𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐲, 𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭
megumi fushiguro x reader + vampire hunter au
warnings: slow burn, don’t hate the player hate the game
𝐈. 𝐈𝐈.
The train rolled forward with a steady, mechanical rhythm, steel wheels grinding against frozen tracks somewhere beneath the quiet hum of the whistling winds.
“Last civilian stop! South City!”
The ticket keeper’s voice cut through the car like a blade.
You jolted awake.
Around you, the last remaining passengers stirred at once. Bundling coats, gathering bags, rising with the weary coordination of people who had done this too many times to feel anything about it anymore. Cold air leaked in every time the doors shifted open at the next stop, carrying the faint crunch of snow and iron.
Across from you, Fushiguro hadn’t moved.
He sat with one arm resting along the edge of the long bench seat, gaze angled toward the window. Outside, the world blurred into a wash of pale gray and heavy snow, mountains dissolving into distance like they no longer mattered.
Calm. Quiet.
You, on the other hand, couldn’t stop your foot from bouncing against the floor.
It tapped once.
Then again.
Faster than you meant it to.
Two black leather bags rested like anchored weights at the end of your benches. Everything you’d been trained to carry. Everything you’d been trained to use. Alongside more personal items.
You tried to still your leg. It didn’t last.
Fushiguro didn’t look at you at first. Not until your fingers drifted unconsciously to the small chain at your collar.
A habit. Not a thought.
Your thumb pressed into the crucifix beneath your cloak, feeling the cool metal settle against your skin as you exhaled slowly through your nose. The drag of air was unbearable as you felt the unstable race of your heart and your shoulders tightening. Only then did Fushiguro’s attention shift.
Not fully. Not suddenly. Just… subtly.
His eyes left the window. And landed on you. Watching you fidget with shut eyes, seemingly pale as ever.
“You two got some sort of verification?” The ticket keeper stood in the aisle, hand extended without urgency. Fushiguro didn’t break his gaze from you immediately. Not until the question hung long enough to demand it. Then he reached into his bag and pulled out the sealed documents.
The papers were stamped, signed, and folded with neat precision. Royal authorization. Border clearance. The kind of paperwork that could get you anywhere.
The ticket keeper barely looked at them before stamping them once and moving on.
“Welcome to No Man’s Land, hunters.” The words lingered after he walked away. You repeated them under your breath.
“No Man’s Land…”
Outside the window, the land had already begun to change. Civilian buildings grew thinner, more tired. Roofs sagged under snow that no one bothered to clear. Smoke rose in uneven threads from chimneys that looked barely maintained.
“A bit tasteless,” you murmured, eyes tracking a leaning row of houses as the train passed. “All things considered.” Fushiguro shrugged slightly.
“Accurate, though.” Simple. No judgment. Just observation. That was usually how he spoke.
The train slowed again. The ticket keeper returned, his tone sharper this time.
“Military checkpoint coming up. Have your weapons and papers ready.” Steel screamed softly as the train came to a halt. Your posture tightened before you even realized it. “For our weapons?” you whispered.
Fushiguro was already opening his case.
“I didn’t think they were stationed this far out.” His voice was low, meant more for you than anyone else. Curiosity aroused in his tone, he thought on the notion. The compartment door was quick to open, introducing three soldiers.
Their uniforms matched yours in function, if not in refinement. Navy winter coats, heavy boots, clipped insignias marking border authority. One carried a clipboard. One a medical satchel. One kept his hand resting near his blade without fully drawing it.
You straightened instinctively as the table between you became a display space.
Weapons.
Documents.
Silver-edged tools.
Everything laid out in silence.
“Woeful greetings, hunters,” the lead soldier said flatly, as if he’d said it too many times to mean anything anymore.
“Likewise,” you replied. The clipboard soldier took the papers without ceremony. “We’ve got a new system going on out here,” the lieutenant said, leaning slightly into the table as though he owned the space. “Too many vampires slipping past lazy station guards.”
At that, Fushiguro’s eyes flicked up briefly. Not alarmed, just listening. “They’ve been wearing uniforms,” the lieutenant continued. “Looking like you. Acting like you. Trying to walk straight into the capital like they belong there.” His voice darkened, as though he was telling ghost stories around a fire. He exhaled through his nose. “Can’t let that happen.
You exchanged a quick glance with Fushiguro. Neither of you had heard about this. “So we do a little… verification,” he said, nodding toward the medic. The man stepped forward, opening his satchel. “Fang check,” the lieutenant added casually. The word landed heavier than it should have.
