suddenly feels non-existent.
even through the thin, worn cotton of his pajama pants, you can feel the evidence of his body responding to yoursâa solid, half-hard pressure that presses against the junction of your thighs.Â
he lets out a jagged, muffled sound against your mouth, a low hitch of breath that betrays how much this is affecting him, his grip on your waist tightening until itâs firm and possessive.
megumi nips at your lower lip, soft, testing tugs of his teeth that send sharp sparks of heat trailing down your spine. his mouth is a fever against yours, desperate and searching, and every time he pulls back just a fraction to catch his breath, he immediately chases your lips again as if heâs terrified of the silence returning to the room.
your hands stay locked at his jaw, thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone, feeling the way his skin has flushed warm.Â
you begin to move, a slow, tentative tilt of your hips that brings you flush against him; a soft, rhythmic press, a gentle undulation that feels like the swell of the ocean. itâs beautiful in its honestyâjust the weight of your body seeking his, the friction of fabric and skin creating a slow-burning heat that feels like itâs melting the last of your inhibitions.
every time you lean into him, megumiâs head falls back slightly, his throat exposed and beautiful in the moonlight, a strangled, quiet groan vibrating in his chest.Â
he follows the motion of your hips with his hands, his palms steadying you, keeping you centered over him as if heâs trying to memorize the specific, heavy heat of you.Â
the kiss gets louder, the sound of it lost in the shadows of the room, and for the first time since friday, the dread in your chest is replaced by a blooming, golden ache that makes you want to stay exactly like this until the sun comes up.
the heat of the kiss breaks with a wet, heavy sound that echoes in the dark, and megumi pulls back just far enough to breathe, though he doesn't let go of your waist.Â
he presses his forehead against yours, the contact hot and damp, both of you gasping for air that feels suddenly too thin for the room.Â
his lungs are working hard, his chest heaving against yours in a frantic, uneven rhythm, and in the low light, he looks like something caught between a dream and a disaster.
you look at himâreally look at himâand the sight of him makes your chest ache with a weight that has nothing to do with maiâs message.Â
his hair is a chaotic mess of ink-black spikes, his skin is flushed a deep, feverish pink, and his eyes are wide, the dark green of them glittering with a vulnerability he usually keeps buried under layers of iron and salt.
your mind drifts back to a rainy tuesday three weeks ago, sitting on the curb outside of 7/11 with the neon sign flickering a sickly green over his shoulders.Â
he had looked at the pavement then, shoulders hunched, and told you he felt numb insideâthat there was no hope for someone like him, that the world was just a cycle of unfairness he was tired of fighting.
but looking at him now, feeling the way his pulse is frantic under your fingertips and the way his breath stutters when you move, you canât agree. he isn't numb. heâs a goddamn wildfire, and heâs the most beautiful thing youâve ever seen.
âyouâre so beautiful,â you whisper, the words slipping out without a second thought, raw and honest in the quiet.
your thumb strokes over the sharp ridge of his cheekbone, tracing the line of his skin, and you feel the way he flinches slightly at the praise. his brows furrow, a look of genuine, pained confusion crossing his face as if youâve spoken a language he doesnât understand.
âwhatââ he starts, his voice cracking, his head tilting back just a fraction as he tries to process the compliment, his mouth hanging open in a soft, dazed 'o'.
you donât let him finish. you donât want to hear him argue or watch him retreat back into that shell of self-loathing. before he can get the next word out, you crash your lips back into his, the movement sudden and desperate.
he makes a small, muffled sound of protest against your mouth, a startled "mmph" as his hands tighten on your hips, his body locking up for a split second as if heâs trying to maintain some last shred of restraint. but the protest dies as quickly as it began.Â
his fingers dig into your skin, his grip turning firm and needy, and he gives in entirely, his mouth opening under yours with a low, defeated groan that sounds like a surrender.
long and calloused hands begin to wander from the dip of your waist, sliding upward with a slow, agonizingly careful friction. the sensation of his palms dragging against the ribs of your shirt is enough to make your breath stutter, your movements against his lap becoming more insistent, more rhythmic, as the friction of his pajama pants against you becomes the only thing you can feel.
he doesn't move with the practiced ease of someone who has done this a thousand times; instead, his exploration is tactile and focused, his touch heavy as if heâs trying to map out the architecture of your body through the layers of fabric.Â
he reaches the hem of your shirt, his fingertips grazing the bare skin of your stomach for the first time. the contact is electric, a sharp contrast of his cool fingers against your feverish skin, and you canât help the sharp intake of breath that hitches in your throat when his hand finally slips underneath, his palm flattening against your midriff.
his touch is firm, warm, and slightly rough in a way that makes your heart hammer against your ribs like a trapped bird. he slowly pushes the material upward, his gaze remaining locked on yours even in the shadows, his eyes dark and clouded with a desire that looks almost like pain.Â
as he reaches the lace of the braâthat birthday gift from mai that felt like a curse only hours agoâhis knuckles brush against the underside of your breast, and a low, guttural sound escapes him, something between a sigh and a prayer.
you feel his other hand move down, sliding over the curve of your hip to pull you even tighter against the hard line of his length, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts.Â
heâs breathing through his nose now, deep and jagged, his forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder as he focuses entirely on the sensation of your skin beneath his hands.Â
he pulls back just enough to catch the hem of your shirt, his fingers hooking into the fabric with a slight tremble that he canât quite hide. the movement is slow, deliberate, and you lift your arms to help him, the cotton sliding over your skin and off your head until itâs tossed somewhere into the shadows of the bed.Â
the cool air of the room hits your bare shoulders for only a fraction of a second before the heat of him rushes back in to fill the space, his eyes tracking the movement of your body with a heavy, unblinking intensity.
he looks at you then, truly looks at you, his gaze lingering on the way the moonlight catches the intricate patterns of the lace bra, the way your skin flushes a deep, dusty rose under his scrutiny. he doesn't say anything, but the way his jaw tightens tells you everything you need to know.
his head dips, his mouth finding the sensitive junction where your neck meets your shoulder. he starts with a kiss that is feather-light, almost a question, before his lips press firmer, dragging against your skin with a slow, wet heat.Â
you let out a shaky exhale, your head falling back as he moves upward, his tongue tracing the line of your pulse point, tasting the salt of your skin and the frantic rhythm of your heart.
he works his way down, his kisses trailing along the slope of your collarbone, each one feeling like a brand. when he reaches the swell of your breasts, he doesn't stop.Â
he nuzzles into the soft, exposed skin above the lace, his breath hot and ragged against you. he presses his face into the center of your chest, breathing you in, before his lips begin to explore the rounded curves constrained by the bra.
he kisses the tops of your breasts, his mouth moving with that same accidental, devastating precision, avoiding the lace entirely for a moment just to appreciate the softness of you.Â
then, his hand comes up to cup you, his palm firm and warm through the fabric, lifting you slightly as he presses a lingering, heavy kiss to the side of your breast.Â
the sensation is overwhelmingâthe friction of the lace, the pressure of his hand, and the wet heat of his mouth all colliding at once. you feel him shift beneath you, his hips tilting up to meet yours in a silent, desperate reflex, a low, broken groan vibrating deep in his throat as he loses himself in the curve of your body.
