a/n: please enjoy this random 500 word blurb I wrote about Mr. Leon S. Kennedy. I ain't even really into Resident Evil like that but this man has stolen my heart. This flew out of me in like 30 minutes, so please enjoy Leon being utterly in love w/you! In my head, he is re4 Leon, but imagine him however you'd please!!
Leon’s not exactly sure when he fell in love, but he knows he's fallen face first.
He knows because he can’t find a space within himself where he ends and you begin; you’re there in a way he can’t grasp, permanently ingrained into his coding.
He knows because when he’s staring down the barrel of his pistol in some land far-off from your apartment, far-off from the sacred ground that lay there, fighting the kind of monsters one wouldn’t even dream about, he can only think about coming home to you.
You’ve got him wrapped around your finger, tightly coiled like some sort of invasive weed – but he wouldn’t have it any other way. You’ve changed him; completely lit up his life in a way he didn’t think possible after all he’s been through.
For the longest time, Leon didn’t think himself worthy of love. He thought he was destined to a life of work and solitude, but you waltzed into his life and now he daydreams about marriage and children and white-picket fences in the suburbs.
Really, he doesn’t know when or how this happened, but he knows he wants to give you the world; if you asked him, he’d reach up into the sky and give you Mars.
You’re his, and he is yours, and he cannot begin to fathom how he’s gotten so lucky.
He thinks this could have happened when he first met you.
He had just gotten back from a two-week mission in Turkey, securing some sort of sample of god-knows-what that was turning people into things. Hunnigan had brought him down to the lab to introduce him to the “cute new scientist” working for the DSO that would be studying the sample. He thinks it could have been then that he realized you’d at least be some sort of new constant in his life.
There you were, goggles too big for your face and lab coat hung round your shoulders, studying the sample. Leon felt his heart reach his throat. If you’d asked him prior to this whether he believed in love at first sight, he would have laughed in your face. You had startled when Hunnigan knocked on the door, and spluttered out an awkward, “Hunnigan! Agent Kennedy!” whilst thrusting your hand into his for the most awkward handshake he’s ever given. To this day, he thinks Hunnigan knew what she was doing introducing you two.
Leon is so in love, and he thinks it’s all in the little things. Like how you insist on packing his lunch even when you eat together, and include the cheesiest notes he’s ever read. Or how no matter where he is in the world, no matter where he’s sleeping, his body still searches for yours in the dark.
Leon is so in love, and he doesn’t care who knows it. He doesn’t care when he’s out with the guys from work and leaves early to grab midnight burgers with you. Doesn’t care when the guys haggle him, wolf-whistling as he leaves and yelling, “Kennedy’s whipped!”
Leon knows that somehow, in some way, everything will always be alright, because he’s got you to live for and you to come home to.
love is touching souls (and surely, you've touched mine)
fushiguro megumi x gojo's sister f!reader
summary: Gojo's sister has come home, and Megumi's quiet, orderly life is about to get very complicated. Now she's showing up at the Zen'in Clan Christmas Eve gala, and Megumi has to survive the holidays without losing his composure...or his heart.
warnings: MDNI. afab!reader, FLUFFF & LONGING, ANGSTTT, SMUTTT, penetrative and rough depictions of sex, all characters are aged up to 23-24, depictions of depression and anxiety, slight descriptions of blood, discussions of death, Megumi has low self-esteem, bad self-talk, Mai lives in this one, Maki doesn't kill all the Zen'in in this one either.
word count: 7.2k
a/n: PHEW, i said like two months ago I was working on this and here it is! I am a little rusty in terms of fanfic writing y'all, I have been writing academically for far too long. I also took some creative liberties with this fic, as you will see that the Zen'in Clan for the most part is still alive, and so is Mai! Best girl!! Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it. It was a treat in between final papers as I gear up for my last semester of my undergraduate degree!
songs: merry christmas, please don't call - Bleachers, A Case of You - Joni Mitchell, River - Joni Mitchell, So Much Wine - Phoebe Bridgers, Soccer Practice - Lizzy McAlpine, Come Down Soon - Lizzy McAlpine
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It’s been seven years since the sun set over the rising tide, and Fushiguro Megumi has never known less.
Stepping into his role as clan head, he’s had more money than he’s known what to do with. He’s travelled, he’s gotten a degree, he’s left jujutsu society and came back (computer engineering wasn’t quite what he thought it’d be).
In an effort to stop “wallowing,” as Nobara put it, Fushiguro has gone through more lives than he can count and fit into none of them.
In all of his lives, his grief was never displaced. His affliction was an inherent safe-space that he could go to whenever the sorrow crept up his throat.
Fushiguro is nothing if not perpetually conflicted and traumatized, and he doesn’t know that any amount of careers, degrees, therapy, money, or power will change that. He is a mess, and forever touched by a feeling he can never quite catch.
