#megumi x fwb!reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

manicpixiedreamkira · 16 days ago

Text

kigatsukeba

part two | chapter index

megumi x reader, aged up!megumi (and others), early twenties, working as sorcerers, post shinjuku showdown arc but megumi doesn't have his face scars, megumi trying and failing to be in control of his feelings, gojo's gone, bonded through trauma, friends to fwb to lovers, drinking/getting drunk, jealousy, confusing feelings, megumi sucks at feelings, miscommunication, misinterpretation, megumi being stubborn, reader being clueless, slowish burn, idiots in love, jerking off, a bit of size kink ngl, megumi is older here so he’s taller (like 6'2?), he's also buffer (he's toji's son guys, c'mon), reader is described as smaller/shorter than him, takuma ino mentioned, smut, unprotected piv, nasty sex (multiple times), but also love making, confessions, aftercare, a bit of angst, but there's fluff here too, megumi's down bad, not beta'd

w.c: 14,831

The soft, amber light slanting through the curtains was what woke you.

It spilled across the bed in long, golden streaks, painting Megumi’s simple navy sheets in hues too warm for the clean, cool stillness of his room. With a low groan, you sat up, the soft fabric of a familiar black t-shirt sliding over your skin as you moved—his shirt, the one you'd slipped on that morning—falling to your thighs and holding the faint, lingering warmth of his body.

You shifted, one hand drifting absently to your hip—and bit back a tiny squeak. Your panties were on again, warm like they'd just come out of the dryer not too long ago.

You remembered falling asleep bare. Tangled up in him. Skin against skin. A flush crept into your cheeks, your heart giving a startled flip. He must’ve—you bit your lip—he must’ve dressed you.

You turned, eyes scanning the room, and there it was: your slip dress, freshly laundered and hanging neatly on a hanger hooked over the closet door.

He’d done all of it—quietly, carefully—like it was the most natural thing in the world. Made sure you were warm and safe and... and his, in all the ways that mattered but none of the ways that would let him keep you.

You tucked your face into your knees for a second, hiding the ridiculous, giddy grin that tugged at your mouth. God, you thought, squeezing your thighs together, he’s going to kill me.

You stay there for a moment longer, soaking in the comfort of it—the small, tender care stitched into every action—as the memories hit you in soft, hazy waves. The feel of his mouth on your skin. The wrecked sounds he'd pulled from you. The way he’d come, untouched, just from tasting you—from needing you that much.

And after, how he’d collapsed against you—spent, lightly trembling, pressing close like he couldn’t stand the thought of letting go.

Your heart gave a slow, painful squeeze.

You swung your legs off the bed, the cool floorboards kissing your bare feet, and sat there for a moment—breathing him in, the lingering scent of cedar and citrus clinging to your skin.

A faint, savory scent drifted into the room—something warm and hearty, sharp enough to make your stomach tighten with sudden hunger. You pushed yourself up carefully, smoothing the t-shirt down your thighs, and padded toward the door. The apartment was mostly quiet, but the soft sounds of cooking floated from the kitchen: the clatter of a spatula, the low sizzle of something frying.

You crept forward, peeking around the corner. The kitchen was bathed in soft, dusky light, the last stretch of sunset streaking pink and orange through the windows.

And there he was.

Megumi stood at the stove, barefoot, as he stirred something on the burner. And he was shirtless. The low waistband of his sweatpants clung to his hips, slouching just low enough to reveal the deep V of his hip bones.

He moved fluidly, almost thoughtlessly—shaking the pan with one hand, flipping what looked like slices of chicken breast seared to a perfect golden brown. A pot simmered gently on the back burner, the smell of garlic and something rich and earthy filling the air.

Your breath caught—not at the sight of him half-naked (though God, that was enough to make your head spin)—but at the quiet, unconscious ease of him.

Scars mapped his back in pale slashes—crisscrossing his ribs, curling under his arms—brutal reminders of a life lived far too violently.

He hadn’t heard you yet.

You watched him move for a second longer—graceful in that unthinking, efficient way he always had.

This—

This was what you wanted. Not the sex. Not just the sex.

This.

The way he cooked for you without asking. The way he put you back into his clothes when you were too wrung out to dress yourself. The way he kept touching your life—quietly, steadily—like he was already stitched into it.

You swallowed hard and stepped into the room. He heard you immediately—shoulders stiffening, pan tilting precariously for a second before he righted it with a muttered curse.

His eyes dragged down the length of you—from the messy tumble of your hair to the bare stretch of your legs under the shirt—and then back up, locking onto your face like he couldn't look anywhere else without losing whatever fragile thread of control he was clinging to.

His ears flushed pink.

"You’re up," he said, awkwardly, like the words got tangled in his throat.

You smiled, soft and a little shy. "Yeah. Smelled food."

He turned quickly back to the stove, stirring the pan with unnecessary force.

"It’s nothing fancy," he muttered, voice rough. "Just... thought you’d be hungry. You were out all day..." He trailed off, face going even redder.

"What time is it?" you asked, stepping further into the room, your bare feet whispering across the tile.

"Almost seven."

“Smells good,” you offered, trying for casual.

“Chicken stir-fry,” he said shortly. “Rice is almost done.”

“Thanks,” you said, voice small.

He shrugged—a sharp, jerky motion—and grabbed a bowl from the cabinet, dishing out a portion before handing it to you wordlessly. You took it carefully, your fingers brushing his for the barest second—the touch crackling up your spine like static.

You sat at the little kitchen table, curling your legs under yourself, and dug into the food gratefully. It was simple—chicken, rice, a handful of vegetables seared just enough to stay crisp—but it tasted like heaven after everything you hadn’t eaten in the last who knows how many hours.

Megumi slid into the seat across from you, still carefully not looking at you. You ate slowly, both of you picking at the food like neither quite knew how to fill the growing space between you.

He cleared his throat once, then again.

Then, softly:

"I’m sorry," he said finally, voice low and rough.

You blinked, chopsticks halfway to your mouth. “For what?”

He looked down, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides.

"For... everything," he said finally, grimacing. "Last night. The way I’ve been acting. I just—" He broke off, dragging a hand through his messy hair, leaving it even worse. You tilted your head, swallowing a bite of rice.

"What happened, anyway?" you asked gently. "You’ve been acting strange ever since..." You trailed off, watching the stiff line of his shoulders.

Megumi set his chopsticks down carefully, exhaling a slow, rough breath.

"I’ll tell you," he said after a long beat. "Just... not right now."