the name slips out of you on a jagged, breathy exhale, "megumi," and the sound of it acts like a match dropped into a dry forest.Â
his hands move with a sudden, focused intent, sliding around your back. you feel his fingers fumbling slightly against the metal of the clasp, a brief moment of clumsy, teenage friction as his knuckles graze your spine, fumbling.
then, with a soft, final click, the tension of the lace gives way.
as the straps slide down your shoulders and the bra falls away, the cool air of the room hits your skin, and you feel a sudden, jarring sense of exposureâyouâve never been this bare in front of anyone, never had a boy look at you without the barrier of cotton or lace, and the weight of his gaze feels heavier than his hands ever did.Â
your breath hitches in your throat and your shoulders instinctively hunch a fraction, at the realizationsâstripped of the armor of your clothes, raw and unguarded in the moonlight.Â
itâs a terrifying kind of vulnerability, the kind that makes your heart hammer against your ribs like itâs trying to break free.
megumi seems to sense the shift in the air. he pauses, his hands resting gently on your waist, and he lifts his head to look at you.Â
his eyes are dark, heavy with a heat youâve never seen in them before, but he searches your face with a quiet, persistent concern, his brows slightly drawn together as if heâs asking a silent question. he waits, his breathing ragged and deep, giving you the space to pull back, to breathe, to change your mind.
when you don't move, when you only lean closer into his space, he leans in, his mouth warm and wet as he catches one nipple between his lips. a sharp, electric jolt shoots straight to your core, and your back arches instinctively, your fingers digging into the mess of his dark hair.Â
he starts with a gentle, inquisitive suckling, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak in a way that makes your vision blur at the edges.
heâs careful, almost reverent, his hands coming up to cup the weight of your breasts, his thumbs brushing rhythmically over the dark, tight circles of your nipples. the sensation is overwhelmingâthe contrast of his rougher palms against your softness, the tug of his lips, and the low, muffled sounds of appreciation heâs making against your skin.Â
he moves to the other side, his bites turning into soft, teasing tugs of his teeth that make you let out a broken, high-pitched whimper, your hips stuttering against his lap as the golden ache inside you begins to burn white-hot.
the mattress groans under your combined weight as his hands finally leave your waist, his long, slender fingers tracing a path of fire down your ribs until they hook into the elastic of your shorts.Â
he doesn't ask, but the way he pauses, his knuckles brushing against the sensitive skin of your hip, is a silent question you answer by pressing yourself harder against him.Â
his fingers are cool against your feverish skin as they slip beneath the fabric, sliding past the lace of your underwear with a hesitant, jerky motion that betrays the frantic thrumming of his own pulse.
when he finally finds you, your breath hitches so sharply it hurts.Â
your mind flashes back, unbidden, to a humid night two months ago when youâd been lying in bed, high off an edible and staring at the ceiling, imagining exactly this: megumiâs hands on you, his quiet intensity finally breaking.Â
back then, it had felt like a fever dream, something untouchable and distant, but the reality of his cool skin against your feverish heat is a thousand times more electrifying.
he starts slow, his thumb tracing the seam of your folds with a light, tentative pressure that makes your breath hitch in your throat. heâs exploring you like heâs afraid he might bruise you, his touch reverent and soft, until he finds the slick, wet heat of you.
the sensation is a sharp, jagged bolt of lightning that shoots straight to your core. when he finally finds the courage to slip one finger inside, your eyes roll back, a broken sound escaping your lips that gets swallowed by the shadows of the room.Â
he follows with a second, his fingers long and stretching you just enough to make you whine, his touch curious and cautious as if heâs trying to understand the sudden, overwhelming velvet of your interior.
the way he starts to move is tentative, a shallow, searching rhythm that isn't quite enough to reach the ache burial deep in your bones.
you donât have time for tentative.
you take control, your hands locking onto his forearms as you begin to grind down onto his hand. itâs a slow, heavy tilt of your hips, forcing his fingers deeper, showing him exactly the kind of pressure youâve been craving since friday.Â
the friction is visceral and loud in the quiet of the room, the sound of your shared, ragged breathing filling the space between you.
youâre teaching him the rhythm you need, your body arching and dipping in a heavy, desperate undulation that turns the golden ache in your belly into a white-hot, insistent throb.
every time you press down, megumi lets out a low, strangled sound, his head falling back as he watches you move against him.Â
his grip on your waist turns white-knuckled, his fingers digging into your skin to anchor you, to keep you centered over the fire heâs accidentally started.Â
heâs focused entirely on the feeling of youâthe way youâre slicking his fingers, the way your heat is enveloping himâand for a moment, the world outside his window and the ticking clock of monday morning feel like they belong to a different lifetime.
itâs a beautiful, messy frictionâthe sound of your shallow gasps filling the dark room while his hand stays buried inside you, his thumb finding the small, swollen center of your pleasure and grazing it with a devastating, accidental precision.Â
mirroring him, your own head falls back, your eyes fluttering shut as the golden ache turns blinding, the weight of your body seeking his through the layers of his pajama pants desperate and rhythmic.
you can feel him beneath you, solid and aching, his own breathing coming in ragged, broken hitches as he watches you move.Â
the sensation of his long fingers working inside you, stretching you, paired with the insistent press of him against your thigh, is too much and not enough all at once.
you lean forward, your lips hovering against the shell of his ear, your voice a frayed, desperate thread. âi need more, megumi,â you whisper, the words jagged and raw. âi need you inside me. now.â
he freezes, his fingers stilling inside you for a heartbeat as his eyes widen, the green of them blown out and dark. he looks like heâs just been struck by lightning, his mouth parting as he tries to find his voice.Â
ây/n, iâwait,â he stammers, his face flushing a deep, bruised red as he gently pulls his hand back, the loss of his touch making you let out a low, frustrated whine.
he turns away, his movements frantic as he begins rummaging through the messy drawer of his nightstand, his fingers fumbling with a small, foil square. the sound of the crinkling plastic is loud in the silence, and his jaw is set so tight it looks like it might crack.
âfuck the condom,â you snap, reaching out to grab his wrist, your fingers digging into the pale skin. âiâm on the pill, megumi. just come back.â
he stops dead, the foil packet slipping from his fingers as he looks at you, his eyes wide-eyed and disoriented.Â
âum? are you sure?â he asks, his voice pitching higher in a way thatâs almost endearing if you weren't so high on adrenaline. âyouâreâyouâre positive?â
you don't answer with words. instead, you reach down and grab the waistband of his boxers, a firm, unapologetic tug that pulls him back toward you.Â
you donât need soft right now, you donât need a boy to take your hand and guide you gently through the wreckage. you need something that harder, faster, something blunt enough to knock the countdown out of your head for even a moment, to drown out the inevitability curling closer by the hour.Â
the realization surges through you with a visceral force as you look up at him, your finger still hooked in his waistband, the heat of him close and undeniable, your gaze tracing his chest where lean muscle pulls tight beneath pale skin, faint shadows carved along his ribs and collarbone.Â
his jaw is sharp and set, tension etched there like it lives permanently under the surface, his lips slightly parted in a way that makes him look almost dazed, almost vulnerable, dark hair falling messily into his eyes.
