#chestnut boy

[tabicoeur]

guy who’s having the time of his life C:

[polarpolarpolarx]

🌰

[tabicoeur]

there is a terrible stillness to megumi fushiguro--winter held in the shape of a boy. he moves through the world like snowfall: quiet, deliberate, settling into spaces without ever asking permission to stay.

and you, pretty, foolish thing, have adopted the habit of trying to warm him.

small offerings. a thermos pressed into cold hands. your scarf wound twice around his neck before he can protest. words left out like bread for sparrows, hoping he'll take them in kind.

(he never asks for any of it.

but he keeps the thermos until it's empty. he wears the scarf until spring. he holds your words somewhere behind his ribs, in that frost-locked place he shows no one.)

megumi does not thaw easily. but sometimes--when you've stopped trying, stopped watching--you'll feel his shoulder lean into yours. brief as a snowflake landing.

melting, just barely, where it touches.

[tabicoeur]

sorry but i think you should go down on megumi.

he deserves to be undone by something soft, something honeyed. something that asks nothing else of him but his own pleasure. you should kiss along his length and learn him--the velvet weight of him against your lips, the faint map of veins you trace with your tongue like devotion made tender--gentle as a drop of dew, like you have all the time in the world. and maybe that's what makes his breath hitch. that this isn't urgent or desperate, but worship. something crystalline and aching that blooms slow as spring.

you should nuzzle your cheek against him, feel the way his thigh tenses beneath your gentle palm, hear the quiet sound he swallows before it can escape. this boy is so unused to being tended to. so used to being the one who protects, who endures, who holds his cards close to his chest because needing things has only ever cost him in the past.

and here you are on your knees looking up at him all fawn-eyed with his cock against your face like this is a privilege, like you're the one being given something precious, and something fractures in his expression--something vulnerable and overwhelmed that he tries to hide by looking away, jaw tight, but you catch it.

you always catch it.

when you finally take just the flushed tip between your lips--warm and honey-slick, the plush ribbon of your mouth pillowed around him, he shivers. lets his hand find your hair, but doesn't push, just rests there trembling slightly. tucks a strand behind your ear, thumbs at the lift of your cheekbone almost awkwardly, like he doesn't know what to do with this tenderness that doesn't demand anything in return.

you suckle gently, all sugar-spun devotion, and his hips twitch involuntarily, a punched-out breath leaving him, and when you pull back to kiss him again, slow and glistening, he's looking at you now. really looking. wrecked and wondering how you make receiving feel like safety.

[tabicoeur]

you don’t notice at first.

he’s still inside you, softening, his hips pressed flush to yours—and his mouth is against the curve where your neck meets shoulder. you think it’s just breath. the uneven catch of him coming down, onyx hair sweat-damp and sticking to your skin, the way bodies sometimes tremble after.

then, a drop. another. and another. a slow seep, salt-traced, sliding down the curve of your shoulder blade.

you go still beneath him.

he makes a sound against you—this choked, awful thing, half-cough, half-nothing—and you feel his throat work against your nape. swallowing it back. trying to. the same boy who has never once asked you for anything, making a noise like he’s drowning in three inches of water.

oh.

“‘gumi,” you whisper, and he shakes his head, dark lashes wet against your skin. 

don’t. 

his fingers tighten on your hip, like he can hold himself together if he just holds you hard enough. you feel him everywhere—the lean weight of him, those sea-glass eyes screwed shut, the way he’s shaking and trying so hard not to.

you don’t turn around. you understand, somehow, that he needs to not be seen right now. so you stay still and let him press his face into your shoulder, let the tears seep into your skin like saltwater, like tide, like something the body has to release or drown in.

your hand finds his over the blooming bruise of your hip—those hands that fight and save, that don't know how to reach for softness.

you don’t squeeze. just—there.

he breathes out, shuddering, and you feel the ocean drain out of him slowly.

you hold the pieces without looking at them. you let him fall apart somewhere safe.

based on the comments beneath this post by my beloved ari summer-oil getou ♡

[tabicoeur]

i think with megumi, he doesn't say i love you first on like. any normal day;; you won't hear it from him over breakfast or while you walk home holding hands or in any of the quiet moments between where the words might come easily to someone like you instead. he's... definitely thought about it so many times but his mouth just won't shape the sounds when things are calm and when there's space to be embarrassed and how you might look at him afterward.

i think he tells you he loves you for the first time when he almost didn't get to say it at all. maybe it's after a mission gone wrong and his hands are all shaky as they find your face and there's blood on his clothes that might be his or might be yours but he doesn't care because you're alive. or maybe it's in the dark with your hands in each other's hair, tangled up together in his sheets, when he's so overwhelmed by the feeling of being so close to someone. of even letting himself be this close. the words just tumble our of him like a confession he can't hold back anymore;; either way it comes out so rough and urgent and almost angry. frustrated at himself for taking so long, like he's terrified at the prospect of you having not already known.

when megumi tells you he loves you it sounds more like don't leave or please stay or i'm sorry i couldn't say it sooner or forgive me for having been so selfish. and then he won't meet your eyes for like ten minutes afterward but!! his hands won't let go of you either :-) that's just how he is

[tabicoeur]

ʕ ๑ o̴̶̷᷄ ᴥ o̴̶̷̥᷅ ʔ <//33333333333

[tabicoeur]

the soup has been simmering since daybreak, and outside, winter presses a grey palm against the windowpane, and i am made to think of you—the way you keep yourself taut as a closed fist, as though you’ve forgotten warmth is something you’re allowed to hold. the way the sky is the colour of your grief, and how i have never loved a colour more. i stir slowly, the steam rises. somewhere between the rain and the softening of onions, i understand that loving you is just this: staying at the stove a little longer, keeping something hot for whenever you finally come in from the cold.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​