The medic approached you first. With uneasy eyes, you glanced over to your companion as his glare weighed heavy on the soldier. He was observant, watching the man’s calculated moves. You held still as cold metal instruments touched your face, your mouth opening on command. He worked quickly, precise, practiced. Measuring canines, checking molars, pausing briefly at the silver caps embedded into your teeth.
“Silver crowns.”
A note more than a judgment. Wealth, not weaponry. Just some old damaged, corrected cleanly with riches. He shifted slightly, continuing the inspection without further comment. When he reached Megumi, the rhythm stayed the same. Open. Check. Count. Move. But there, his pause lasted a fraction longer.
“More extensive dental work here,” the medic muttered, almost absent-mindedly.
The silver along Fushiguro’s back molars caught faint light duller in tone and slightly more visible simply because there was more of it. To him, it wasn’t a simple show of wealth to a careless, childhood mistake. It was just history being repaired. Repairs from a childhood lived less inside the barrier than yours had been. The medic didn’t dwell on it. He simply marked it in his mind, then he moved on.
Same process. Same silence.
Fushiguro didn’t react at all, except for the faint shift of his jaw when instructed. He was patient, still, and efficient in a way that didn’t invite questions.
“Rich little hunters,” the medic said under his breath “Good teeth,” he added. “The type to make impersonators obvious.”
The clipboard soldier returned the documents. Interrupting the previous soldier’s commentary.
“Names and birth.”
“Megumi Fushiguro. Winter, 1756.” No hesitation. No embellishment to his words.
You gave your name. Followed by your birth year. A brief pause settled after. The kind of silence that meant nothing.
Finally, you all were finished.
“All done, Lieutenant.” The man stepped back, “Godspeed, hunters.” They left as quickly as they came. The carriage doors shut with the whirling wind howling after you two. The train remained still for a moment longer than necessary. Then the motion returned.
Megumi exhaled quietly as he repacked his gear.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered.
“All these checkpoints,” you added. Your fingers returning to your crucifix again without thinking. Not gripping. Just holding. A reminder. A rhythm. Something to keep you anchored when everything beyond the window started to feel too far away from the familiar. Fushiguro glanced at you.
Not for long.
Just enough.
“…It’ll be fine,” he said, his gaze returning towards the landscape. He wasn’t reassuring you nor, making a promise written in blood. Just fact. With his certainty, you felt your shoulders relax as a wave of relief washed over.
Just racing thoughts.
And somehow, that made it easier to breathe.
“We’re here.” Fushiguro would call, pulling you from your meditative trance. You gathered your belongings and followed your partner to the exit. You traded spots with various other military personnel boarding the train for many reasons beyond your knowledge.
Dim and as lifeless as living may get. You shuddered, unknowingly. Humans, just like you waddling in rags. Knowingly, avoiding piles of snow presumably the soldiers shoveled for the train caring less if it ended up on the walking trail or doorsteps. In the distance, a desperate plea was heard as a merchant rejected a woman’s currency. Children huddled together next to a food stand just to catch the warmth from the fire. Strangers eyes seemed to gravitate towards the two of you but repelled when you noticed them.
Fushiguro took note of your sorrowful look but, carried on. The further you left the marketplace behind, the quieter the district became not in peace, but in exhaustion. Noise didn’t disappear instead, it thinned.
Voices no longer carried for attention, only necessity. The buildings around you leaned inward as if the cold had taught them to conserve what little warmth they could keep. Rooflines sagged under uneven snow, some cleared with care, others left to harden into layered, forgotten weight. Smoke rose from chimneys in thin, reluctant streams like even the fire was rationed here. The smell of the district lingered now.
Rot.
The pungent smell of decay wafted in the harsh weather. You felt your mouth water as you fought the urge to vomit. You swallowed, anyway. Heart racing with what the source could be. Your fingers found the crucifix at your chest once again. Not tightly this time. Just… there. A habit you didn’t question anymore.
Fushiguro walked slightly ahead, but never far enough that you lost his presence. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.
His pace adjusted to yours without acknowledgment, he acted as though it had always been that way. That was when it hit you quietly, uninvited.
He’s been out here.
Not just passing through districts like this. Not just on assignment. He understood the people here. Hunters were no idols or heroes. They were the bandaid to a wound, a seed in a desert. In return, he respected the locals, avoiding gazes and giving them the dignity of indifference. He didn’t pity them as you did, he respected them in silence.
The inn came into view at the end of a sloped street. It wasn’t impressive. It didn’t try to be. Stone and wood reinforced over and over again, repairs layered so many times they became part of its structure instead of fixes. A building that had stopped expecting anything other than endurance. But warm light spilled through its windows anyway. Soft, uneven gold pooling onto the snow outside like it didn’t belong there. Smoke rose from the chimney more steadily than anything else in the district. You hesitated at the threshold longer than Fushiguro did. He stepped inside first.