the need pulses stronger than anything you have felt before, stronger than the desperate wanting that once drove you to chase popularity, to abandon yuko for a different table, a different version of yourself, all those months ago.Â
this feels older, deeper, wired straight into your body, the kind of instinct that flares when an animal senses the end closing in and makes one final, feral attempt to survive.Â
it is the last burst of motion before the trap snaps shut, the lunge born of nothing but urgency and will.Â
your body understands it even as your mind struggles to keep up, every nerve tuned to him, every breath pulled tight with the certainty that this is the only thing that makes sense right now.Â
he is the only thing that makes sense right now.
the mattress sinks as megumi leans down, his body a heavy, radiating weight that draws the air right out of your lungs.Â
his hands, still a little shaky, come up to cradle your face, his palms warm and framing your jaw with a tenderness that feels almost like a prayer. his thumbs graze your cheekbones, guiding your chin upward to meet him, and when his lips find yours again, the contact is devastating.
itâs deeper, a frantic exchange of breath and heat that tastes like salt and the metallic edge of desperation.Â
you reach up, your fingers tangling into the dark, unruly mess of his hair, pulling him closer as if you could physically drag him into your own skin.Â
you want to feel the weight of his thoughts, the grit of his historyâyou want everything heâs been hiding behind that stoic, gray-sky expression.
the kiss intensifies, his tongue slick and urgent against yours, and you feel the moment his restraint finally cracks. he lets out a low, vibration of a growl deep in his chestâa sound so raw and un-megumi-like that it makes your toes curl against the sheets.
his hands slide from your face to your shoulders, and with a slow, deliberate pressure, he guides you backward.
your back hits the blanket with a soft thud, the fabric cool against your bare skin for only a second before he is over you, following you down without breaking the seal of the kiss.Â
he hovers there, draped over you like a shadow, his dark hair falling forward to curtain your faces from the rest of the world. you feel his knee slot firmly between your legs, a solid, grounding pressure that hitches your hips upward instinctively, your inner thighs hugging the skin of his own.
the kiss only deepens as you lay there, pinned by his weight, the sound of your shared breathing loud and ragged in the dark.Â
heâs nipping at your lower lip again, pulling at it with his teeth before soothing the sting with his tongue, his hands moving to grip the mattress on either side of your head.Â
he looks down at you, eyes dark and blown out, tracing the way you look beneath himâexposed, wanting, and entirely his for the next twenty-some-odd hours.
the room is a blur of shadows and heat as you reach for the waistband of his boxers again, your fingers hooked firm and unapologetic, pulling him back into your space with a strength born of pure, jagged desperation.Â
megumi doesn't fight you; he moves like heâs caught in your orbit, his hands fumbling with the button of your shorts as you kick them off, the fabric disappearing into the dark at the foot of the bed.Â
you follow suit, your own hands working with a frantic, clumsy energy to slide his boxers down his lean hips, the cotton dragging against his skin until heâs as bare as you are.
there is a heartbeat of sheer, staggering silence when the last of the clothes hit the floorâa moment where the reality of your shared nakedness settles between you, heavy and thick. megumi looks down at you, his chest heaving, the pale lines of his ribs and the hard, flat plane of his stomach rising and falling in a ragged rhythm. he looks ethereal in the moonlight, all sharp angles and soft shadows, a boy carved out of london gray skies and hidden fires.
he descends over you again, his weight settling between your thighs, and the sensation of his bare skin hitting yours is a physical shock.Â
his chest is hot against your breasts, the friction of skin on skin sending a fresh wave of static through your nerves that makes you gasp into the hollow of his shoulder.Â
heâs hovering just above you, propped up on his elbows, his eyes dark and blown out as he searches your face, his breathing coming in shallow, broken hitches.
as he moves to kiss you again, a slow, wet glide of his mouth against yours, you feel itâthe heavy, insistent heat of him pressing against your lower belly. heâs fully hard now, the solid length of him slick with a bead of precum that smears against the soft skin of your stomach as he shifts.Â
itâs a visceral, grounding sensation, the wetness of him marking you, a silent promise of whatâs coming next.
he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips dragging against your pulse point, and you can feel the slight tremor in his muscles as he tries to hold himself back.Â
the friction of him rubbing against you with every ragged breath he takes is maddening, a slow-burn torture that makes your hips tilt upward instinctively, seeking the very thing heâs still hesitant to give.
the heat of his skin against your stomach is a physical weight, but suddenly the friction stops. he pulls back just enough to look at you, his arms shaking slightly as he props himself up on his elbows. his face is a bruised shade of red, his expression tight with a specific kind of focused intensity that makes him look older, more severe.
he shifts, moving to position himself between your thighs, his breath hitching as he feels the slick, heavy heat of you. he pauses there, the tip of him just barely brushing against you, and he swallows hard.Â
the stoic mask he wears at school is completely gone, replaced by a raw, jagged uncertainty.
"you, uh..." his voice is low, scraped back to a rough whisper that barely carries in the dark. he clears his throat, his eyes searching yours with a desperate kind of care. "you said you've never done this before, right?"
you can only nod, your throat too tight to find words, your fingers still curled into the sheets.
"okay," he breathes, his jaw setting as he tries to steady his own breathing. "i'm going to go slow, alright? just... let me know if it hurts. just tell me to stop if itâs too much."
it's so typically megumiâthe quiet responsibility, the protective instinct even in the middle of this.Â
he slowly begins to push, and you feel the initial, sharp stretch as he enters you just a fraction. he stops immediately, his eyes widening as he watches your face for any sign of pain, his hands gripping your waist so hard his knuckles are white.
"you okay?" he rasps, his voice a frayed thread.
you bite your lip, a small, shaky nod being the only answer you can manage through the sheer, overwhelming fullness of him.Â
he waits another heartbeat, his pulse visible in the hollow of his throat, before he slides in deeperâabout halfway this time. a low, guttural groan escapes him, his head falling forward into the space beside your neck as he feels the heat of you clamping down around him.
he stops again, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. heâs checking, always checking, his silence a heavy question.
"go all the way," you whisper, the words breathy and desperate, your heels digging into the mattress to pull him closer. "megumi, please. all the way."
he lets out a long, shaky exhale and finally sinks into you, a slow and agonizingly careful glide until he bottoms out. he makes a sharp, strangled noise into your skinâa sound of pure, unadulterated reliefâand he stays there for a moment, just breathing you in, buried deep.
"good," he mutters, his voice vibrating against your collarbone, thick with a dazed kind of reverence. "youâre doing so good, y/n. you're perfect."
he begins to move, his hips pulling back and pushing forward in a slow, rhythmic pace that feels like heâs trying to handle you like something made of glass.Â
for you, itâs a stretchâa heavy, dragging fullness that fills the hollow ache in your chestâbut itâs a good stretch, the kind that feels like finally being anchored after drifting for days.
the slow, methodical pace of his hips is driving you crazyâitâs too thoughtful, too careful, like heâs trying to solve a puzzle instead of losing himself in the wreckage of the night.Â
heâs looking at you with that quiet, intense focus, his mouth set in a thin line as he watches your every blink, his thrusts steady and shallow, as if heâs terrified that any more force will break the spell youâve cast on him.Â
it feels good, a heavy and dragging warmth that fills you up, but it isn't enough to drown out the echoes of maiâs voice or the imagined ringing of the monday morning bell.
you donât want to be handled like glass. you want to be shattered.
