SAVE A BOOK, SPREAD A READER | Megumi Fushiguro
MDNI | Established Relationship, College/University AU, Jealousy, Banter / Playful Teasing, Couch Sex (yum)
If you don't like this type of content feel free to block me, i don't mind that, but don't comment how you dont like this :)
The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of the university library, casting long golden rectangles across the worn wooden tables. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams, and the quiet hum of the building—pages turning, keyboards clicking, the distant thrum of the heating system—settled over everything like a blanket. It was the kind of peaceful atmosphere that made you lose track of time entirely.
The book in your hands was an absolute monster—a doorstopper of a historical romance that some professor had recommended as "guilty pleasure reading" during office hours, and you'd taken that recommendation and run with it. Four hundred pages in, the duke had just confessed his undying love to the governess, but there was a misunderstanding brewing, and you could feel the angst building in your chest like a storm cloud gathering over the coast.
Your legs were tucked up beneath you on the library couch, a worn leather thing that had seen better decades, and your back rested against one armrest. You'd been in this position for—how long now? Two hours? Three? The light had shifted from harsh midday to the softer gold of late afternoon, so at least that long.
Your phone buzzed in your bag. You ignored it.
A third, followed by the distinct thump-thump-thump of a text message notification.
After twenty minutes, the library door swung open with its characteristic soft groan, and footsteps crossed the carpeted floor with deliberate, measured steps. You didn't look up. The governess was about to make a terrible decision, and you needed to see how this played out.
The footsteps stopped directly in front of your couch.
The voice was low, flat, entirely unimpressed. Megumi. Of course.
"Mm," you hummed, not looking up. Your eyes tracked the words as the governess fled the room in tears. Poor thing. She'd misunderstood completely.
A long pause. Then another.
This time the word came with a weight to it, a slight edge of displeasure that you'd have felt even if you weren't already attuned to his moods. You'd been dating Megumi for nearly a year now—met him in a shared philosophy class, of all things, where he'd sat in the back row with his arms crossed and looked thoroughly unimpressed with the entire concept of higher education. You'd thought he was arrogant. He'd thought you were annoying.
The TAs had started seating you together for group projects just to watch the chaos.
But somewhere between arguments about Kant and late-night study sessions that devolved into takeout and terrible movies on someone's laptop, something had shifted. He'd stopped being the grumpy philosophy major with a permanent resting bitch face and started being your grumpy philosophy major with a permanent resting bitch face. And your grumpy philosophy major had a habit of showing up exactly when you didn't want him to, which was apparently now.
"Give me five minutes," you said, turning another page. "I'm almost at a good part."
"You said that forty minutes ago."
"Did I?" You didn't remember saying anything forty minutes ago. Or twenty minutes ago. Or ten minutes ago. Honestly, you'd been so absorbed that Megumi could have walked in naked and juggling flaming torches and you might have glanced up and said "that's nice, honey" before diving back into the drama of the ton.
"I sent you seven texts," he said, and his voice had gone flat in that particular way that meant he was annoyed but trying not to show it. "You didn't answer any of them."
"You know I put my phone on silent when I'm reading."
"I thought you were dead."
"You always think I'm dead when I don't respond within the hour."
"Because you are dead. Socially. Emotionally. You disappear into books and leave your body behind like a husk."
That made you smile, but you didn't look up. The duke was chasing the governess through the rain, and the description of his soaking wet shirt clinging to his chest was—well. It was very detailed. You appreciated an author who understood the importance of wet-shirt aesthetics.
Megumi shifted his weight, and you heard the soft creak of the leather as he sat down on the opposite end of the couch, maintaining a careful distance. He didn't say anything else. He just sat there, arms crossed, staring at you with that unreadable expression he'd perfected over years of being surrounded by people he found tedious.
You read for another solid ten minutes.
The governess had taken shelter in a hunting lodge. The duke had followed. They were alone. The fire was crackling. The tension was palpable.
You heard a sigh from the other end of the couch. Soft. Long-suffering.
"Are you going to read that whole thing here?" he asked.
"Eventually as in tonight, or eventually as in next week?"