You studied him—the tense set of his shoulders, the way he picked at his food without eating—and nodded slowly.

“Okay,” you said quietly. “Whenever you’re ready.”

The tension eased in his shoulders—just a little. Like he hadn’t realized he’d been bracing for a fight.

For a while, you just ate, the sun sinking lower outside, the kitchen filling with soft, golden light.

The meal finished quietly, comfortably.

You stacked the plates, wiping your fingers with a napkin, before you finally spoke again.

"So," you said, trying for lightness, “does this mean you agreed?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Agreed?”

You shrugged, feigning casualness you absolutely didn’t feel.

“To us… hooking up,” you said, forcing the words past the dry hitch in your throat. “No strings. Friends. With… benefits.”

For a long beat, Megumi just stared at you—something raw and searching in his gaze. Then he gave a low, almost self-conscious laugh, raking a hand through his messy hair.

"I can’t..." he started, voice low and raw, "I can’t resist you."

The admission hit you like a punch.

He shoved a hand into his hair again, frustration crackling off him in waves.

"But if we’re gonna do this... I need time," he muttered.

“Time?” you echoed, amused.

“To think,” he said, dead serious. “To come up with… I don’t know. Rules. Or something.”

You snorted—the sound half-disbelieving, half-affectionate.

“Of course you’d need rules,” you teased, grinning. “God, you’re such a responsible guy.”

You meant it as a tease—light, familiar—but the way Megumi looked at you after? The way his eyes burned into you, dark and heated and desperate? It wiped the smile clean off your face.

His gaze dragged over you—slow, deliberate—lingering on the bare stretch of your thighs, the hem of his t-shirt clinging soft to your hips. His jaw tightened, his nostrils flaring slightly.

You didn’t mean to look—but your eyes dropped, just for a second.

The front of his sweats was tented slightly—his cock straining against the soft fabric, thick and heavy and unmistakably hard.

You swallowed, heat licking up your spine.

Megumi’s hands flexed at his sides—like he was holding himself back with everything he had.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Your whole body tensed, a soft, involuntary tremor working up your spine. You licked your lips without thinking—and Megumi’s eyes tracked the movement like a predator scenting blood.

For one dizzy, reckless second, you thought he was going to take you right there—haul you out of your chair, bend you over the table, fuck you until you forgot your own name

But instead, Megumi shoved back his chair abruptly, standing up with careful, deliberate movements.

“I’ll, uh… drive you home,” he said, voice tight.

You stared up at him, blinking—your heart thudding, your whole body aching with something sharp and sweet and unfinished. Megumi couldn’t quite meet your eyes—his jaw clenched tight, his hands fisted at his sides—but there was nothing harsh in it. Just… desperate restraint.

"But—" you started, voice breaking.

He shook his head once, sharp and final, already gathering the plates into the sink like he needed the distraction.

"Come on," he said, not looking at you. "Before it gets too late."

You stood slowly, smoothing the hem of his t-shirt down your thighs, and nodded.

“Okay,” you said softly.

You watched him, heart a tangled, aching knot in your chest. And realized: he wasn’t pushing you away because he didn’t want you. He was pushing you away because he did. More than he knew how to survive.

—

A week passed.

Seven long, dragging days of silence.

No calls. No texts. No Megumi.

You tried—really tried—not to let it gnaw at you. You told yourself he was just busy. That he was thinking things through. That he needed space. That he was taking the time he’d said he needed.

You told yourself you understood.

But with each day that ticked by without a word, the knot in your stomach pulled tighter.

By the fourth day, when even Yuuji and Nobara started exchanging suspicious looks every time you casually asked if they’d seen Megumi around, you knew you weren’t fooling anyone.

By the fifth, you’d stopped pretending altogether.

You missed him.

Not just the warmth of his hands or the low rasp of his voice murmuring against your skin—though you missed that too, painfully—but the quiet steadiness he brought with him. The way he made the world seem a little less heavy just by existing beside you.

You missed him—all of him—and it terrified you.

Because maybe he’d decided it wasn’t worth it. Maybe he regretted it. Maybe he realized it had been a mistake. That disappearing was easier than facing you.

You told yourself you wouldn’t reach out. You told yourself you wouldn’t be that girl—the one who chased after someone who clearly didn’t want her.

Still, you kept your phone close. Just in case.

Saturday night found you curled on your couch in an oversized sweater and worn sleep shorts, a mindless show murmuring in the background as you scrolled absently through your phone.

You weren’t really watching. You weren’t really doing anything at all—just slowly allowing the hope you hadn’t admitted you were still clinging to finally die. Which was why, when a knock came at the door, you jolted so hard you nearly dropped your phone.

You blinked, heart lurching into your throat, frowning at the door.

You weren’t expecting anyone. No deliveries. No plans. Maybe a neighbor? A mistake?

Another knock—soft, tentative.

You padded over cautiously, peeking through the peephole—

And your heart stuttered.

Standing there, shifting a little awkwardly on your doorstep, was Megumi.

Black hoodie pushed to the elbows. Joggers slouched low on his hips. His hair a mess, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. He rocked on the balls of his feet, hands buried deep in his pockets, looking utterly, achingly out of place.

He looked… devastating. Soft and nervous and heartbreakingly handsome.

You stared for a second longer, stunned—then scrambled to open the door.

His eyes lifted the moment it opened—like he couldn’t help it—weeping over you, from your bare legs to the sweater swallowing your frame.

“Hi,” you said, breath catching, fingers tight on the doorknob—like it might keep you from falling over.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and rough, like it scraped its way out.

You took him in—the flushed tips of his ears, the way his shoes scuffed against the floor—and your heart slammed against your ribs.

He cleared his throat, glanced away, then forced himself to meet your eyes.

“I, uh…” he hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was wondering if you wanted to go out. With me.”

You blinked. Surely you’d misheard.

“You’re asking me on a date?” you asked, incredulous.

His cheeks flushed, but he nodded once—sharp, determined.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I mean. If you want.”

You stared at him, thrown off balance—confusion tangled with the giddy surge rising in your chest.

“A date?” you repeated, voice a little shaky. “I mean… isn’t that kind of… serious? For, you know. Friends with benefits?”

You winced the moment it left your mouth—the bluntness, the stupidity of it—but Megumi just shook his head, exhaling a breath like he’d expected the question.

“I know,” he said, softer now, steadier. “I thought about that. A lot.”

You shifted, arms crossing protectively over your sweater, watching him carefully.

“And?” you prompted.

He sighed in a slow breath, like he was trying to find the right words.