âmegumi,â you gasp out, your fingers digging into the lean muscles of his shoulders, your nails leaving crescent-moon marks in his skin. he pauses, his hips stilling as he looks down at you, concern immediately clouding those dark green eyes.
âdid iâdoes it hurt?â he asks, his voice low and urgent, already beginning to pull back as if to retreat. âi can stop, i told you we couldââ
âno,â you snap, the word sharp and jagged in the quiet room. you reach up, grabbing the front of his hair to pull his face back down to yours, your eyes locking onto his with a desperate, feverish intensity. âstop being so⊠quiet. stop being so gentle. i need you to go harder, megumi. i need you to actually fuck me.â
he blinks, his entire body locking up for a heartbeat. the word seems to hit him like a physical blow, his jaw dropping just a fraction as he processes the bluntness of it.Â
for a second, he just stares at you, his chest heaving against yours, and you can see the conflict playing out behind his eyesâthe side of him that wants to protect you warring with the side of him that has been wanting this since he first saw you.
he opens his mouth to speak, his throat working as he swallows hard, trying to force the words past the static. when he finally speaks, his voice cracks, a jagged, broken sound that betrays exactly how thin his restraint has worn.
"you sure?" he rasps, the question sounding more like a plea for permission to lose his mind. "i don't... i don't want to hurt you, y/n. i'm notâ"
"yes, megumi," you cut him off, your voice steady and fueled by that frantic, monday-morning urgency. you reach up, your fingers dragging through the sweat-dampened hair at his temples, forcing him to keep his eyes on yours. "i'm not gonna break, i promise. i want you."
itâs like watching a levee break.
the hesitation in his eyes dies a sudden, violent death. his pupils blow out, swallowing the green of his irises until they're just thin, glittering rims of emerald light, sharp and predatory in the dark.Â
the air in the room shifts, turning heavy and electric, and before you can even draw your next breath, his grip on your waist turns white-knuckled. his long fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hips with a sudden, bruising firmness, anchoring you to the mattress as he finally lets the coiled tension in his shoulders snap.
you let out a sharp, surprised moan as he lunges forward, the gentle rhythm replaced by a blunt, heavy force that knocks the wind right out of your lungs, all that repressed, coiled tension finally snapping.Â
megumi begins driving into you with a raw, heavy force, his hips hitting yours with a wet, rhythmic thud that echoes against the headboard. the headboard itself begins to knock against the wallâa steady, violent punctuation to the frantic sounds of your shared breathing.
you let out a high-pitched, broken cry, your head tossing back against the pillow as he finds a rhythm that is anything but gentle. heâs deep and relentless, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that is more like a collision, his tongue slick and urgent.Â
every thrust is a blunt, grounding weight that knocks the thoughts of monday right out of your skull, replacing the dread with a white-hot, blinding pleasure that makes your vision blur.
his face is buried in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he lets out ragged, wordless sounds of praise and desperation into your collarbone, the headboard rhythmic and punishing against the wall as megumi loses every ounce of that stoic, calculated composure.Â
heâs buried in the hollow of your shoulder, his breath coming in hot, jagged stutters that burn against your skin.Â
your hands are everywhere, frantic and seeking, your fingernails clawing into the lean, damp muscle of his back as you try to anchor yourself to him. you find yourself messily seeking his mouth again, your lips colliding in a wet, desperate heat, tasting the salt and the shared, frantic oxygen of the room.Â
he breaks the kiss only to dive lower, his mouth working its way back down to your breasts with a renewed, feverish hunger. he catches a nipple between his lips, tugging and suckling with an intensity that makes your vision go white at the edges.
and then, his hand slithers down between your bodies.
his long fingers, already slick with the evidence of your shared sweat, find the small, swollen center of you. he starts working circles around your clit, his thumb moving in a heavy, rhythmic blur that feels like a live wire against your skin.Â
heâs stimulating you three ways nowâthe blunt, deep stretch of him filling you, the wet heat of his mouth on your chest, and the relentless friction of his handâand the pleasure builds into something localized and screaming.
he keeps hitting that one spot deep inside you with every heavy thrust, a precision that feels accidental and devastating all at once. you find yourself cursing his name, your voice a frayed, broken thread in the dark. "fuck, megumiâright thereâdon't stop."
his pace quickens, his hips slamming into yours with a wet, heavy thud that echoes the frantic beat of your heart. he lifts his head, his face flushed a deep, bruised crimson, his eyes blown out and glassy as they lock onto yours.
"i'mâi'm close," he gasps, his voice cracking, a jagged sound of pure, unadulterated vulnerability. "y/n, i'm gonnaâ"
"me too," you cry out, your fingers digging into his hips to pull him deeper, your body coiling tight like a spring about to snap, just as the world shatters.
you hit the peak first, your internal muscles clamping down around him in a series of rhythmic, pulsing waves that make your back arch off the mattress, a high, broken keen leaving your throat.Â
the sensation is so intense itâs almost painful, a white-hot explosion that blots out the room as megumi follows you over the edge a heartbeat later.Â
he lets out a low, guttural cryâa sound of total, messy surrenderâas he bottoms out one last time, his body locking up as he spills inside of you.Â
you feel the hot, rhythmic pulse of him filling you up, a heavy warmth that anchors you to the bed, while his face drops into the crook of your neck, his skin fever-hot and damp against yours.
he stays there, buried deep, both of you panting in the sudden, heavy silence of the room. the only sound is the frantic, overlapping thud of your hearts and the distant, ticking reminder of the clock on his nightstand.Â
his face is still pressed into your shoulder, his breathing ragged and exhausted, and for a long, beautiful moment, the rest of the world is completely dead.
the weight of him finally shifts, his body heavy and spent as he pulls back with a slow, shaky friction that leaves you feeling sudden and cold where he had just been.Â
he collapses onto the mattress beside you, the springs letting out a long, tired groan as they take his weight, and for several minutes, neither of you moves; the only sound in the room is the frantic, overlapping symphony of two people trying to remember how to breathe, the air between you thick and humid with the scent of sex and salt.
megumi is flat on his back, his chest heaving in a jagged, uneven rhythm, the pale moonlight tracing the sweat-slicked lines of his ribs.Â
his arm is flung over his eyes, shielding them from the dim light, but you can see the deep, bruised flush that still stains his neck and ears. he looks utterly wreckedâstripped of that guarded, quiet armor he carries through the school halls like a second skin.
you lie there, staring at the ceiling, the ceiling fan spinning lazily above you like a slow-motion countdown. the golden ache has settled into a dull, heavy thrum in your lower belly, a visceral reminder of what just happened, of the line youâve finally crossed.
after a while, the silence shifts from heavy to expectant as megumi finally moves his arm, his head lolling to the side to look at you.Â
his eyes are still slightly glassy, pupils blown dark from adrenaline, and yet the confusion from earlier begins to resurface, creeping back into the sharp planes of his face as he looks at you againâreally looks at you, attention narrowing and sharpening.Â
the haze lifts just enough for recognition to settle in, for him to register you not as the girl who haunted his half-formed dreams or the reckless silhouette that broke through his window, but as a real person standing in front of him, breathing hard, having just upended his entire world at 2:00 a.m.