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He’s bundled up in a layer of cotton armour, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, in an effort to shield himself from the blitzing December breeze when Kugisaki says it.
“Did ya hear Gojo is coming back from overseas? She got offered some fancy jujutsu government job.” Of course he’s heard; Fushiguro is nothing if not also perpetually limerent.
Alas, he grunts in response. “aaaand, she’s broken up with that guy she was seeing.”
Crafting his face into a vacant mask, Fushiguro mutters, “No, I didn’t hear,” lie“and I don’t care.” Lie.
Ignoring the fact that Fushiguro would rather die than look his feelings in the face, Kugisaki continues, “I had a chat with her over the phone the other day, and I extended her an invite to that stuffy Zen’in clan Christmas thing your family’s forcin’ ya to host!” Oh, dear lord.
Fushiguro would rather choke on his own spit than see you again. And it’s not because he doesn’t love you–no, it’s worse than that. Fushiguro has been deeply, impossibly, suffocatingly, all the way into you since you and your choppy, black, box-dyed bob entered his teenage life.
It’s been five years since he last saw you, and what does he have to show for it? Depression, a useless degree, a job he hates in sorcery, and a haughty position in aristocracy as the head of a clan he couldn’t care less about. You flourished; you left Japan, went through a partner or two, went to grad school, and are finally coming back to Japan for some hot-shot government job where you can make actual change in jujutsu society. Fushiguro feels like he’s been cemented here, a tree with roots so rotten they’ve left him to decompose where he’s stood.
He’s tried to move on, find a random girl at a bar, or in his stupid computer engineering degree, but he has always come back to you. Whenever a woman slots their mouth against his and it isn’t yours, he is violently confronted with the fact that no one could ever compare.
It’s his fault. You left and he watched you; watched you fly out of Japan and take a piece of himself with you that he has been struggling to find since.
The bell on the door of the upscale bakery dings as Fushiguro enters, letting a guttural sigh escape him.
“Kugisaki, I’d really appreciate it if you’d ask me before just inviting people to things.”
Kugisaki rolls her eyes, “You can’t avoid her forever, and Gojo isn’t just ‘people,’ she’s our closest friend.”
Ignoring Kugisaki’s prodding, Fushiguro approaches the order counter and mutters, “Order for Fushiguro.”
Continuing on, Kugisaki says, “Aaaanywayyyyy, she’s coming; so, make sure to get your emotional constipation under control before the Christmas gala.” She scoffs, flipping her hair, “Which we all know is just some weird, upper-class, dick measuring contest, anyway."
Fushiguro, against his own will, can’t help but crack a smile at her assessment.
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The Christmas gala is three days out when Fushiguro gets a call from Itadori. He is in the thick of preparations, watching Mai and one of the many Zen’in clan assistants pick out the right shade of beige for the table cloths, questioning what his life has become when he picks up the call.
“Hey.”
Yuji, with always too much enthusiasm, answers, “Yoooo, Fushiguro, what’s goin’ on man?”
I am drowning in a sea of beige and greige fabric, and whenever I provide an opinion in my own home, Mai and her assistant giggle and say that I am, “such a man.” I would rather pluck out all of my eyelashes, one by one, than decorate for a Christmas party I am only having at the pleasure of century-old higher-ups. Also, I am constantly in a state of bewilderment due to the fact that my childhood love is coming home, in fact, coming to this party, and I have developed a new insecurity about my hair and the scars on my face that left me in agony in front of the mirror this morning.
Instead of saying all that though, Fushiguro lets out a deep, consummate sigh.
“I’m kind of busy right now, Itadori. Is something going on?”
“Umm, no, not really? Well, Gojo is home and we’re all heading out to grab drinks later! I was just calling to see if you’d be interested. It’s been soooo long since we all hung out.” Could this have not been a text so I could have gracefully ignored it?
“Oh, uh, I’ll see what I can do. I’ve got a lot of stuff to do here before the gala.” Suddenly, Mai’s interest is piqued at Fushiguro’s phone call, and she whips her head toward him, a devious grin affixed to her lips. Oh no.
“Is that someone inviting you out, Megumi?” oh no. “Please! Take this crime against fashion off our hands!” She says deviously, followed by her wicked cackle. Oh, oh no.
Yuji boyishly chuckles into the phone and says, “Alright! I’ll see you later then at the usual place, Fushiguro!” And before Fushiguro can protest, he is met with resounding silence as Itadori hangs up the phone, followed by a sudden urge to banish Mai from the Zen’in clan.
Really, it’s not that he doesn’t want to see you, it’s just that he is worried what you’ll see when you see him again. Fushiguro has never felt so pointless, so void of emotion or purpose. He is a hollow shell of what he once was, and he doesn’t think that what he once was had even been all that remarkable.
The last time he saw you, rather, the last time he could have seen you was at your going away party.