“I took some time,” he said, voice rough but sincere. “Tried to figure out what I wanted. What would make this…” he hesitated, then forced himself to continue. “…not something I’d regret. Or mess up.”

You swallowed hard. Megumi shifted his weight, finally dragging his gaze back to yours.

“And I realized… if we’re doing this, we’re doing it our own way. Not by some stupid idea of what friends with benefits is supposed to be.”

You barely breathed.

“My way means I get to…” he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking very young, very vulnerable. “…treat you the way you deserve. Not just… take. I like being around you,” he said, almost stubbornly. “I care about you. I want to… to cherish you. Even if it doesn’t mean anything deeper. Even if it’s just… our thing.”

He paused, ducking his head for a second before glancing up at you through messy bangs.

“And I owe you,” he added roughly. “For being an asshole.”

You stared—at the tension in his frame, the flicker of real fear and stubbornness in his eyes—and something melted deep inside you. Completely, helplessly melted.

You stood there, stunned—warmth pooling in your chest, in your stomach, making your fingers curl into the sleeves of your sweater.

You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to say yes fast enough. A tiny, giddy laugh bubbled up in your throat, and you bit your lip to stifle it. Megumi shifted again, looking nervous at your silence.

“You don’t have to,” he said quickly. “If you think it’s weird or—”

“I’d love to,” you blurted.

He froze, staring at you—a slow, hesitant smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

You laughed—soft and disbelieving and overwhelmed all at once—covering your mouth with your hand.

“Isn’t this a bit old-fashioned?” you teased. “You could’ve just called.”

Megumi gave you a look—somewhere between sheepish and exasperated.

“I wanted to see your face,” he said simply.

The words hit you like a punch to the chest—knocking the breath clean out of you.

“You,” you said, shaking your head, “are… ridiculously good.”

He flushed deeper, scowling faintly. “I’m not—”

“You are,” you cut in, smiling wide.

You didn’t mean to say it. Not like that. Not yet. But he heard it anyway—and he smiled.

A small, devastating, beautiful smile.

You smiled back—even wider and a little breathless—your whole body buzzing with relief and something dangerously close to joy.

“Come in,” you stepped aside.

He ducked his head, trying to hide the grin tugging at his mouth, and stepped past you.

Almost immediately, a soft brush of fur wound around his ankles. The little white blur weaving figure-eights around his legs meowed once, loudly, demanding attention. Megumi froze, startled, looking down—and you couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled up.

“That’s Satoru,” you explained, closing the door behind him.

Megumi’s brows lifted slightly. “Satoru?”

“Shoko found him,” you said quickly. “Under her car. She couldn’t keep him and thought… Well, he reminded her of Gojo-sensei. Bright blue eyes. White fur. She asked me to keep the name.”

You hesitated, watching him carefully.

You braced yourself, half-expecting something sharp or sad to cross Megumi’s face—something pained. But instead—

He crouched down, scooping the cat up without hesitation, cradling the soft white bundle against his chest. Satoru immediately headbutted his chin, purring so loudly it filled the room.

Megumi laughed softly—the sound so rare, so warm, you felt it all the way to your bones—and tucked his face against the soft white fur for a moment, nuzzling into the cat’s side. When he straightened, his expression was soft—a softness you hadn’t seen in a long time—gentled by some private grief you both shared, but not broken by it.

The sight made your throat tighten painfully.

“I think,” Megumi said finally, voice low and thick, “he’d be honored.”

Your chest squeezed painfully—too full, too much—but you smiled through it, tucking your face against your shoulder for a second to compose yourself.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Me too.”

And there—standing there in your small living room, the ghost of a beloved memory purring between your hands—you had to blink back the sudden sting behind your eyes.

“So,” you said, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “wanna go get takoyaki?” Megumi blinked, caught off guard.

“Takoyaki?”

“There’s a stand just a couple blocks down. Best late-night food in the city, and you’re buying. Consider it part of your apology.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, the beginnings of a smirk pulling at his lips.

“Fine,” he said, dry but fond.

You ducked into your bedroom to change, tossing on a pair of fitted jeans and some other soft, oversized sweatshirt—comfortable, easy—smoothing your hair quickly in the mirror before padding back out.

Megumi was crouched near the cat, lazily stroking a hand over Satoru’s back as the kitten purred in loud, determined bursts.

Your heart ached a little at the sight, but you just grabbed your keys and sneakers, calling over your shoulder, “Come on, before they sell out.”

The night air was cool when you stepped outside, the sidewalks gleaming faintly from an earlier rain. Streetlights flickered to life above you, painting the pavement in soft amber hues. Megumi walked close enough that your arms brushed every so often, the contact sending quiet little jolts through your skin. Neither of you mentioned it.

The takoyaki stand was still bustling, the rich smell of batter and bonito flakes wafting through the air. You ordered a plate to share and snagged one of the small outdoor tables tucked under a striped awning.

Megumi sat across from you, his posture stiff at first—like he didn’t quite know how to relax—but slowly, as you both dug into the steaming, golden balls of dough, he started to ease. You popped a piece into your mouth, burning your tongue slightly, and laughed through the sting. Megumi watched you—a faint, amused look on his face.

“So,” you said around a mouthful of octopus and batter, “about those rules?”

Megumi straightened like he was being called to report.

“Yeah, I figured it’s better if we’re clear from the start.”

You smirked, leaning your chin into your hand.

“Lay it on me, Fushiguro.”

He cleared his throat—obviously having thought this through more seriously than you expected. Even for him.

“First,” he said, voice a little too formal, “we always use protection.”

You nodded solemnly, even as your lips twitched.

“Second,” he continued, “if either of us engages in sexual activity with another partner, we cease our arrangement immediately.”

You blinked—a little surprised by how clinical he sounded—and then snorted into your drink. Megumi flushed faintly.

“What?” he muttered, defensive.

“Engages in sexual activity with another partner,” you mimicked, grinning. “God, you sound like you’re giving a public health lecture.”

He scowled, but there was laughter in his eyes.

“I’m serious,” he said stubbornly. “It’s about being safe. And… fair.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing harder, but nodded.

“I get it,” you said softly. “I agree.”

You didn’t say it out loud—didn’t dare—but the thought of anyone else had never even crossed your mind.

It was Megumi or nothing.

“Third,” he said, pausing briefly to take a sip of water, “this stays between us. No telling Yuuji, or Nobara, or Shoko. Especially not Nobara. She’d make it her life’s mission to screw with us.”