âso,â he starts, the word scraping out of his throat, his voice a dry, rasping echo of itself. he pauses, presses his lips together, then clears his throat, the sound too loud in the quiet room, a nervous tell he does not bother hiding.Â
âhow⊠how did you even get here?â his eyes flick briefly to the window, then back to you, brows drawing together again as he searches for footing. âi mean, i know you climbed through the window, butâŠâ he trails off, jaw tightening, before forcing himself to finish, softer now. âwhy me?â
the question lands heavier than you expect, simple and weighted all at once.Â
he is looking for logic where there is none, grasping for a clean explanation in a moment born entirely of jagged impulse, trying to understand why the girl staring down the barrel of social execution chose his bedroom to spend these hours.Â
under his gaze, you feel painfully exposed, like every layer of you has been stripped away, your skin buzzing with awareness as your heart pounds erratically against your ribs.
you open your mouth, close it again, searching for words that could explain how this was supposed to be a split-second decision, reckless and unplanned, and then your mind betrays you, drifting back to all the other times he has occupied your thoughts without permission, the quiet, persistent way he has existed in your head for months.
maybe it was never just impulse. maybe it was something closer to a crush, something half-formed and unnamed, tangled up with fear and longing and the looming certainty of tomorrow.Â
the truth feels too complicated, too raw to lay out in his dimly lit room, and the thought of explaining the mechanics of your public unraveling to megumi fushiguro makes your chest seize.Â
before he can ask anything else, before you can talk yourself out of it, you reach for him, fingers threading into his hair and tugging just enough to pull his attention back to you, to stop the questions mid-breath, choosing action over explanation as the distance between you disappears.Â
you reach out, your fingers threading into the dark, sweat-damp mess of his hair with a sharp, insistent tug, pulling him back toward you just as he opens his mouth to ask more.
the questions die in his throat as your lips crash into his again.
he lets out a muffled, startled soundâa half-formed protest that vibrates against your mouthâbut the resistance is gone before it even truly begins.Â
he gives in with a low, defeated sigh, his body softening beneath your touch as he accepts the distraction youâre offering.Â
the kiss starts slow, a rhythmic, heavy exchange of breath that tastes like the salt of your shared skin. your hand stays at his nape, fingers curled into the short hairs there, guiding the tilt of his head as he follows your lead with a dazed, hungry compliance.
as the heat begins to build again, the kiss turning wetter and more insistent, you shift. you use your weight to push him back, his shoulders hitting the mattress with a soft thud. you crawl over him, your knees sliding along the sheets until you are straddling his hips, pinning him down.
even through the haze of your own adrenaline, you feel itâthe solid, heavy heat of him already hardening again beneath you. itâs a visceral, grounding pressure against the junction of your thighs, a reminder of how easily you can break his composure.Â
megumiâs hands find your waist, his fingers digging in with a renewed, desperate firmness, his thumbs grazing the bones of your hips as he looks up at you through his lashes.
he looks completely undone, his chest rising and falling in jagged pulls, his mouth swollen and red from your earlier collision.Â
the air in the room feels thick, charged with the same electric energy that brought you here in the first place, and as you look down at him, you realize you don't want to stop until there's nothing left of the night but the two of you.
you reach down, your fingers finding his wrists where his hands are still anchored to your hips, and you guide them upward. he watches you with a dazed, wide-eyed intensity, his breath hitching as you pull his hands toward your head.Â
you thread his fingers into your hair yourself, forcing him to grip the damp strands, and you lean down until your lips are brushing against his ear.
"pull it," you whisper, the command sharp and jagged.
megumi flinches, his entire body locking up beneath you. "y/n, iâ" he starts, his voice cracking with that familiar, cautious hesitation. "i don't want to hurt you."
"you won't," you snap, your hips rolling against him in a slow, heavy circle that makes him let out a strangled, high-pitched sound. "just do it.âÂ
you look down at him, your chest heaving, the air in the room feeling like itâs being sucked out of a vacuum.Â
your hair is a wild, tangled curtain around your face, and you catch his gazeâthose dark, troubled green eyesâand you let the stoic mask drop just enough for him to see the fracture underneath.Â
you look at him with eyes that are slightly pleading, a silent, raw confession that you need this, you need the sting, you need the anchor of him to keep you from drifting into the abyss of monday morning.
"please," you whisper, the word sounding small and broken in the vast quiet of his bedroom.
megumiâs expression is a wreck of uncertainty, his jaw tight, eyes searching yours as if heâs trying to find the girl he knows underneath the desperate stranger straddling him.Â
his hands tremble where theyâre tangled in your hair, but he doesn't pull away. he just watches you, mesmerized and terrified, as you shift your weight.
you reach down between your bodies, your fingers closing around the solid, pulsing heat of him. heâs slick and heavy in your hand, a visceral reminder of how much he wants you despite his own hesitation.Â
you line him up, the tip of him brushing against your opening, and you pause for a heartbeat, looking him right in the eye as you guide yourself onto him in an agonizingly deep slide, your body stretching and giving way to the blunt force of him as you take him all at once.Â
a sharp, strangled sound leaves your throatâsomething between a sob and a gaspâas the air is punched out of your lungs.Â
megumi lets out a low, guttural "shit" that vibrates through your entire body, the word scraped raw and jagged. his head hits the pillow with a thud as he bottoms out inside you, his hips jerking upward in an instinctive, desperate reflex to meet the intrusion.
the fullness is even more intense this time, a thick, grounding heat that radiates from the center of you until your vision starts to blur at the edges.Â
you feel every inch of him, the way he fills the hollow ache youâve been carrying since friday, and for a second, you just stay there, pinned by the sheer scale of the sensation.Â
megumiâs hands tighten in your hair, his knuckles white, as he stares up at you with a look of pure, unadulterated surrender, both of you frozen in the wreckage of the moment.
the rhythm starts slow, almost punishing in its deliberation as you begin to slide up and down the length of him. every time you rise, you feel the heavy, dragging friction of him nearly leaving you before you sink back down, taking every inch of him back in.Â
you instinctively let out a small, broken soundâa high-pitched hitch in your breathâat just how devastatingly deep he is this time, the sensation hitting a spot that makes your entire lower body hum with a localized, electric heat.
megumi is watching you move with a dazed, raw intensity, his chest heaving as he grips the sheets with one hand while the other stays locked in your hair.Â
he seems to be testing the boundaries of what you asked for, his knuckles turning white before he lets out a sudden, sharp tug. itâs not enough to hurt, but the jolt of it makes your internal muscles clench around him in a frantic, involuntary reflex.
he sucks the air through his teeth at the feeling, a jagged, hissing sound of pure overstimulation as his hips jerk upward off the mattress. his eyes are blown out, dark and glassy, as he stares up at you. "y/nâ"
"harder," you cut him off, your voice a frayed thread of desperation.
he opens his mouth, that familiar, cautious protest already forming on his lips, but you don't give him the chance to be careful. you grind back down onto him with a heavy, circling pressure that pins him to the bed, the friction of your skin against his making him let out a strangled, muffled noise instead of a sentence.Â
he doesn't say anything after that. the protest dies, replaced by a dark, focused resolve that ripples through his muscles.