Fushiguro had been supposed to head to the lavish restaurant at 9:30pm to see you off on your final night in Japan – your “Last Hurrah,” as Kugisaki stylized it. He made it there at 9:45, and stood outside, peering in through the windows of the restaurant. There you were, all charming smiles that didn’t quite meet your endlessly blue eyes, and your choppy black hair tucked behind an ear. You were so you; so different from what the Gojo clan had expected of you, so different from your own brother. It’s what he had always admired about you; if your brother was a bullet train heading nowhere, you are a stable Bodhi tree, with roots so pure they seemed to bless the earth.
That night, Fushiguro couldn’t bring himself to enter the restaurant. He could only wait, and stare, and lament, for if he entered, that meant it would all be real. It meant you would really be leaving, really leaving Japan, and moving on like the world still spun after what happened to him, to you, to your family.
Fushiguro often wondered how you could just leave. How you could just leave him here to wait and rot. Didn’t you know he would always wait for you?
It didn’t matter anyway, for Fushiguro thought that even if he could become the strongest man alive–the honored one–he still wouldn’t deserve to sit under your shade, become enlightened under you. Fushiguro is tainted, impure, and broken; his hands covered in the blood of the only person that ever knew him.
So, he cowardly stood outside. Hand on the knob of the door, waiting, staring with baited breath through the window. Staring like if he gawked long enough, he could frame you, and keep you here for just a moment.
He stared at you with his soul. His soul that had always been in conversation with yours.
And then, he left. He left and never looked back. He left because he thought that if he didn’t, he would never leave.
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It’s 10pm that evening when Fushiguro finds himself begrudgingly standing outside of the dive bar he frequents with Kugisaki and Itadori.
Heart in his throat, and cigarette in his hand, he hears your laugh brush across his face like a gust of wind when someone opens the door. He’s got his back turned to the door of the bar while he smokes, because he can’t bring himself to look just yet. He knows that if he does, he just might leave again.
You have been the toughest curse he’s ever had to face.
He puffs his cigarette into the air and the smoke billows before his face like a thin veil. Eyes falling shut, he draws in a shaky breath, drops the cigarette to the ground, and crushes it beneath his heel. Then, in one fluid motion, as if he were ripping off a bandaid, he turns and swings open the door of the bar, and doesn’t open his eyes again until he’s crossed the threshold.
He sees you, and all the air is knocked out of his lungs.
There you are, entirely different, but all the same. Hand wrapped around the stem of a glass of white wine, cheeks stained pink from the rush of the alcohol, laughing at something Shoko must have said.
You look different – you look good. You’ve stopped dying your hair, and it is a striking white against your pale face and blue eyes. It falls down your back in a crescendo, with messy layers and a set of bangs wrapped around your face. You look self-assured and stable, like you’re no longer running away from your coding. There’s still a sadness in your eyes that he knows you’ll never lose, because he’s never lost it either.
Suddenly, you’re looking at him, and your souls begin to chatter.
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“Oh, he was awful,” you giggle around the rim of a wine glass, “he was a fake-edgy songwriter whose day job was dish washing and whose night job was passing out drunk on my couch.” You pause, turning to Shoko as you continue, “Satoru would’ve hated him.”
“Well, you’ve always loved an emo boy.” She bites out with a snarky grin, and Nobara knowingly chuckles.
“Oh, be quiet.” You say, while Maki fake retches down the table.
“Speaking of emo boys, there’s Fushiguro!” Yuji announces, never one for subtlety. He waves him over, adding, “How’s it goin’ brother!” As he guides him to the table.
You offer a wide eyed glance to Shoko who only smirks as she sips her whiskey, and then you turn to chance a glance at Megumi.
Suddenly, you’re 15 again, and Fushiguro is comforting you after Satoru was sealed. Then you’re turning 16, and he’s presenting you with a chocolate cupcake and a candle for your birthday. Then, he is licking your wounds in the culling game, like he wasn’t a child himself.
And before you know it, you’re back in this bar, and he’s a man, staring back at you like he’s seen a ghost.
And god, is he a man. What once was a scrawny teenager has transformed into the sexiest man you’ve ever seen up close. He’s got thick biceps you’d like to lay your head on and a set of tree trunk thighs you’d like to take a ride on – ahem – take a seat on. Now, he’s tall, at least six feet you guess as you ogle from your seat.
Fushiguro has grown into his coat, and god, do these new spots look good on him.
Suddenly, as if you've lost control of your body, you’re standing and walking toward him and Yuji.
“Megumi.” His name slips out on the edge of a breath.
“Hey.” His voice rumbles low, deeper than before, and trails off at the end as he peers down at you, too closely and too intently.
“You came.” You mutter, searching his eyes for what he’s not saying.
“Yeah,” he says, just above a whisper, “Of course.”