You laughed, unable to help it. “Smart man.”

Megumi smiled, slow and genuine, before sobering slightly.

“And last,” Megumi said, his voice turning a little quieter, “we’re honest.”

You blinked, the laughter fading from your mouth.

“If something changes—jealousy, attachment, whatever—we talk about it. Immediately. No pretending, no hiding it.”

Your heart flipped painfully, but you kept your face open, listening.

“And,” he added, after a beat, “if it stops feeling good—for any reason—we walk away. No guilt. No forcing something that doesn’t work anymore.”

You exhaled slowly, feeling the weight and tenderness packed into his words.

“You really thought this through,” you murmured.

He shrugged, looking faintly embarrassed.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said, almost under his breath. “Even if it means… walking away before it gets ugly.”

Something heavy and bright lodged itself in your chest. You smiled—soft, real—and reached across the table to brush your fingers against his.

“I agree with your rules, Megumi,” you said, voice warm. “All of them.”

He relaxed visibly, the tension easing from his shoulders.

“There’s one more,” Megumi said after a moment, picking at the edge of the paper napkin.

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head.

“No drunk confessions,” he said wryly. “No drunk hookups. If we’re gonna cross any new lines… we do it sober.”

You blinked—then grinned, wide and uncontrollable.

“Responsible and romantic,” you teased lightly.

Megumi groaned, dragging a hand down his face, but you saw the faint flush painting the tips of his ears.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered.

You leaned your chin into your hand, watching him—feeling the steady, glowing heat spreading through your whole body. Something cracked open in your chest—something big and soft and terrifying. You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you just smiled—big and bright and helpless.

You both dug back into the food, talking and laughing more freely now—about the terrible TV shows you were watching, Nobara’s latest hair disaster, the fact that Yuuji had somehow broken yet another set of weights at the gym. The night air cooled further, but you barely noticed—too wrapped in the soft, buzzing warmth building between you.

Megumi laughed more than you’d seen him in months. Maybe years. And you found yourself hoarding every sound, every fleeting smile, like they were something precious.

When you finally finished, Megumi stood and offered you his hand without thinking. You took it—your fingers fitting into his so easily it made your heart ache—and let him pull you to your feet.

The walk back to your apartment was quiet, but not tense. Megumi’s hand brushed yours every few steps, like he couldn’t quite stop himself from reaching for you, even if he didn’t dare actually hold on.

By the time you reached your building, your chest was aching in the best way—full to the brim and bursting with something that felt terrifyingly close to hope.

Maybe this was crazy. Maybe it would hurt eventually.

But right now—

Right now, it felt perfect.

—

Megumi stood near the door, looming tall in the low light—all broad shoulders and long limbs, tension wrapped tight across his frame. He shifted slightly, one hand braced against the doorframe like he needed the support.

“I should go,” he said, voice rough and low.

You smiled—slow and easy—leaning casually against the doorframe. He was so tall up close—big in a way that made your breath catch—all lean muscle and solid heat, towering over you without even trying.

“Or,” you said lightly, tilting your head up to meet his gaze, “you could come in.”

He went still—like you’d struck him—then laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

“I better not,” he said, sounding genuinely regretful. “If I stay, I’m not leaving.”

You grinned wider, emboldened by the way his voice strained at the edges.

“Is that a threat?” you teased, letting your hand skim up his chest—feeling the tense, hard lines of muscle beneath the soft fabric of his hoodie, the breadth of his shoulders dwarfing your palm.

He huffed a low, breathless sound—almost a laugh, almost a groan.

“It’s a promise,” he said, voice thick.

You tilted your head up, studying him—the way he stared down at you, torn between need and stubbornness.

“You’re that sure of yourself?”

He snorted a soft, self-deprecating laugh.

“I’m sure of you,” he muttered, gaze dropping to your mouth for a second before he forced himself to look away. “I wanna take you out properly first. Real date. Real apology. Then… whatever you want.”

The words hit you square in the chest—warm and dizzying.

God, he was cute like this. Sweet and stubborn and so obviously down bad he couldn’t see straight.

You bit your lip, pretending to consider. “Okay.”

“Then at least,” you whispered, voice sweet and dangerous, “give me a goodnight kiss.”

Megumi groaned under his breath—a broken, helpless sound. He hesitated—barely—his hands twitching like he wanted to grab you and haul you against him. You smiled slyly and, rising onto your toes, curled your fingers lightly into the front of his hoodie, tugging him down toward you.

He bent easily—helplessly—his bigger frame folding around you as he lowered his head. Then—because he was a man with no chance against you—he caved. His hands found your waist in one swift, needy movement, pulling you flush against him as his mouth crashed into yours. He kissed you like he couldn’t help it—like he needed it—a low, desperate sound rumbling deep in his chest.

It started gentle—just the brush of his mouth against yours—but you weren’t feeling particularly patient. The kiss deepened immediately—messy and gasping, mouths open, tongues sliding together in slow, desperate strokes.

You moaned softly into his mouth, your fingers fisting in the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer, closer, until you felt the hard line of his cock against your hip. It was intoxicating—the sheer size of him, the way he practically caged you against the door, heat rolling off him in waves.

Before you could think, you were tugging him backward, stumbling toward the couch, lips never parting. He let you guide him, too wrecked to resist, until the backs of his knees hit the cushions and you shoved him down with a playful little push.

He landed with a soft grunt, blinking up at you—dazed, flushed, wrecked. You straddled his lap in one smooth motion, thighs bracketing his hips, your hands finding the hem of his hoodie and slipping underneath, feeling the hot, taut skin of his stomach.

He cursed low under his breath, head tipping back against the couch, hands clutching desperately at your thighs.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his mouth from yours to pant against your cheek. “You’re making this impossible.”

You grinned against his skin, nuzzling your nose along his jaw.

“Maybe that’s the point,” you whispered, nipping lightly at his skin.

He shuddered—a full-body tremor—before grabbing your hips, stilling you. He groaned again—a wrecked, guttural sound—and buried his face in your neck for a second.

“Please,” he said, voice raw. “Let me do this right. Just… just for once, let me do the right thing.”

You froze—heart twisting painfully at the naked desperation in his voice. He wasn’t asking for distance because he didn’t want you. He was asking because he wanted you too much.

You pulled back, studying his flushed face, the way his chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths.

“Okay,” you said softly, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “Okay, Megs.”

He exhaled, sagging into the couch like a man on the edge of collapse. You shifted, letting your hands wander—tracing slow, teasing lines across his broad chest, down his ribs, over the hard muscle hidden beneath his hoodie. His breath hitched sharply.