"It's only seven hundred pages."
Megumi made a sound that might have been a laugh if it had any humor in it. "Only."
You turned another page, and his hand shot out and landed on the spine of the book, pressing it closed against your fingers. You made a noise of protest and tried to pull it open again, but he held firm, and he had the advantage of being stronger than he looked.
"I found a new coffee place," he said, and his voice was still flat, but there was something underneath it. Something almost petulant. It was the same tone he used when he wanted something but didn't want to admit he wanted it. "They have those lavender lattes you like."
The book was still closed. You could feel the weight of his hand on the cover, warm and insistent. The duke and the governess would have to wait.
"Are you trying to bribe me with coffee?"
"Using my own preferences against me?"
"That's very manipulative."
"I learned from the best." He finally looked at you, and his dark eyes were soft in a way he'd never admit to. "You've been here for four hours. I checked with the front desk. You haven't eaten. You haven't moved. The librarian is getting concerned."
"The librarian loves me. I return books on time."
"The librarian called me because she didn't want to interrupt you. That's how worried she is."
Against your will, you felt a smile tugging at your lips. You carefully marked your page, a post-it note from the packet you kept in your bag for exactly this purpose and set the book aside, giving Megumi your full attention for the first time since—well, since breakfast, probably, now that you thought about it.
He was wearing a dark sweater, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows in that way that always made you look twice, and his hair was messier than usual, like he'd been running his hands through it. His jaw was set in that stubborn line that meant he was determined to get his way.
"Four hours and seventeen minutes."
"It's not great for me," he corrected, and his voice dropped slightly, losing that flat edge and gaining something warmer. "I've been sitting in my apartment for the last hour and a half waiting for you to respond. I tried to study. I couldn't concentrate. I kept thinking about you curled up on this couch with your nose in a book, ignoring the entire world. Including me."
"Including your boyfriend who just wanted to see you."
The words hit you somewhere in your chest, right in the tender spot that only he seemed to have access to. For all his nonchalant attitude and his carefully maintained distance, Megumi Fushiguro was a creature of deep, secret softness. He didn't show it often. He didn't show it easily. But when he did, it was like watching ice crack open to reveal the warm water beneath.
"I'm sorry," you said, and you meant it. "I got caught up. The book is really good."
"I know it is. I'm not mad about the book." He paused. "Okay, I'm a little mad about the book. It's a rival. A very large, very wordy rival that's trying to steal my girlfriend."
"Your girlfriend is very easily stolen by pretty prose."
"Then I'll have to write you poetry."
You laughed, and the sound broke the tension between you, scattering it like birds taking flight. Megumi's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. The closest he ever got in public.
"Come on," he said, standing and holding out his hand. "Coffee. Then food. Then maybe I'll let you read more if you're good."
You took his hand, and he pulled you to your feet with perhaps more force than strictly necessary, bringing you close enough that you could smell his cologne—something woodsy and clean, with hints of cedar and something sweet underneath. You looked up at him, and he looked down at you, and for a moment the library faded away entirely.
Then he released your hand and bent down to pick up your bag, slinging it over his shoulder without asking. He grabbed your book too, tucking it under his arm, and started walking toward the door.
"I'm holding it hostage until you've had at least one meal."
"You can't hold a book hostage."
"I can do whatever I want. I'm dating the girl who ignores me for fiction. I've earned some leverage."
You hurried after him, grabbing his arm as you caught up, and he let you—adjusted his pace to match yours, tilted his head slightly toward you in a gesture that was so familiar, so him, that your heart squeezed.
The coffee place turned out to be a small shop tucked between a used bookstore and a laundromat, with mismatched furniture and a chalkboard menu written in curling script. The lavender latte was perfect—not too sweet, with just a hint of floral bitterness that cut through the richness of the oat milk. Megumi had ordered a black coffee, because of course he had, and sat across from you in a chair that was slightly too small for him, his long legs stretched out under the table.
He watched you take your first sip with an intensity that made you feel like you were the subject of a nature documentary.
"It's good. Really good."
"Did you do a taste test?"