And then, you just stare at him, you stare at him like he’s the only person in this room–because maybe he is–and he stares back. He’s beautiful; beautiful in all his rugged scars and pointy hair.
How did I ever leave you? How could I ever pretend you weren’t it for me?
“Ooookayy,” Yuji awkwardly says, and claps a hand down on Megumi’s shoulder, leading him to the bar, “Let’s get you a drink, man!”
You turn to walk back to the table in a daze, suddenly concerned about your hair and the scars on your face, smoothing at strands you didn’t bother brushing. As you return, everyone awkwardly stares at you, and then back at each other, as you existentially stare down your glass of wine like it holds some secret truth. It’s Yuta who finally breaks the silence, shouting something to Todo about a baseball game from the other day, bringing the table swiftly back to life.
There is no part of you that was prepared to see him again, no pep talk from Kugisaki that could have helped you overcome the feeling of seeing him walk through that door. Part of you thought – hoped – he wouldn’t come; hoped that he would turn around and leave like you watched him do all those years ago.
It’s not that you didn’t want to see him, no, it’s something worse. You were scared of what he’d see when he saw you again. You ran. Ran from it all, from the past that lingered in Japan, and built a new life where no one knew your name or what you had left behind.
Your entire world was flipped on its axis, and you didn’t know how to cope or begin again with what was left.
“Stop thinking, just feel.”
Satoru’s voice rings out in your head, something he would always tell you when you’d get too in your own head to focus.
“Feel what you’re going through, but don’t let it consume you. Bend, don’t break…or whatever that saying is.”
Lord, how you wished he was here right now. Here to break the ice between you and Fushiguro, ruffle your hair when things get too tough. He was so larger than life and he had a way about him that minimized all your troubles; made you think you could do anything with him by your side.
You sigh, and then Shoko’s hand is reaching for yours.
“Hey,” She says, wrapping her hand around your wrist and giving you a kind, knowing smile as you look up at her, “all good?”
Without Satoru, maybe Shoko could bring you down to earth.
“Yeah, I’m all good,” you shake your head like you’re shaking off what you were just feeling, and enthusiastically jump back in, “What had we been talking about anyway?”
“That gross Californian you used to date.”
“Ahh, yes, him.” You gulp, down the remainder of your wine, and begin to re-tell your horrible American dating stories to Kugisaki, Shoko, and Maki.
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The night continues on without a hitch, and it appears that everyone has gotten over the embarrassing ogle session you and Fushiguro had when he first walked in. Every so often, you chance a glance down the table as he chats to Yuta about work. Megumi has always been soft, but something has changed since you’ve last seen him. He’s got an elbow on the table to lean toward Yuta, so as not to speak too loud and disrupt the flow of the table, like it’s something sacred. As he speaks, he peers down at his whiskey, swirling it around the glass and staring through it, like he’s trying to commit the weight of liquid to memory. You can’t even hear what he’s saying, too engrossed in the way his mouth runs over a syllable, too engrossed in his hands that swallow the glass of whiskey whole. Too engrossed to notice until the last second, that his eyes flicker up to yours.
You snap your eyes back down to the table in embarrassment, cheeks heating up and wishing the floor would open up and carry you home, wishing the wine would swallow you down instead.
You decide that this is the perfect opportunity for an existential cigarette.
“I need a cigarette.”
“I’m going for a cigarette.”
You snap your head toward Megumi. Of course, he’s taken up smoking, and of course, he wants to do it at the same time as you. Instead of saying anything, you offer a tight lipped smile, and turn on your heel toward the door.
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You’re outside, swearing under your breath, and fumbling around for your lighter when Fushiguro finally joins you. You could have sworn it was in your coat pocket when you came out here.
“Need a light?”
“Umm, yeah, I guess. I thought I had my lighter on me but…” Your voice trails off as you peer up at him. Fushiguro gestures for you to come closer, and you put your cigarette between your lips as you anticipate his lighter.
When Fushiguro peers down at you with the cigarette between your lips, he feels like he’s staring down the barrel of a gun. He holds his breath like any wrong move could set it off, like any wrong move it could misfire.
Looking down at you like this, he thinks you could kill him. He thinks you could kill him with those glossy eyes and plush lips, and he’d let you. He’d let you use him anyway you’d like; he is utterly, and irresponsibly devoted to you, like some false god.
Staring up at him and that severe look on his face, you think he might kill you, and you’d let him. You’d let him take you on your knees and do whatever he wanted to – happily.
You watch as his ginormous hand swallows up the lighter, and he brings it to the cigarette between your lips. You close your eyes, scared to keep looking and commit the sight to memory.
Backing up toward the building, you puff out.
“I didn’t know you took up smoking, Fushiguro.”
“People change.”
You hum, cigarette in front of your lips, “That they do.”