“Well,” you said, voice feather-light, “we’re not having sex tonight.”

He nodded quickly—too quickly—trying to regain some semblance of control.

“But,” you added, fingers teasing along his waistband, “at least let me return the favor.”

Megumi frowned, confused. “What favor?”

You smiled sweetly, already slipping your hands lower—fingers dipping under the hem of his sweats. It clicked just as you brushed against the hard line of him, already straining against the fabric. His eyes widened—darkening immediately, mouth parting in a soft, startled sound.

“Fuck,” he muttered, but he didn’t stop you.

You kissed him again—slower this time, gentler—mouthing at the corner of his mouth, his jaw, down the tense line of his throat. He let you, hands falling helplessly to his sides, clutching the edge of the couch like he could anchor himself there. You slid off his lap and onto your knees between his thighs, your hands finding the soft layers of cotton at his waist again.

Megumi made a soft, choked-off noise—half protest, half plea—but lifted his hips obediently when you tugged them down just enough to free him. You swallowed hard, heat blooming low and heavy in your stomach.

He was beautiful—thick, long, flushed, already leaking precum from the tip. And all for you. Your mouth watered at the sight.

You wrapped one hand gently around the base of him, feeling the way he twitched helplessly in your grasp. His breath stuttered—a sharp, embarrassing sound—and his fingers tangled in your hair, trembling slightly.

“You’re not playing fair,” he rasped, voice ragged.

You just laughed softly, breath ghosting against the sensitive skin of his tip, before lowering your mouth onto him.

“You don’t have to,” he rasped again, but it was barely a protest.

You just smiled up at him—slow and sure—and whispered, “I want to.”

You leaned in, licking a slow, teasing stripe up the underside of his cock, savoring the way his whole body jerked.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasped, hips twitching helplessly. His hands tangled further in your hair, gripping tight but not guiding, just holding on.

You took him into your mouth slowly, stretching your lips around the thick weight of him, moaning softly at the taste—at the sheer heat of him. Megumi choked on a whimper, his hips bucking weakly before he caught himself.

You worked him carefully—dragging your tongue along the sensitive vein on the underside, swirling around the flushed head, hollowing your cheeks on every slow pull. Every sound he made—the broken gasps, the strangled moans—shot straight through you, pooling hot and aching between your legs.

“You’re… fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he panted, hips rocking helplessly up into your mouth despite himself.

You moaned around him—the sound sending a shudder through his whole body—and took him deeper, feeling him hit the back of your throat. He whimpered—an actual, pitchy whimper this time—his thighs trembling against your shoulders.

“Shit— Baby, fuck, I’m not— I can’t—” he gasped, voice wrecked beyond recognition.

You pulled back just slightly, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head again—and that was it. With a broken, desperate cry, Megumi came—hot and fast, spilling down your throat.

You swallowed carefully, savoring every shaky, helpless twitch of his body, every ragged, wrecked sound he couldn’t contain. When you finally pulled off, he was slumped completely into the couch, eyes half-closed, chest still heaving. You smiled—wide, warm, giddy—wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

Megumi cracked one eye open, looking utterly destroyed, and muttered hoarsely, “You’re… evil.”

You laughed, crawling back up into his lap, nuzzling into the warm curve of his neck.

“You love it,” you whispered against his skin.

He groaned weakly—not a denial—and pulled you closer, pressing his face into your hair.

“Stay,” you whispered against his shoulder. “Just stay tonight.”

He didn’t even hesitate this time.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “‘Course.”

You tugged him to his feet, half-dragging his sleepy, loose-limbed body toward your bedroom. He barely got his sweats pulled back up before you collapsed onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs and half-suppressed laughter.

Megumi groaned softly, immediately dragging you into his chest, burying his face in your hair. You closed your eyes, breathing him in—cedar and soap and the faint, sweet salt of sweat—and let yourself believe, just for tonight, that you had all the time in the world.

—

You woke slowly—the world coming into focus in soft, golden pieces. Outside, the city murmured in distant, muted hums—but in here, everything was still.

Warm.

Heavy.

Safe.

You were cocooned, the weight of Megumi wrapped around you—all solid muscle and slow, steady breathing—the heavy warmth of him anchoring you to the world.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. You just… felt. The slow rise and fall of his chest against your back. The thick, steady thrum of his heart under his hoodie. The way his arm was slung over your waist, keeping you tucked tightly against him even in sleep. His body was so much bigger than yours—all lean mass and long limbs, the breadth of his chest swallowing you up easily.

You turned carefully in his hold, moving slow enough not to wake him. Your thigh slid over the thick muscle of his, and you shivered at the heat radiating off his skin even through the soft cotton of his sweatpants. Face to face now, you took him in—the mess of dark hair falling over his forehead, the soft slack of sleep smoothing his normally sharp features.

He looked… younger like this. Unburdened. Human in a way he rarely let himself be seen.

He smelled like sleep and soap and faintly of you—familiar and dizzying all at once. You let your fingers ghost over his side—light, almost hesitant—tracing the raised edges of old scars hidden beneath the soft t-shirt. You knew what most of them were without having to look. Knew the story written in his body better than you wanted to. Silent reminders of everything he had survived—everything that had carved him into the man he was now. Your chest ached, and you swallowed hard, blinking rapidly.

Still, your hand moved higher, following the smooth slope of his chest, feeling the steady, grounding rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. You wanted to memorize this—every inch of him. The warmth. The way his body curled instinctively into yours even in sleep. The safety you felt wrapped in him.

You shifted again, pressing your forehead lightly against the broad plane of his chest.

It was stupid, probably. Dangerous, definitely. But you felt it anyway. You were so completely, devastatingly his. And somehow, impossibly, you thought maybe he was yours too—at least for now, in the haziness between sleep and something else.

God, he was beautiful. Not just handsome—though he was that, painfully so—but real. Solid. Here.

Megumi stirred against you, a low, soft noise rumbling in his throat. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him with a sleepy possessiveness that made your stomach flip. You froze, heart pounding, as he pressed his face into your hair—inhaling deeply like he could breathe you into his bones.

“Mmh,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “Stay.”

The word—rough and almost pleading—shattered something inside you. You tipped your chin up, brushing your nose lightly against the underside of his jaw.

Megumi hummed—a low, lazy sound—and finally cracked one eye open. The sight hit you like a punch: messy hair, heavy-lidded dark eyes still soft with sleep, mouth red and kiss-bruised from the night before. He looked wrecked. Beautiful.