"I came here three times this week to make sure it was up to your standards. The first time the lavender ratio was off. The second time they used honey instead of vanilla. The third time—" He paused, and the corner of his mouth lifted. "The third time it was perfect."
You stared at him. "You went to a coffee shop three separate times to—to test a drink for me?"
He shrugged, lifting his coffee to his lips. "I wanted to make sure you'd like it."
Your chest did that squeezing thing again, and you had to look away for a moment, suddenly embarrassed by how much that meant to you. Megumi Fushiguro, the man who couldn't be bothered to show up to most social events, who responded to texts with one-word answers, who radiated "leave me alone" like a force field—had spent his week carefully calibrating a coffee order just for you.
"Your book," he said, pulling it out of his bag and setting it on the table between you. "I've been thinking about it."
"You've been thinking about my romance novel?"
"I've been thinking about you reading your romance novel." He tapped the cover with one finger. "You disappear when you read. Completely. The whole world could end and you wouldn't notice."
"Your phone has forty-seven unread notifications from the group chat. You haven't responded to any of them."
"That's different. The group chat is just memes."
"Memes are the backbone of modern communication."
You laughed, and something in his expression softened—cracked, just slightly, along the edges. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and fixed you with that steady dark gaze.
"I've decided," he said, "that I need to fight the book for your attention."
"I'm serious. As I've said it's a rival. A very persistent rival that you keep bringing home. It sleeps in our bed. It takes up space on the nightstand. It whispers sweet nothings to you in the form of historical romance tropes."
"It absolutely does. I've heard it. 'Turn the page,' it says. 'Just one more chapter.' 'The duke is about to do something scandalous.'"
You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing. "That's very specific."
He was teasing you, but there was something underneath it—something real and earnest that made your stomach flip. He leaned back in his chair, and the playful expression faded slightly, replaced by something more vulnerable.
"I don't actually mind that you read," he said, quieter now. "I like that you're so absorbed in things. It's—" He looked away, jaw working. "It's one of the things I like about you. But sometimes I want to be the thing you're absorbed in. Just for a little while."
The words landed soft and warm in your chest, settling there like embers. You reached across the table and covered his hand with yours, and he turned his palm up immediately, threading his fingers through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"I can do that," you said. "I can be absorbed in you for a while."
"Good." He squeezed your hand.
He stood, pulling you up with him, and dropped a few bills on the table for the coffee. He grabbed your book again—still holding it hostage, apparently—and tugged you toward the door.
"My apartment," he said. "Now. I'm going to show you exactly what happens when you ignore your boyfriend for four hours and seventeen minutes."
Megumi's apartment was a reflection of him in every way—neat but not sterile, with books stacked on every available surface, a small collection of succulents on the windowsill, and a rumpled blanket on the couch that he refused to admit was his favorite. The walls were bare except for some of pictures from the dates, and the kitchen was spotless because he barely used it.
You'd been here dozens of times. It felt like home.
He dropped your bag by the door and your book on the coffee table—face down, open to your marked page, a deliberate act of mercy—and then turned to face you, crossing his arms over his chest.
"You should know," he said, "that I'm going to be extremely annoying about this."
"About reclaiming your attention." He stepped closer, and his voice dropped, going low and rough in a way that made you shiver. "I'm going to kiss you until you forget what page you were on. I'm going to touch you until you can't remember the duke's name. I'm going to make you say my name until you forget every single word in that book."
"I'm a very ambitious man."
You took a step forward, closing the distance between you until you were close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his body. "And what if I don't want to forget the book?"
"Then I'll make you want to."
He reached out, sliding his hand along your jaw, tilting your face up toward his. The touch was gentle, almost reverent, and it contrasted so sharply with the intensity in his eyes that your breath caught.
"Four hours and seventeen minutes," he murmured, and his thumb traced along your lower lip. "I counted every single one."
"I told you. I couldn't concentrate. I kept thinking about you." His gaze dropped to your lips. "Wondering what you were doing. Wondering if you were thinking about me at all."
"Of course I was thinking about you—"
The question was soft, almost uncertain, and it cracked something open in your chest. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer, and he made a sound—quiet, almost surprised—before his hands settled on your waist.