this time, when he tugs, he doesn't hesitate. he pulls harder, tilting your head back, and the combination of the sharp, grounding sting at your scalp and the blunt force of him inside you makes pleasure shoot through your spine like a live wire.Â
your back arches, your fingers digging into the lean muscle of his chest, and you begin to build momentum, your hips moving in a frantic, rhythmic blur.
the sound of the bedframe knocking against the wall becomes the only clock you care about, a steady, violent beat that drowns out the quiet of the hour.Â
youâre moving faster now, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps as the coiling in your stomach begins to tighten, pulling every nerve ending toward a single, white-hot point of no return.Â
megumi is meeting you move for move, his hands sliding from your hair to your waist to help drive you down, his face a mask of concentration and hunger as he watches you unravel right on top of him, his fingers digging into your skin to meet every downward stroke, body arching off the bed to drive deeper into you.
the momentum reaches a fever pitch, the air in the room thick and tasting of salt, as the coiling in your lower belly tightens into a knot that feels like itâs about to snap.Â
megumi is a blur of sharp angles and heat beneath you, his muscles rippling and visible in the pale moonlight as he grips your waist, his arms corded with tension while he guides you up and down.Â
his mouth is parted slightly, his breath coming in short, jagged hitches that sound more like prayers than air, his teeth gritting as he tries to hold on for just a second longer.
the feeling of the climax building is visceralâa heavy, pulsing pressure that starts at the base of your spine and radiates outward until your thighs are trembling and your skin feels too tight for your body.Â
your hands are flat against his chest, feeling the frantic, galloping thud of his heart and the slick heat of his skin, the lean muscle there jumping with every heavy, wet thud of your hips.Â
you tilt your head back, your neck exposed and your eyes fluttering shut, as the world narrows down to the blunt, grounding friction of him inside you.
a high, broken cry leaves your throat as you cum, your internal muscles clamping down around him in a series of rhythmic, electric pulses that make your vision white out. the pleasure is so sharp itâs almost violent, a white-hot explosion that sends waves of static through your nerves.Â
megumi doesn't stop; he keeps guiding you through it, his hands firm on your hips, forcing you to take the full weight of the sensation even as you unravel on top of him.
he watches you with a dazed, reverent intensity, his own restraint finally shattering as he feels you come. his jaw drops, a low, guttural sound breaking from his chestâa raw, messy noise of total surrenderâas his body locks up beneath you.Â
he bottoms out one last time, his hips jerking upward as he spills inside of you, the heavy, pulsing heat of him filling the hollow ache and anchoring you to the mattress.Â
he collapses back against the pillow, his face flushed and sweat-slicked, his chest heaving as he looks up at you like youâve just rewritten the laws of physics in the middle of his bedroom.
you slide off him, your limbs feeling heavy and disconnected, like they don't quite belong to you anymore. the mattress springs hiss as your weight shifts, and you sink into the bed beside him, the cool air hitting your sweat-slicked skin with a sharp, bracing sting.Â
both of you are panting, the only sound in the room being the ragged, synchronized thrum of your lungs trying to catch up with the last ten minutes.
megumi is staring at the ceiling, his chest heaving, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. he looks completely spent, the usual sharp lines of his face softened by the sheer exhaustion of it all.
you turn onto your side slowly, the sheets whispering beneath you as you prop yourself up on one elbow, the movement unhurried, almost lazy, and reach out to idly thread your fingers through those ink-black spikes.Â
his hair is warm and soft where it brushes your knuckles, still damp at the roots, and he lets out a quiet breath at the contact, chest rising and falling heavily beneath your gaze.Â
his pulse is visible and frantic in the hollow of his throat, jumping in a way that feels almost indecent now that you know how it sounds under your hands.Â
you watch him for a moment, the golden haze of afterglow still humming through your veins, the room feeling suspended, untethered from time, before the thought that has been hovering at the back of your mind finally slips loose.
âyouâre not a virgin, are you?â you ask, voice soft, casual in tone, as if the question does not carry any weight.
megumi flinches. it is small and involuntary, a sharp twitch of his jaw that he does not bother trying to hide, and his gaze slides away from you immediately.Â
a deep, bruised flush creeps up his neck, darkening his ears in the moonlight, the color betraying him more honestly than words ever could.Â
he swallows hard, throat working, eyes fixing themselves on some invisible point along the slow rotation of the ceiling fan, like he can anchor himself there.
âno,â he mutters, the word rough. he hesitates, breath stuttering once before he continues. âiâm not. i, umâŠâ his fingers curl into the sheet at his side, knuckles paling as he exhales. âthere was one girl. before you. two schools ago.â
the words land with a dull, heavy thud in the quiet, settling between you in a way that shifts the air.Â
even though you knew it, even though logic has always told you that a boy who looks like a fallen angel and moves with that kind of effortless, accidental grace was never going to exist untouched, hearing it out loud sends a sharp, cold spike of jealousy curling through your chest.Â
it is immediate and irrational, a petty, nagging ache that tightens your ribs as you picture someone else seeing him like this, knowing the cadence of his breathing, the way his body softens after.Â
for a fleeting second, you hate her, this nameless girl from a london-gray past, a ghost you will never meet, who knew the shape of him before you ever did.
you nod slowly to yourself, the motion small and deliberate, as if sealing something shut inside your chest, your fingers continuing to sift through his hair in gentle, absent strokes, trying to smooth down the jagged edge of the feeling before it can cut any deeper.Â
the jealousy dulls, retreats just enough for you to breathe around it, grounded by the simple, undeniable truth of the moment: you are the one who climbed through his window. you are the one here now, the one whose name is still hanging in the air between his breaths.
you watch the way his chest begins to settle beneath you, the sharp rise and fall easing into something slower, steadier, though he still looks dazed, lashes heavy, eyes unfocused as if he is still catching up to his own body.Â
the room feels too quiet again, the kind of quiet that lets small things grow loud, and you feel it immediately, a strange, restless surge of energy sparking under your skin.Â
the adrenaline has not fully drained from you, your pulse still skidding erratically, and the ticking of the analog clock on his nightstand starts to sound intrusive, each second snapping into place with an almost accusatory precision.
you shift before the sound can get any louder in your head, leaning over him until you are back in his space, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin.Â
âhave you ever tried backshots?â you ask, your voice dropping into something playful and sharp-edged, a purr that curls through the quiet room and lands squarely on him.
megumiâs brain seems to short-circuit in real time. his eyes go wide, the dark green blown almost black in the low light, and his mouth parts into a silent, dazed little âoâ as he just stares at you, disbelief written plainly across his face.Â
he blinks once, then again, like he is trying to wake himself up properly.Â
âum? no?â he says finally, voice uneven, cracking slightly as he shifts beneath you. he runs a hand through his already-messy hair, clearly grasping for a lifeline. âyou⊠you want more?âÂ
his gaze flicks away for a second, nervous now, before returning to you.Â
âdonât you want to justâŠâ he trails off, the words losing momentum as he rubs at the back of his neck, eyes darting briefly to the dark television across the room like it might save him. he swallows, breath uneven, then tries again, softer and almost hopeful. âi donât know. watch a movie or something?â
you follow his line of thought without answering, turning your head just enough to glance toward the analog clock on his nightstand, its hands crawling forward with cruel patience, inching closer to a monday morning that feels like it wants to eat you alive.Â
the sight pulls a dry, breathy laugh out of you, humorless and sharp, as you look back at him.