Yours.

“Morning,” you whispered.

He grunted—a low, noncommittal sound—but his mouth quivered in a lazy, wrecked smile.

“Too early,” he muttered, voice scraping low in his throat.

“Pretty sure it’s almost noon,” you teased.

He tsked—a sound of lazy protest—and shifted, nudging his knee between your legs, forcing you to spread them around his thigh. You gasped softly, more from surprise than anything, but the slow, delicious press of him against your core made your breath catch.

Slowly, lazily, he pressed a kiss against the curve where your shoulder met your neck—featherlight, more breath than contact. You tilted your head instinctively, giving him more space, feeling a soft, helpless noise escape you. Megumi chuckled—a low, rumbling sound against your skin—and kissed his way back up your throat, nipping lightly at the edge of your jaw.

“Thought we had rules,” you murmured, breathless, teasing.

He hummed, his hand sliding lower, cupping your hip through your sweatshirt.

“We’re just cuddling,” he said, almost innocently, even as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your waist.

“You’re not very good at innocence,” you mumbled against his skin.

“Not trying to be,” he said, dragging his nose along your temple. “Never was.”

He shifted again—slow, lazy—grinding his thigh just a little between your legs. You moaned softly before you could stop it, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt. Megumi groaned in answer—low and desperate—and pressed a lingering kiss to your temple.

“Fuck,” he whispered against your skin. “you feel so good.”

You turned your head slightly, meeting his mouth halfway. The kiss was slow—sweet and sleepy and messy—mouths parting with soft, wet sounds, teeth nipping playfully.

His hand roamed lower—palming your ass lazily, pulling you tighter against the heavy line of him. You whimpered into his mouth, feeling the slow, thick throb of him against your thigh. Megumi pulled back just enough to look at you—pupils blown wide, face flushed.

“We’re not doing anything,” he whispered, like he was trying to convince himself as much as you.

You laughed quietly, sliding your hand up to cup the side of his face.

“You’re a terrible liar,” you whispered back.

He smiled—slow and crooked and devastating. For a long moment, neither of you moved—just breathing each other in, hearts thudding out a slow, reckless rhythm. Finally, Megumi shifted, pressing another soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

“We should eat,” he said, voice hoarse.

You whined, threading your fingers through the messy tangle of his hair. “Only if you make breakfast.”

He grunted—clearly not thrilled at the idea of moving—but nodded, his arm tightening around you for one last squeeze before letting go. You pulled back slowly, missing the heat of him immediately.

But when he looked at you—hair a mess, eyes soft, mouth still pink and wet from your kisses — you knew one thing for certain:

You weren’t going to survive him. And maybe—just maybe—you didn’t want to.

—

Breakfast—or brunch, really—had passed in a haze of soft laughter and casual touches. The kind of morning that slipped under your skin and stayed there, warm and stubborn and sweet. And now—too soon—you found yourself standing at your door again, leaning against the frame while Megumi tugged his hoodie over his head, tousling his hair even more than it already was.

He looked unfairly good like that—all mussed and flushed from sleep, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his sweatshirt, the lazy slouch of his body radiating pure, unintentional heat. You watched him for a second longer than necessary, biting your lip. He caught you staring and huffed a soft breath through his nose, looking at you with that small, fond exasperation he reserved just for you.

You shifted your weight against the doorframe, fingers fiddling with the loose end of your sleeve. It took longer than it should have to work up the nerve, but you finally cleared your throat, forcing casualness into your voice.

“So,” you said, trying for casual and failing miserably. “About that date you promised.”

He blinked, surprised by the sudden shift, then cocked an eyebrow at you—playful.

“Aren’t you eager,” he teased, voice low and rough with amusement.

You didn’t even blink.

“Yeah,” you said, dead serious. “I am.”

Megumi froze for half a beat—caught completely off guard—and then barked out a short, rough laugh, his head dropping forward briefly like he couldn’t quite believe you.

He stepped closer—slow and deliberate—until you had to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes. You felt it then—the sheer size of him, the way his frame seemed to block out the world behind him, the quiet gravity he carried without even meaning to. You swallowed—hard—but didn’t back away.

He stared down at you for a moment—like he was trying to memorize you—and then his mouth softened into a real smile.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re something else.”

“Seriously,” you said, softer now, reaching out to brush your fingers lightly against the hem of his sleeve. “I want to go.”

Megumi’s expression changed—something softer, deeper flickering through his eyes.

“I know,” he said, his voice quieter too, steadier. “I want to take you.”

The simple honesty of it made your throat tighten. You toyed with the edge of his hoodie, your fingers brushing his wrist, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse beneath your touch.

“So?” you asked, smiling up at him, trying to hide how much it mattered. “When?”

Megumi tilted his head slightly, regarding you with a small, secret smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Tomorrow night,” he said finally. “If you’re free.”

You smiled—maybe a little recklessly.

“I’m free.”

“Good,” he murmured, stepping closer, crowding into your space in a way that made your entire body buzz. “Because I’m not waiting another week,” he added, voice low and rough, “just to kiss you again.”

And then he did—kissed you, slow and sure, stealing the air from your lungs and the ground from under your feet. When he pulled back, you chased after him instinctively, and he chuckled softly, dropping a kiss onto your forehead like he couldn’t help himself.

“I’ll text you,” he promised, voice rough with something that sounded dangerously close to affection.

Megumi smiled—smug and sweet and absolutely lethal—and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Before you could pull him back in again, he turned and slipped out the door—leaving you flushed and grinning stupidly against the frame, your heart pounding loudly enough to drown out the rest of the world.

Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

—

The day slipped by in soft, slow pieces. It was a Monday—technically a workday—but you were off-duty today, just on call in case any curses reared their heads.

For now, your biggest concern was the tiny white cat kneading your ribs with determined little paws and the steady, fluttering pulse of excitement low in your belly. Satoru was curled atop you like a living, rumbling blanket, his white fur blending into the old throw covers you were snuggled under. His nose twitched with every breath, little paws flexing against your stomach in tiny, unconscious stretches.

You dragged your fingers through his soft fur absentmindedly, your mind a million miles away—thinking about tonight.

The date.

With Megumi.

You still couldn’t quite believe it.

The thought alone sent a nervous, giddy flutter through your chest that you couldn’t smother, no matter how hard you tried. Your phone buzzed sharply against the coffee table, causing both you and Satoru to jolt slightly.

You reached for it, shifting carefully so you didn’t dislodge your demanding little passenger.