There’s a lull, but Fushiguro coughs and continues, “So…um, how was America?” Your gaze softens as you look toward him.
“Uh,” you sigh, “It was America. Honestly, when I was there I mostly studied and worked, but, truthfully, it was good.” Fushiguro hums.
“Why did you leave then?”
You pause, chewing on his question before your answer.
“I couldn’t keep running.” From you.
Fushiguro thinks, then don’t, stay. Out loud, he instead just lets out a deep hum.
“Umm,” you attempt to cut the silence, “what have you been up to all these years?”
Fushiguro takes a drag and lets out a contemplative puff.
“A few things. I studied, got some random degree, but just continued with sorcery.”
“You wanted to leave sorcery?”
He turns from you before responding.
“I wanted to run too, but I couldn’t.” He sighs before facing you, “There’s only so much running I can do before the Zen’in pull me back in.”
You think, but it’s so easy to run, before darkly chuckling and stepping on your cigarette.
“Y’know, Satoru always used to tell me that I should go to Okinawa at least once in my life, he’d always wanted to take me but,” you pause and look away, struggling to find the right words, “life got in the way.”
Fushiguro turns to you, assessing you while you continue to speak.
“If I ever run away again, that’s where I think I’ll be.” You say, walking past him and back into the bar. Leaving him to collect his beating heart.
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It’s the next day, and you’re at brunch with Shoko, drinking an iced latte that’s so sweet she’s worried about your blood sugar. She thinks that the sweet tooth must be a side effect of being a Gojo.
She peers over at you above her coffee cup, assessing who you’ve become. As she looks at you, she realizes just how much you’ve grown. No longer are you the little girl that Gojo would drop at her office to baby sit. The childlike innocence you once held has been shelved for the deep sadness settled between your eyes and in your bones; a weight she knows all too well.
As she looks you over, she notices that now, with your hair grown out and no longer dyed black, your resemblance to Satoru is uncanny. You have the same devastatingly beautiful face as he once did.
“You are looking so much like Satoru lately.”
You scoff, gesturing toward your face, “Oh please, Satoru didn’t have all these scars.” Shoko tilts her head, pondering.
“He did, he just didn’t let you see them.”
Yeah, I guess that’s true. You let out a bottomless sigh.
“I miss him, Shoko.”
She whispers, “I know, me too.”
“When I was in America, he was nowhere. But here,” you look around, gesturing nowhere specific with your hand, “here he is everywhere.”
“I know, I swear he follows me home sometimes, like a total creep.” Shoko says in an attempt to lighten the mood. You chuckle.
“Life is so complicated, Shoko.”
Shoko raises an eyebrow at you, “Would seeing Fushiguro again happen to be the reason you are now so existential?”
You smirk, “How do you know me so well?”
You’re just like Satoru. “Just a lucky hunch.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“Stop running.”
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Fushiguro had known that he’d never gotten over you – he was a fool, but he was not stupid.
But lately, he swears you have not let him be; you’ve been visiting him in dreams and the deepest parts of his mind. At night, he sees you swing your legs around his hips and sink down, and he swears when you do he sees god. Your hips are some portal, swallowing him up and emptying him into a new planet. He wakes up, cock soaked and sticky like he’d never been touched before.
Now, Fushiguro is no virgin, but seeing you, he feels born again. Feels like he ought to get down on two knees, and offer himself to the temple at your core. He dreams of you devouring him, dreams of watching as your soul dances with his. He’s never been religious, but god, does he worship you.
Get it together, Fushiguro. He thinks, splashing water on his face. You’ve driven him nuts, and it’s all because of that dress you wore the other night, all because of the way you stared him down across the table, like you might worship him too.
When he closes his eyes, your wide eyes looking up at him and lips wrapped around that cigarette are burned into the back of his eyelids. It’s been the fuel for all his latest fantasies of you, and after each one he feels even more perverted.
God, what is he doing? It is the evening of the Zen’in clan Christmas Eve gala and he has gone nuts. How is he supposed to see you later when he’s made you the object of all his depraved desires?
Whatever, he will see you later and he will not be weird, at least that’s what he tells himself…
Fushiguro wipes his face and swings open the bathroom door, stepping out into the stuffy gala hall of people he’d rather never see again in his life. He’s always hated these things, always hated entertaining the questions about work, about his past. He hates the way people pitifully stare at him, at his scars, like he’s something broken, rather than someone who endured.
When he was younger, he always thought that he would feel free when he got older, instead he is still ensnared. Day-in, day-out, he is nothing but a dull blade the higher-ups use to hack.
Plucking a glass of champagne off the tray the young waiter is carrying around, he leans against the wall to observe. Kugisaki was right, this really is a dick-measuring competition.
Around the gala hall there are nothing but boisterous men, bragging about their latest kill, stalking for their next lamb to slaughter.