"I was thinking about you," you said, and you made sure he heard the truth in it. "I was reading a scene where the duke confesses his love in the rain, and I was thinking about how you'd never do that. You'd probably just stand there and look at me until I figured it out."
"Because you're terrible at expressing your feelings."
"You express them through implication and passive aggression."
"I'm expressing my feelings right now."
You laughed, and he huffed, but he was smiling—barely, just a ghost of it at the corner of his mouth—and it was the most beautiful thing you'd seen all day. You leaned in and kissed him, soft and slow, and his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him.
The kiss started gentle, exploratory, like he was giving you a chance to pull away. When you didn't, when you tilted your head and parted your lips, he deepened it with a hum that vibrated through his chest and into yours. His tongue swept along your lower lip, and you gasped, and he used the moment to slide inside, tasting you like he'd been starving for it.
He had been starving for it. You could feel it in the way his hands roamed your back, in the way his breath hitched when you tangled your fingers in his hair, in the way he pressed you backward until your thighs hit the arm of the couch and he had to catch you before you fell.
"Sorry," he muttered against your mouth, not sounding sorry at all. "Got carried away."
"Don't apologize for that."
He guided you down onto the couch, following you, settling between your thighs with a practiced ease that made your head spin. The couch was big enough for both of you, barely, and he propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with an expression that was raw and open and his.
He kissed you again, slower this time, but no less intense. His hand traced down your side, over your ribs, coming to rest at the hem of your shirt. He paused, asking a question with his eyes, and when you nodded again, he slid his hand underneath, palm flat against the warm skin of your stomach.
"You're so soft," he murmured, like it was a secret. "I love how soft you are."
His hand moved upward, pushing your shirt with it, and he broke the kiss to look down at what he was doing. He pulled your shirt over your head—you helped, lifting your arms—and then sat back slightly, just looking at you.
You felt exposed, laid bare under his gaze, but not in a way that made you uncomfortable. It was like he was memorizing you, cataloging every curve and line, and the intensity of his attention made you feel beautiful in a way that compliments never could.
"Beautiful," he said, confirming your thoughts. "So beautiful."
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your collarbone, then another, then another, working his way down your chest with a patience that bordered on reverent. His lips brushed over the swell of your breast, and you gasped, arching into him, and he made a sound of satisfaction against your skin.
"That's it," he murmured. "I want to hear all of it."
He reached behind you and unclasped your bra with a single practiced motion—something he'd gotten very good at over the months of your relationship—and pulled it off, tossing it somewhere behind him without looking. His eyes locked onto your bare chest, and his breath caught.
"I'm never going to get tired of this," he said. "Of you. Of the way you look when you're like this."
"Shh." He pressed a finger to your lips, eyes glinting. "Let me appreciate you."
He lowered his head and took one nipple into his mouth, and your protest dissolved into a moan. His tongue circled the sensitive peak, teasing and tasting, and his hand came up to cup the other breast, thumb brushing over the nipple in a rhythm that made your hips buck.
He hummed against your skin, and the vibration sent sparks shooting through your nerves. He switched sides, giving the other breast the same attention, and by the time he pulled away, you were breathless and writhing beneath him.
He sat up properly, his knees on either side of your hips, and looked down at you with an expression of pure possessive satisfaction. His hands found the button of your jeans, and he raised an eyebrow in question.
He undid the button with deliberate slowness, drawing out the anticipation, and then pulled the zipper down inch by inch. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and tugged, and you lifted your hips to help him, and soon you were left in just your panties, spread out beneath him like a feast.
He looked at you for a long moment, and then he said, with complete seriousness: "I'm never letting you read another book again."
"I can. I will. I'll burn every book in the library myself if it means I get to keep looking at you like this."
"I'm being honest." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your stomach, just above your navel. "You're the only book I want to read."
He kissed lower, over the waistband of your panties, and you felt the heat of his breath through the thin fabric. His hands slid up your thighs, pushing them apart, settling between them, and he looked up at you from his position between your legs with an expression that was equal parts adoration and hunger.