Nobara. You swiped to answer.

“Hey,” you said lazily.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Nobara demanded immediately. “Wanna hang out later? I’m bored out of my mind and Yuuji’s off somewhere being an idiot.”

You bit your lip, heart skipping.

“Uh… can’t,” you said, a little too fast. “Got stuff.”

There was a suspicious pause on the other end.

“Stuff?” Nobara repeated.

You winced.

“Mmhmm,” you replied, noncommittal.

“With who?” she pressed.

You rolled your eyes, smoothing a hand over Satoru’s twitching back.

“Just… stuff. Alone. Important stuff.”

You could practically hear her squinting through the phone.

“Uh huh,” she said, clearly not buying it.

Before you could scramble for a better excuse, she sighed dramatically.

“Fine, whatever,” she muttered. “But Wednesday—you, me, shitty horror movie marathon. You owe me.”

You snorted, adjusting yourself beneath the increasingly grumpy cat.

“You’re spending way too much time with Yuuji, I swear,” you teased, laughing hushedly.

Nobara scoffed immediately.

“Ew, you take that back,” she snapped, making you laugh harder.

“Fine, fine,” you said, still grinning. “Wednesday it is.”

Nobara hummed—but then, too casually, added, “By the way… did you ever get a hold of Megumi?”

You stiffened.

“Yeah,” you said quickly, too quickly. “All good.”

Nobara made a vaguely interested noise, but thankfully, didn’t push.

“Cool. Tell him to stop being a reclusive little shit sometime.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, relief flooding your chest. “Will do.”

“Cool,” she said. “See you Wednesday.”

You hung up fast, tossing the phone back onto the couch and letting your head fall back. Satoru blinked up at you with lazy, unimpressed blue eyes before stretching out and sprawling heavier across your stomach. You sighed, sinking further into the cushions.

Barely ten seconds later, your phone buzzed again—but this time, your heart jumped in a very different way.

A text from Megumi.

You scrambled for it, thumbs clumsy with sudden nerves.

[still up for tonight?]

Your chest squeezed tight with something sweet and anxious.

[absolutely.]

His reply came almost instantly.

[picking you up at 7.]

You tucked the phone against your chest, grinning helplessly up at the ceiling.

Seven o’clock.

You had time.

Enough time to panic quietly and change outfits seventeen times.

You nudged Satoru off your stomach—ignoring his indignant meow—and launched yourself off the couch, already mentally sorting through your closet.

—

You started getting ready around five. Standing in front of your closet—towel wrapped around you, hair still damp, you scanned your options with a critical eye.

Pants felt too casual. Shorts felt too playful.

You needed something in between—something you could dress up or down depending on whatever secret plan Megumi had cooked up. Your fingers landed on a black dress tucked neatly to the side.

You pulled it out and smiled.

Soft, comfortable fabric that hugged your curves without strangling them—falling just below your knees, simple and clean. A round neckline that dipped just enough to tease without revealing too much, held up by thin straps that bared the graceful slope of your shoulders.

You slipped it on, smoothing the material down, admiring how it clung to the right places but still left plenty to the imagination.

Understated. Effortless.

Perfect.

Unless he was planning to take you rock climbing—which seemed statistically unlikely for Megumi.

He’s going to lose his mind, you thought, a little giddy.

Shoes were trickier. You eyed your Doc Martens… then the black pointed-toe heels sitting neatly by the door.

You hesitated.

The boots were tempting—easier, safer—but you thought about standing on your toes last time, clinging to Megumi’s hoodie just to kiss him properly. You snorted, shaking your head.

Heels, then.

You put them on, laughing softly to yourself. Maybe this way, you wouldn’t have to climb him like a tree just to get what you wanted.

As you slipped them on, you felt the shift immediately—posture straighter, legs longer, a little more confident with every step. You glanced at yourself in the mirror one last time—dress hugging your body like a second skin, heels making you feel just tall enough to meet him halfway—and smiled.

Not perfect. Not polished. But you looked like you. And tonight, that felt like enough.

You were just smoothing the fabric nervously over your hips when a soft knock echoed at the door. Your heart flipped, landing somewhere dangerously high in your throat.

Okay, you thought, moving toward the door, here we go.

You pressed a hand lightly against your stomach, breathing through the jittery buzz rattling under your skin, and opened the door.

And nearly forgot how to breathe.

Megumi stood there, tall and composed, dressed in black—simple but sharp. A button-down tucked neatly into slacks, sleeves pushed carelessly to his forearms, the faintest mess to his dark hair that made him look sharper somehow, more dangerous.

He looked—and it physically hurt to admit it—like sin wrapped in elegance.

For a second, neither of you spoke. His eyes flickered—fast, sharp—over the slip of your dress, the curve of your bare shoulders, the slow, careful rise and fall of your breath. And something in his chest twisted so hard it left him dizzy.

You looked… You looked like something he would ruin just by wanting too much.

“You…” he started, voice rough around the edges. Then he shook his head, lips tugging into something half-smile, half-surrender. “You look beautiful.”

You smiled—small, guarded—and smoothed your palms nervously against the sides of your dress.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you teased, voice lighter than you felt.

“Ready?”

Megumi held out his arm without thinking about it, and you stepped into him easily, tucking your hand into the crook of his elbow. His skin was warm beneath the fabric of his shirt, his muscles taut and wired under your fingers.

Outside, Megumi led you toward his car without a word, his hand briefly, almost accidentally, settling at your lower back as you stepped over the curb. A simple gesture. Easy to excuse. But it sent a sharp, hot line straight down your spine anyway.

He opened the car door for you without a word—the small, quiet chivalry of it making your chest ache stupidly.

You slid into the seat carefully, the hem of your dress brushing against your thighs, and he closed the door behind you with a soft click.

He circled around, slipping into the driver’s seat—the engine humming softly to life—and shot you a sidelong glance.

“You hungry?” he asked, voice low, casual.

You nodded, smiling.

“Starving.”

A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—gone almost before you caught it.

—

The drive to your location blurred by under the hush of city lights, the smooth purr of the engine filling the spaces you didn’t know how to.

You glanced at him when you thought he wasn’t looking—the way his hand rested steady on the wheel, the set of his jaw, the tightness riding his shoulders like a second skin.

Megumi didn’t speak much. He answered your small comments with low, measured hums, keeping his focus pinned outward—on the road, the lights, the traffic—as if anchoring himself there could stop the wild, lurching pull in his chest every time your thigh brushed lightly against your seat.