And then, like his soul sensed it, there's you. Smiling and laughing politely at whatever one of his distant relatives is saying to you. You’re so diplomatic now, so professional and cautious, so reserved yet uncaring all at once. Hair cascading down your back, wrapped in some silky fabric, he wishes he could take you right here. Sprawled out on the gala floor, messy tongue and teeth, give the higher-ups something to gawk at.
Ugh. He’s doing it again; he’s getting all in his head and pretending like you might actually care.
“Megumi?”
Suddenly, you’re at his side, hand on his arm like he isn’t rotting. You’re grinning, like some sort of cheshire cat.
“Do you want to dance? This one's my favourite.” I know – of course, I know. Megumi has taken in every piece of you like the morning light. And here you are, with the audacity to look away and blush like you didn’t just pull his heart out.
Megumi, always bashful, mutters, “I’m not a good dancer.”
You grin, “Lucky for you, my parents made me take dance lessons.” And you sweep him away into the centre of everyone, with your heart thumping out of your chest and into the floor. Megumi feels 15 again when you pull him out of his comfort zone in the shallow end.
“Just follow my lead,” You say, swaying yourselves back and forth, moving his hands down your hips and settling your head and hands against his pounding heart, “act like I’m your anchor.” Haven’t I always?
Megumi inhales and closes his eyes. He could die here. Anchored to your soul and still in his heart. When he is here with you, there is no one else; not another soul that could speak to his quite like yours can. He thinks your soul has known his long before he’s known you, how else could you fit so well behind his heart? How else could you settle into the cracks he’s spent his lifetime trying to fill?
He doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve you with all the blood on his hands. No matter how much he scrubs it’s still here; he’ll never run clean. He’s not right for you, he will mess you up like he does everything else. He kills for a living; sucks the life out of things he’s told didn’t deserve one in the first place. He’s broken.
And how could he ever make a home out of broken stones?
Megumi opens his mouth and then closes it. Too scared to disrupt the mood, step on the sacred ground you’ve given him. Then, voice cracking, he utters, “I’m sorry.”
You look up, searching his face, he’s sorry? He looks on the verge of tears, and you’ve never been more confused. Was it something I said?
“What? Sorry for what?” you ask, incredulously. He scoffs, looks away and turns back, slowly removing your hands from his chest.
“How can you even touch me after everything you know I’ve done?” And then, he storms off into the sea of people.
“Megumi! What?” You call after him, running after and trying to keep up with the pace of his long legs. “What are you even talking about? Megumi!” People are looking now, watching you storm after him and his trembling form. You pass Shoko and Maki on the way through the crowd, looking at you both with a furrowed brow.
Megumi is outside now on the balcony, heaving over the edge as the night exhales its breathy snow. God, the snow.
“What are you doing?” You half-yell, exasperatedly swinging open the balcony door.
Megumi has his back turned to you, shaking his head. Nowhere is safe; every time he closes his eyes he sees his face, every time he looks into the snow he sees him laying there, every time he looks at you he sees him.
“I’m no good.” He lets out through a broken sob. You stare at his back as it shakes in the wind, counting the melting snowflakes as they nestle into his deep black hair.
You whisper, shaking your head, like you almost know, “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t make me say it.” He’s sniffling, ugly crying. This is the first time you’ve seen him cry since he was six and cut his knee. Satoru was teaching him to ride a bike and he fell off. Megumi wailed, and wailed; so uncharacteristic of who he pretended to be, even at six.
You know why he is upset.
Part of you is angry. Angry that he would make your brother’s death about himself, angry that he acts like you would ever blame him for it, angry that he would bring this up right now, on the most romantic day of the year. Doesn’t he know his death happened to you too? Doesn’t he know you hate the snow, and he's got you out here? Doesn’t he know you hate the snow so much, you moved to California so you’d never have to see it again? All you see in the snow is blood, all you feel is your hot tears on your face, all you smell is Satoru’s cologne, and sweat, and blood.
“Say it.” You declare, sharply, tears beginning to run down your face.
He shakes his head again, swallowing around a, “No.”
“Look at me!” You say, sharper, louder, around the lump in your throat. He turns, and you see him more open than you ever have. Tears streaking down his face, lips puffy.
“I killed him.”
You look away, shaking your head, muttering, “Stop.”
He’s turning all the way toward you now, hands thrown up in the air, yelling again, “I killed him!”
“Just…stop!” You laugh, dry and sharp, stepping closer and jabbing an aggressive finger in his direction. “He died for me too, you know! He died! And you almost died too! And then, when you came back, you wouldn’t even talk to me!”
You’re being petty and you know it. But you’re so mad. You love him, doesn’t he know how you love him? You never blamed Megumi for Satoru, you never could, even when it would have been easy.
“You left the country! There wasn’t a single piece of you left here to speak to!” Megumi spits, anger carving itself across his features.
“There wasn’t anything left here for me!”