"Can I taste you?" he asked, and the raw need in his voice made you shiver.
He didn't need to be told twice. He hooked his fingers into the sides of your panties and pulled them down, baring you to his gaze. He made a sound—low, desperate, almost pained—and then he lowered his head and pressed his mouth to you.
You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands. He worked with a focused intensity, his tongue tracing patterns that made your vision blur, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you spread open for him. He seemed to know exactly what you liked, exactly where to touch, exactly how much pressure to use, and he used that knowledge ruthlessly.
He hummed in response, and the vibration made you jerk, your hips lifting off the couch. He pressed a hand flat against your lower stomach, holding you down, and continued his assault on your senses with renewed vigor.
You were climbing fast, the pleasure building like a wave about to break, and he could feel it too—he could feel the way your thighs tightened around his head, the way your fingers clenched in his hair, the way your breathing turned to desperate little gasps. He doubled down, pressing his mouth harder against you, and you shattered with a cry that was half his name and half a sob.
He didn't stop. He worked you through it, gentle now, soothing you with soft licks and kisses until you were trembling and oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head. He pulled away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked up at you with dark, satisfied eyes.
He smiled—a real smile, the kind that transformed his whole face—and crawled up to lie beside you, pulling you into his arms. You could feel the hard line of his cock pressing against your thigh, and you reached down, but he caught your wrist.
"What more could you possibly—"
He rolled you onto your side, facing him, and lifted your leg over his hip. The position brought you flush against him, and he reached down, positioning himself at your entrance, letting you feel the heat and weight of him.
He pushed in, slow and steady, and you gasped at the stretch of it, the way he filled you so completely. He paused when he was fully seated, giving you time to adjust, his forehead pressed against yours.
"You feel so good," he breathed. "So perfect. I could stay here forever."
He started to move, a slow, deep rhythm that had you clutching at his shoulders, your nails digging into the fabric of his sweater. He was still fully dressed, and the contrast between his clothed body and your naked one was doing something to you, making you feel claimed in a way that sent heat pooling low in your belly.
He gave you more. He sped up, the rhythm turning harder, deeper, and the sound of your bodies coming together filled the small apartment. He captured your mouth in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, swallowing your moans as he fucked you, his hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.
"I've been thinking about this all day," he admitted against your lips. "Couldn't focus on anything. Just kept imagining what it would be like to have you like this, but you were busy, reading fiction—"
He thrust deeper, hitting a spot that made you see stars, and you cried out, your back arching.
He groaned, burying his face in your neck, and you felt him shudder as he came, his hips stuttering against yours. You followed moments later, the feeling of him pulsing inside you pushing you over the edge again, and you clung to each other as the waves of pleasure rolled through.
He stayed inside you for a long moment, breathing hard, his arms wrapped around you like he was afraid to let go. When he finally pulled out, he made a sound of loss, and you felt it echo in your own chest.
"I need a minute," he said, his voice muffled against your shoulder. "Or an hour. Or maybe forever."
"You bring out the drama in me."
You laughed, and he laughed too, and the two of you lay tangled together on the too-small couch, sweaty and fulfilled and perfectly at peace. The book was still open on the coffee table, the duke and the governess forgotten.
Megumi pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I'm going to make a rule," he said. "No books after six PM."
"And what am I supposed to do instead?"
"And what if I don't want to?"
"Then I'll just have to convince you." He shifted, and you felt him hardening against your thigh again. "And I've got very convincing arguments."
He laughed, rolling you onto your back, and the evening stretched ahead of them, full of every possibility except reading. And for once, you didn't mind. The duke could wait. The governess could hold her breath.
Megumi Fushiguro was here, and he wanted your attention and he had it.
IN BACK!! helllo hellooo!! I'm back, in still busy but then again I saw a reel and then was inspired to write this mwehehehe, and I've been a little Megumi obsessed so yes! Anyways we have 86 followers, which I'm so so glad of and thankful for ^^ don't hesitate to send asks, or requests, id love them!! (Ik thinking of writing fluffy but idk) But yes, have a great day ahead!!