âwhy the hell would i want to watch a movie, megumi?â you say, incredulous, the words light and cutting all at once.
the mountain dew bottle sits within reach on the bedside table, beads of condensation clinging to the plastic. without thinking, you flick a few cold droplets at him when he shifts again, shoulders slumping, that familiar tiredness threatening to pull him back into himself.Â
he jolts slightly at the cold, eyes snapping back to you, and you catch the moment he realizes youâre serious.Â
you are not letting him retreat into being the quiet, stoic boy just yet. not when the clock is still ticking. not when you are very clearly a woman on a mission.
the mattress groans as you shift again, your energy jagged and restless while megumi looks like heâs trying to remember what planet heâs on.Â
you reach out, your palm flat against the center of his chest, feeling the heavy, thudding rhythm of his heart beneath the damp heat of his skin. you give his chest a playful, challenging pat, your fingers lingering on the lean muscle there before you lean in close, your breath ghosting over his lips.
âcâmon, fushiguro,â you murmur, your voice a sharp, teasing purr that cuts through the quiet. âjust one more round. youâre a big boy⊠you can handle it, right?â
the challenge lands exactly where you intended. you watch the shift in his eyesâthat brief, dazed flicker of hesitation warring with a sudden, dark spike of pride.Â
his jaw tightens, and before he can even open his mouth to protest about a movie or sleep, you look down. you can see exactly what that question does to him; the heavy, pulsing length of him stirring against his thigh, thickening and jumping back to life with a visceral, involuntary honesty that makes you let out a low, breathy laugh.
âsee?â you tease, your eyes snapping back to his, a shit-eating grin spreading across your face. âalready ready for me.â
he lets out a low, frustrated soundâsomething between a groan and a huff of disbeliefâand he doesn't fight you as you grab his hands and start pulling him toward the edge of the bed. he moves like heâs in a trance, his long limbs clumsy but willing, his face flushed that deep, bruised red again.
you turn away from him, hands bracing against the cool, wooden frame of the bed, and you look back over your shoulder at him. heâs hovering there, his breathing starting to hitch again as he takes in the view of youâarched and waiting, the moonlight catching the curve of your spine.
âi want you to spank me,â you say, the words blunt and demanding.
megumi freezes. heâs standing just behind you, his hands hovering near your hips, and he blinks like he hasn't quite processed the english language. âum, what?â
âi want you to slap my ass,â you repeat, your voice rising with a touch of playful impatience. âcan you not hear me?â
âno, i heard you, butââ he stammers, his voice pitching higher as his eyes dart to the door and back to you. âare you... are you sure? i don't want to actuallyâ"
âoh my god, megumi,â you laugh, reaching back to grab his hand and pressing it firmly against your skin. âjust do it. i'm not made of glass.â
he swallows hard, his fingers curling against you. you can feel the heat radiating off him, the way his restraint is fraying at the edges for the third time tonight.Â
he doesn't say anything else, but the way he steps closer, his body lining up behind yours, tells you that heâs finally stopped overthinking, a solid wall of heat that makes the hair on your arms stand up.Â
his fingers are long and strong, digging into the soft flesh of your waist with a bruising firmness that anchors you right where he wants you. you feel the blunt, heavy press of him at your entrance, and then he pushes in.
itâs different from the other positionsâdeeper, more invasive, and completely overwhelming. you let out a sharp, involuntary yelp that echoes in the quiet room, your hands gripping the mattress so hard your knuckles turn white.Â
you feel a lot more full, like heâs reaching a part of you that was previously untouched, the stretch of him making your breath catch in a series of jagged hitches.
megumi freezes instantly. heâs hovering there, buried deep, his chest heaving against your back.Â
ây/n? are you okay?â he rasps, his voice thick with that immediate, protective worry. âdo i need toâ"
âno, no,â you breathe, nodding frantically even though he can only see the back of your head. you swallow hard, trying to adjust to the sheer scale of him. âiâm okay. just⊠i wasnât expecting it to feel like that.â
he lets out a shaky, ragged breath that fans across your shoulder blades, and then he begins to move, starting with slow, punishingly deep thrusts, his hips hitting yours with a heavy, wet thud.Â
his grip on your hips is relentless, his thumbs pressing into your hipbones with a pressure that you know will leave marks by morningâmarks you find yourself wanting.
his palms leave the indentation of your waist, descending in a slow, possessive glide that map the curves of your skin with a heavy, mapping intent. the friction of his cool, calloused palms against your feverish heat creates a localized shiver that races up the length of your spine.Â
behind you, he is a tempest of restrained sound; you hear him gritting his teeth, the porcelain click of his jaw tight with the effort of breathing as his exhales dissolve into low, guttural hitches.
"you'reâfuck, y/n..." he rasps, his voice a jagged, broken thread in the dark.
the words sound like a confession he never intended to voice, a slip of the tongue born from total sensory overload.Â
he shifts his weight, the mattress groaning as he prepares to abandon the last of his caution. he picks up the pace, the measured slides of his body transforming into hard, rhythmic drives that hit with a blunt, visceral force.
each thrust is a heavy weight that settles deep in your marrow, making the headboard begin its violent, steady knocking against the wall.Â
the sound is a rhythmic punctuation to the frantic mess of the night, a hollow thud that matches the frantic pounding of your heart.Â
you reach forward, your hands searching for any anchor as the world dissolves into the sensation of him, your fingers curling into the fabric of the bedsheets. you pull with a desperate strength, the cotton dragging off the corners of the mattress as you try to ground yourself against the sheer intensity of his momentum.
the feel of him is absoluteâa thick, overwhelming friction that turns the air in your lungs into a series of jagged gasps, just as the first slap hits, the sound a sharp, wet crack that echoes through the dimly lit room, the sting blooming across the soft skin of your ass in a sudden burst of heat.Â
you arch further instinctively, your spine bowing like a drawn wire as the combination of pleasure and pain jolts straight to the pit of your stomach. it is a localized explosion, a sharp electricity that makes your internal muscles clench around him in a frantic, involuntary reflex.
the high, broken sound that leaves your throat is a jagged surrender, a vocalization of the sudden, throbbing warmth blooming across your skin where his palm made contact. that sting settles into a steady, vibrating heat that fuses with the deeper, blunt pressure of his body.Â
it is a visceral jolt, an animalistic spark that incinerates the remaining haze of the night, leaving only the crushing weight of megumi behind you and the relentless, driving force of his momentum.
he leans into the friction, his hands finding the soft flesh of your hips again with a grip so punishing it promises a map of red, sore marks by dawn.Â
he pulls you back toward him with a sharp, possessive jerk, erasing every millimeter of space until the wet thud of his hips against yours is the only sound in the room.Â
your nails dig past the cotton of the sheets, clawing directly into the rough texture of the mattress itself as you scramble for any semblance of an anchor.
the wooden bedframe begins a violent, rhythmic protest, the headboard hammering a frantic percussion against the wall. then, a sharp, wooden crack echoes through the air, followed by a sudden, jarring tilt of the mattress as one of the legs splinters under the sheer force of his weight.
megumi freezes instantly, his hands locking on your waist, his chest heaving in jagged, wet pulls against your back. he remains buried deep within you, his body trembling with the effort of stopping so abruptly.