“I was here!”
Someone’s opened a window inside, and there is music and light seeping into the darkened night. Megumi bites his tongue like it’s been scorched, and notices how the snow presses a quiet over the world. He has laid it all out there, and his heart hangs in the air. He watches as your shoulders drop and you stare at him, searching his face for something else, searching his soul for what he’s not saying. Megumi feels like he’s been wrung out, and hung out on the lawn to dry, like some dirty rag you use to clean the dishes.
“Then be here now.” You whisper, so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it.
Except, he does hear it, and this time he won’t run.
He’s on you in five seconds flat, kissing you like he’s forgotten how to, a mess of tongue and teeth and hands in hair. And god, is this everything you’ve ever wanted and waited for. Megumi kisses like a man starved and deranged, drunk off the wine on your tongue.
He’s pushing you back to the left of the balcony, “leads to my room,” he’s muttering roughly against your lips, as you messily walk backwards, too in love to care if you fall over the edge.
Effortlessly, Megumi picks you up and wraps your legs around his waist while he pushes open the door to his room. He’s plopping you down on the edge of his bed, a tangled mess of limbs and longing.
“Is this okay?” Megumi asks, pulling away to catch his breath.
You nod, embarrassingly enthusiastic, “More than okay.”
He tucks his face into your neck and smiles, hiding the blush on his face, “Good.”
He begins to press slow, tentative kisses to your neck, mouthing politely at the skin there as you gasp and wreathe at his brushing lips. Megumi mutters between kisses, “You have no idea how long I have wanted to have you like this.”
Your breath hitches as you begin to feel down his arms. He’s got the kind of body that lets you know he uses it for a living, as he cages you underneath his broad frame. When he grinds his clothed cock against your core, you swear you see stars. He’s got his hands pressed against your breasts as he plays with your nipples above the fabric of your dress, teasingly brushing his digits across as you shudder under his touch.
Megumi chuckles at your reaction as he pulls you up to unzip your dress, “It looks like you’ve been waiting for this too.”
“You have no idea,” you whisper, skin prickling as the cold air and moonlight meets your skin. You unbutton his shirt and suck in a breath as you take in his sculpted chest. Megumi stands up to kick himself out of his constricting slacks, and your mouth all but waters at the large bulge pressing against the surface of his boxer briefs. He’s back on you in a second, too quick for you to ogle any further, and has you pushed back down as your legs knock against the edge of the bed, too in lust to care.
Megumi wraps his lips around your nipple and sucks, swirling his tongue around your sensitive bud, and you swear the world is shimmering around you. He looks up at you, eyes wide and blown out, as if to see his good work on your face. He begins to make his way down your body, leaving hot kisses in his wake, and kneels in front of the bed. He looks so sexy like this, chiselled shoulders and biceps highlighted in the moonlight.
He’s working around your thighs now, sucking hickies into the sensitive skin just outside your dripping core. He finally finds your aching pussy, and slowly but surely presses a teasing kiss to your clothed centre. “You sure this is okay?” He questions again.
“Yes, please,” you breathlessly reply.
Megumi hooks your panties around his thumbs and slides them down over your thighs. Finally having access to your pussy, he groans out loud, “you’re gonna kill me.”
You giggle around your hand, muttering out another, “please, touch me,” pushing his head into your core.
He’s slow at first, getting to know your centre with a few tentative swipes of his flat tongue. He’s got your thighs shivering around his head, and he swears his soul is buzzing. Is he dreaming right now? No, he can’t be; not even his dreams of you have gotten right the sound of your breathy sighs as you ensnare him in your beautiful pussy. Being here, faced buried in your heat, he thinks he may come undone at one stroke of his hand. You’re ruining him.
Megumi eats pussy with a kind of intensity that brings forth the most intoxicating pleasure you have ever felt. He is not a man starved, but a man parched, and he is drinking up every ounce of you. As he sucks and swirls his tongue around your sensitive bud, he’s got his hands digging into your thighs and pulling you up to his face for more. The sounds you let out are inhuman, and you think in any normal case, you would be more aware of the hundreds of people looming around just downstairs, and potentially, just outside this room. However, you think your head full of sense was thrown over the balcony when you were swooped up into Megumi’s big arms.
A particular roll of his tongue over your clit sends a shock through your body, and you know it won’t be long before you’re quickly coming undone all over his face. You think it can’t get any better until he’s inserting one of his long, thick fingers in your gushing pussy, and curling to find your spot. At that, you’re gasping as your vision gets hazy and your world tips on its axis. Megumi looks up at you, with his big, blown-out eyes and groans into your centre, and you tip over the edge into the most earth shattering orgasm you have ever experienced.
He’s fucking you through it on his fingers, and encouraging you as your world falls apart, “just like that baby, you’re so good for me.”