Warmth hit you immediately. Not gentle warmth. Accumulated warmth. The kind that lived in floorboards, in stone walls, in years of burning the same fire in the same place until the building learned how to hold heat. Your breath caught slightly as the cold was pulled out of your lungs all at once. The smell changed just as fast.
Stew left on too long but still flavorful in its seasonings.
Burnt wood.
Herbs that had been reused until they lost their sharpness. And underneath it all bread. Not fresh. Not perfect. But warm. The sound of the inn softened everything else. As quiet conversations paused the moment you entered. The tension was stiff. A chair shifted too slowly, as if the room itself was deciding how to react to you.
Hunters always changed the air. People here knew that.
The innkeeper froze for half a second before forcing movement back into her hands. “Hunters…” she said, voice tightening before she smoothed it over. “Right—yes. Come in, please.”
It wasn’t hostility. It was acceptance. She gestured towards the stairs, maintaining her friendly demeanor “I’ve got a room upstairs. Only one left, if that’s acceptable.” Fushiguro gave a small nod.
“It’s fine.”
Simple in his response, yet tired in his demeanor. A sentiment you both shared. You followed him up the stairs, boots heavier now that the cold wasn’t stiffening your joints.
The hallway was narrow, wood aged and uneven underfoot. Lantern light flickered along the walls, revealing old repairs, patched cracks, places where nails had been driven in more than once. The door opened into a small room. Two futons. A low table. One lantern already lit. Nothing unnecessary. Everything intentional. The innkeeper left quickly, as if staying too long would shift the balance of the room.
And for a moment, there was only silence again. Not the cold silence of outside. But the intimate kind. The kind that made everything inside it feel closer than it should. Megumi set his bag down first. Black leather, worn at the edges from use rather than neglect. He crouched slightly as he opened it, checking contents with quiet efficiency.
The movement pulled his cloak slightly open at the collar. He didn’t notice you analyzing him. Or if he did, he didn’t comment.
“Sit, relax” he said simply after a moment, nodding toward the futons. Not an order. Just his direct way of showing concern. You exhaled slowly and lowered yourself onto the edge of one. The floor creaked slightly beneath you. Megumi stayed standing a moment longer. Then, quieter than his words before,
“You’re thinking too much about the district.”
A clean observation on his part. Like he’d been tracking the shift in you since the marketplace. You looked down at your gloved hands watching the leather fold as you balled your fists.
“I just…” you started, then stopped. The truth didn’t feel simple enough to say without disconnect. “I keep thinking—it feels like we’re not really helping anyone.”
Megumi paused. Then, carefully addressed you.
“We are.”
A beat skipped.
“But not in the way they need.” You protested, looking around the damaged the room. Silence settled again. Not uncomfortable, just honest in its nature. Outside, the wind moved across the district like it had nowhere else to go. Inside, the lantern burned steady. And for the first time since arriving, the air didn’t feel like it was pressing in on you from all sides. Just waiting.
The lady returned with a warm, humble meal for the both of you, served neatly on a tray.
“Delicious, many thanks,” you smiled up at the granny as she set it down. She placed a soft hand on both of your heads and whispered a quick prayer.
“Blessed be the Lord’s shepherds, for they will lead us unto salvation.”
“Coin for your services,” Fushiguro said, offering payment despite her protests. “Oh, please. They could behead me for charging you on duty,” she stammered, but he insisted, pressing the pouch into her hands before turning away. “It’s a generous tip.” And with that, she left.
His calloused palms met yours, steady and warm despite the cold still clinging faintly to both of you. The meal sat untouched for the moment between you, steam curling upward, carrying the smell of something simple but real. Food that had been made because people still had to eat, not because it was meant to impress. For a brief moment, everything outside this room stopped mattering in the way it usually demanded to.
Your prayer began softly.
Fushiguro didn’t interrupt it. He simply existed in it beside you, as he always did when you brought him into moments like this. And when silence settled again, you realized your hands were still under his as the pads of his thumb quickly swiped at your palms.
A beat too long. You let go first, rejecting whatever flustered emotion threatened to unveil. Though, not quick enough to completely ignore it.
Just enough to pretend it hadn’t existed.
so that was alot of writing. i have more, like it up if i should post more.
love,
chlo.
ps i copied and pasted from my notes app and tumblr mobile is layout hell so lmk if it’s funky looking </3