"i think..." he rasps, his voice a dry, disoriented ghost of itself as he feels the bed slant toward the floor. "i think we just broke my bedframe."
the silence that follows is thick with the smell of sweat and the ticking of the clock, but you have no patience for the physics of the room. you tilt your hips back into him, a deliberate, heavy grinding motion that makes him let out a low, strangled hiss.
"keep going," you breathe, your voice a frayed thread of pure, unadulterated need. "i don't care about the damn bed, megumiâiâm about to cum."
the command acts as a catalyst, shattering the last of his hesitation. he lets out a guttural, defeated groan, his face dropping back into the curve of your shoulder as he hauls you back into the rhythm, the slanted, broken frame be damned.Â
he drives into you with a renewed, frantic energy, the lopsided tilt of the bed only making the friction more intense as he loses himself in the wreck of the night.
the momentum reaches a fever pitch, the slanted bedframe groaning under the renewed, frantic energy of his hips.Â
megumi has abandoned every shred of his usual restraint, his hands moving in a blurred, heavy rhythm as he delivers a series of sharp, wet slaps against the reddened skin of your ass.Â
each strike is a jolt of localized fire that makes you yelp, your voice a high-pitched, broken sound that gets swallowed by the shadows, but you only press back into him harder.
"more," you beg, the word a jagged, breathless command as your fingers claw into the bare mattress. "megumi, more."
he doesn't hesitate. he lets out a low, guttural soundâa noise of pure, unadulterated hungerâand reaches one hand around your body. his long, slick fingers find the small, swollen center of you, working in fast, punishing circles that turn the internal pressure into a blinding, white-hot scream.Â
heâs stimulating you from every direction, the blunt force of his thrusts hitting that deep, sensitive spot while his thumb creates a friction that makes your vision blur into a haze of grey and emerald.
the pleasure builds into a localized explosion, a coiling tension that snaps with a visceral force. you hit the peak with a sharp, ragged cry, your body arching in a long, trembling line as you climax, your internal muscles clamping down on him in a series of frantic, electric pulses.Â
megumi drives into you even harder, his own breath catching in a series of jagged, high-pitched hitches as he follows you over the edge a heartbeat later, his jaw locking as he lets out a low, strangled moan of total surrender.Â
he bottoms out one last time, his body shaking with the force of his own release as he spills inside of you, the heavy warmth anchoring you both to the broken bed.
the strength leaves his limbs all at once, like someone reached inside him and flipped a switch. there is no warning, no attempt to brace himself. he just gives in, collapsing forward with a hoarse, helpless sound, his sweat-slicked chest thudding against your back, the impact knocking a shaky breath out of both of you.Â
his head drops into the crook of your neck, heavy and unguarded, curls brushing your skin as he struggles to remember how to pull air into his lungs, every inhale coming broken and uneven.
the shift of his full weight is the final insult to the already compromised wood beneath you. the bedframe answers with a loud, splintering crack that echoes far too clearly through the room, the sound sharp and final, followed by the mattress dipping even lower into the wreckage.Â
the whole thing tilts just enough to make it undeniable: itâs done.
âfuck,â he mumbles into your neck, the word slurred and breathless, more exhausted disbelief than anger, like he doesnât even have the energy to be surprised anymore.
he stays there, draped over you, breathing in heavy, wet gasps against your skin, chest shuddering with each pull of air.Â
his heart hammers a frantic, unsteady rhythm against your shoulder blades, loud and insistent, then slowly, mercifully, begins to calm.Â
neither of you moves. the room settles into a fragile quiet, the kind that feels earned, broken only by the relentless ticking of the clock on the nightstand and the sound of your shared, exhausted exhales.Â
you lie there tangled together in the literal ruins of his furniture, the night pressing close, heavy and private. minutes pass like that, stretched thin and wordless, until his voice finally breaks the silence.Â
âhey, yân?â it comes out barely above a mumble, breath warm against your skin.
you grunt softly in response, too comfortable to lift your head, letting him know you hear him.
thereâs a pause, the sound of him shifting just a little, then, âi think you, uh,â he clears his throat, embarrassed even now, âtore my mattress a little with your nails.â
you lift your head enough to glance back, following his gaze to where your fingers had been clenched tight in the fabric, and you wince at the visible damage, the torn seam and frayed foam peeking through.Â
âoh my god,â you whisper, mortified, âi am so sorry.â
he lets out a quiet, breathy chuckle, the sound low and unmistakably him, shoulders rising faintly beneath you.Â
âitâs fine,â he says, easy and tired, âthe whole bedâs trashed now anyway.â
the tension dissolves with that, leaving only warmth. you shift carefully, nestling your head against his chest, fitting there like it was always meant to be, your ear pressed over his heart.Â
the intimacy of it settles deep, listening to that steady thump beneath your cheek, feeling the heat of him seep into you. your skin is salty and slightly sticky with sweat, limbs tangled, the air between you soft and unguarded. for the first time all night, nothing feels urgent.
you tilt your head back just enough to look at him. his face is washed in moonlight, features softened by exhaustion, lashes casting faint shadows against his cheeks, dark eyes following you with quiet focus.Â
he looks impossibly beautiful like this, stripped down to something gentle. he looks back at you through those long lashes, gaze warm and steady, like he isnât anywhere else in the world.
âmegumi,â you murmur, voice small in the stillness, âiâm gonna miss you when they kill me tomorrow.â
his mouth opens immediately, protest already forming, brows drawing together. âi donât know why you keep saying thatââ
the sentence is obliterated by a violent banging on his bedroom door, the sound cracking through the room with brutal force, sharp and unmistakable, the wood rattling in its frame as if someone on the other side is determined to knock it clean off the hinges.Â
the noise slices straight through the fragile quiet youâd been floating in, dragging you both back into your bodies all at once.
you jolt violently, the fear immediate and electric, your heart lurching so hard it makes you dizzy. megumi stiffens beneath you, breath ripping sharply into his chest as his eyes snap wide, panic flashing across his face in a way youâve never seen before.Â
for half a second, you just stare at each other, frozen, the shared realization crashing down like ice water.
âshit,â you gasp under your breath, scrambling instinctively as the banging comes again, louder this time, angrier.Â
you grab blindly for the blanket, fingers tangling in the fabric as you yank it up and over yourself, the motion frantic and clumsy.Â
megumi moves at the same time, cursed reflexes kicking in as he hauls the blanket with you, twisting awkwardly to cover as much skin as possible, his limbs all elbows and panic.
the ruined bed creaks ominously beneath the sudden movement, the broken frame groaning like itâs about to betray you again, and megumi winces, pressing a hand flat against the mattress as if that might quiet it.Â
his breathing is fast now, shallow, chest rising and falling hard beneath the covers as his gaze flicks wildly between the door and you, calculating, terrified, wide awake.
the banging doesnât stop. it just waits a beat, heavy and deliberate, the threat of another blow hanging in the air.
megumi swallows hard, jaw tight, eyes dark and sharp with dread, and in the thin space between one knock and the next, he mutters, barely audible, âfuck.â
if the zenâin twins didnât kill you tomorrow, mr. fushiguro absolutely would once he realized youâd been the source of the relentless banging above his head at 2:00 a.m. on a sunday, for the better part of the past hour.
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