You’re coming down from the most insane high of your life, staring at him incredulously and asking, “did they teach pussy eating in your computer engineering degree?”
He’s standing up and kneeling between your legs as he blushes and rubs his hand behind his neck. Only Fushiguro would eat your pussy like it contains the elixir of life and have the audacity to be bashful after.
“They didn’t.” He says, plainly, and presses a chaste kiss to your lips, a wordless ‘shut up’.
You giggle against his lips, and he silences you with a roll of his cock against your sensitive pussy. “Want you so bad,” he mutters against you.
You shudder, whispering, “then take me.”
He’s up at that, kneeling between you and pushing his briefs down. His aching cock slaps hard against his chiselled abdomen, and your mouth waters at the sight. He is long and thick. The kind of thick that is going to burn in the most pleasurable way as he stretches you open. His cock is leaking pre sumptuously, like some sort of renaissance painting capturing every bead as it drips down his lofty length.
He roughly spits in his hand and slowly rubs himself up and down, peering down at you with a question on his lips, “you really sure you want this?” Consent is sexy: take notes guys.
“I’ve never wanted anything more.”
Megumi leans down and presses the messiest, greediest kiss to your lips; tongue greeting yours like it just got back from a summer in Paris as he slides his cock up and down your folds.
He is teasing you as he slowly circles the head of his thick length around your clit, leaving you to beg–a drawn out “please” gasped in his ear.
At that, Megumi is pushing himself inside of your pussy, a delicious stretch that has you both moaning in pleasure. You are wreathing under him at the feeling of his length as he groans above you. He fits perfectly; the most heavenly stretch that you hadn’t realized you craved until he was stuffed inside of you.
Megumi pulls out slightly, and then slowly and sensually thrusts back into your pussy. Cock already on your spot, he leaves you breathless at the painfully slow pace he’s taking in your heat. He’s fumbling around with your clit as you’re begging for more.
“Such a good pussy,” he’s muttering as he begins to pick up his menacingly consistent pace, “you feel amazing wrapped around me.”
You’ve fucked before. Had sex with random men at bars, guys from coffee dates, your ex. But never, have you ever made love before tonight. Megumi’s got you spread open as he explores your soul, fitting into you like the piece you’ve been missing all this time.
Your back is arching up into him, a silent beg of more.
“You want more?” Megumi asks, as he sits up, putting one leg on the floor and one knee on the bed; he raises your leg up to his shoulder. He’s really fucking you now, pace meanicing as he pounds your greedy pussy. “Yeah? How's that baby? Can you take that?” He is teasing you as you loudly moan underneath him, too fucked out to care if someone were to walk by this room right now. All that can be heard is skin slapping against skin and the two of you moaning and groaning as you drink each other up.
Megumi brings his hand back down to your pussy and begins to circle your clit. Seeing him like this, all sweaty and strong as he manhandles you, it won’t be long before you’re coming undone for the second time this evening.
Megumi can tell you’re close to the edge again, as your high pitched moans fall into familiar territory, and he’s begging, “cum for me baby, wanna feel you cum around my cock.” You’re falling over the edge again faster than you can think, clinging to his bed sheets to keep you on earth as your soul ascends from your body.
At this point, Megumi is starved, chasing his release as he flips you over onto your stomach to get a perfect view of your ass as he fucks into you. He’s spanking you, whispering, ‘yes baby,’ as your pussy sucks him in. He’s sure this is as close to heaven as he’ll ever get.
He’s so close as you gasp underneath him, clinging to reality to ask, “where can I finish?” Ever the gentleman.
“In! – I’m on the pill!” You barely manage to gasp out at the pleasurable sensation of him bullying your pussy.
Megumi is finishing with a guttural shutter as he enters into the most euphoric, blissful high he’s ever felt. He can’t stop cumming, moaning, and groaning as his balls release into your pussy, and he thinks he might cry at the feeling of you sucking him in.
He is suddenly aware of how quiet it is upstairs when he pulls out and flops down next to you, pulling you into his chest as it rises and falls from exertion.
You, always needing to tease, “wow, did they teach you to fuck in your comput–”
“Shut up,” he’s muttering, pressing a quick kiss to your lips, listening to the sounds of music and boisterous laughter ringing out downstairs.
“You know, I really care about you, even if I don’t always know how to show it.” Megumi whispers into your lips, half afraid to speak his feelings aloud, half afraid to disrupt the moment.
“I know,” you look away and breathe out around a sigh, “I haven’t been the best at showing I care either.”
“Maybe we should just…” Megumi pauses, a mix of fear and anxiety bubbling up his throat, “start over?”
“Yeah, I think I would like that.”
⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚
It’s the next day and you’re at brunch with Shoko, peering over at her as she inquisitively smirks at the hickey on your neck (she’s sure to bring this up years later, when Megumi finally decides to put a ring on it in Okinawa).