You were close enough that the soft scent of your perfume slipped into the car, wrapping itself around him until it was all he could breathe.

He gripped the wheel tighter and kept his eyes forward.

This wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

It wasn’t supposed to feel anything like this.

This was supposed to be simple—a clean apology, a clear line drawn before either of you stepped over it again.

But already he knew.

Already he could feel it unraveling, slow and inevitable, from the second you smiled at him through the open door like you weren’t holding a loaded weapon to his heart.

—

Harajuku was busy as usual, the neon reflections smudged across the wet streets like careless brushstrokes. You could recognise this neighbourhood in your sleep—the countless times you went shopping through these streets with Nobara in high school.

The car eventually slowed onto a narrower street, lined with restaurants and soft, glowing shop signs. Megumi eased into a spot along the curb, killing the engine with a practiced flick of his wrist.

You glanced around, noting the small clusters of people weaving through the street, the smell of grilling fish, rice and tobacco thick in the air.

“No parking closer,” he said, already unbuckling his seatbelt. “You okay walking a bit?”

You smiled, unbothered.

“I don’t mind.”

You pushed your door open and swung your legs out carefully, adjusting the hem of your dress.

Before you could stand fully, a hand appeared—open, steady—offered without expectation. You glanced up to see Megumi waiting, his expression unreadable but his eyes warmer than you remembered.

You placed your hand in his without thinking. His fingers curled around yours immediately, firm and careful, and helped you up.

He didn’t let go.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t careful, either.

Just… necessary. Like something you were both pretending you didn’t notice.

You bit back a grin as you fell into step beside him, your heels clicking softly against the pavement.

Megumi said nothing about it—about the way your hands stayed tangled together—but you felt his thumb trace absent-minded patterns along the back of your hand, slow and steady.

You squeezed his hand lightly, and he squeezed back—just once—before relaxing again.

He was quiet beside you, steps measured, shoulders loose—every inch of him looking composed and in control.

You didn’t know, couldn’t know, how hard he was working to keep it that way.

How your hand in his—small, soft, trusting—was wrecking every defense he had left. Something sick and ugly bloomed under his ribs, because all he could think about was the way you had looked last night—mouth wrapped around him like a curse—and how he was still too much of a coward to admit what he really wanted from you.

The thought hit him so sharply he stumbled on it, lost half a step, had to cover it by tugging his sleeves higher up his arms like the fabric was suddenly too tight.

He was already too deep and you didn’t even know it.

Maybe you never would.

He was wrecked.

Screaming inside.

Because he knew—deep down, in the parts of his heart that took over so suddenly after years of being dormant—that he was torturing himself.

Because this felt too much like a real date.

Because you felt too much like something real.

You squeezed his hand gently once more, feeling his shoulders tense before relaxing again.

“You okay?” you teased, voice light.

He shot you a sideways look—dry, fond.

“Yeah,” he said, his thumb brushing another slow, reckless arc across your knuckles. “Just… concentrating.”

You laughed, the sound slipping out easy and bright.

And in that moment he couldn’t give two fucks about what his heart could or couldn’t take.

Megumi knew he was making a mistake. Every step he took beside you felt heavier, sinking him deeper into something he wouldn’t be able to crawl out of clean.

This wasn’t just casual. Not for him.

It wasn’t going to be just bodies tangled in the dark. It wasn’t going to be simple, or easy, or safe.

He would ruin himself for you without hesitation—and you didn’t even know it.

But he kept walking anyway.

You navigated like that through the busy streets, lights blurring and blending around you, until he stopped in front of a small, elegant building tucked between brighter storefronts.

A pair of paper lanterns glowed over the entrance, casting soft golden light across polished wood and stone.

The scent of fresh rice and sharp wasabi drifted out as a couple exited, speaking low and happy in each other’s ears.

Megumi opened the door for you—again without hesitation—and you stepped inside together, the quiet hum of the restaurant wrapping around you like a second skin.

The hostess greeted you immediately, bowing politely.

Megumi gave his name for the reservation in that low, steady voice, and you caught the quick flicker of her glance at him—the barest widening of her eyes—before she smiled and said she would be back in a moment.

You stole another look at him while they prepped your table—the way he stood there, calm and collected in his all-black ensemble, his hand still casually resting against the small of your back.

Like he belonged there.

Like you belonged with him.

And maybe—for tonight—you did.

The hostess was standing in front of you in an instant, ready to lead you through the narrow space toward a small table near the back—half-secluded, tucked under the soft halo of a hanging paper lamp.

You slid into your seat carefully, smoothing your dress under the table. He sat across from you, posture clean and contained, his hands loose but ready to clench if either of you said the wrong thing.

For a few moments, you both pretended to study the menus. Pretended you weren’t watching each other out of the corners of your eyes. Pretended that this was still salvageable. Still safe.

Megumi felt the tight, careful distance between you stretch thinner and thinner across the table.

And still he stayed quiet. Still he stayed good. Still he kept his hands folded neatly in front of him when what he wanted—what he ached for—was to reach across the table and cover your hand with his. Feel the weight of you again. Hold something that was never really his to take.

This was too real.

Sitting across from you, your dress brushing against your thighs, your mouth curved into an easy smile—it felt like something he wasn’t allowed to want. Something he should have walked away from the second he realized he couldn’t survive it.

You looked at him, bright-eyed and oblivious, still thinking this was just a way to save what you had.

And Megumi—

Megumi sat there quietly, hiding the ache beneath his ribs, telling himself he’d endure it if it meant staying close to you for even a little longer. Even if it hollowed him out from the inside.

—

The restaurant was quiet in the way nice places usually were—calm, low-lit, hushed voices behind paper-paneled dividers. Nothing rushed. No clatter of dishes, no neon buzzing above your heads. Private. Comfortable.

The kind of place chosen with quiet intention.

You sat across from Megumi, legs crossed neatly beneath the table, hands curling around the menu. Neither of you had said much since sitting down. But it wasn’t the kind of silence that felt awkward. It was the kind that came from familiarity—the kind that had space for breath and time and thought. You’d always been able to sit in it with him. Let it stretch without demanding more.

Still—you both needed this.

A sense of neutral ground before everything inevitably shifted again.

Neither of you touched the sake list. You hadn’t needed to remind each other—hadn’t needed to say anything at all. No alcohol. No excuses. Because whatever was going to happen between you, it was going to happen clear-eyed. Owned. Chosen. Present. That was the rule.

It made every moment sharper. Every glance. Every ghost of a touch that didn't quite reach.

When the waitress came by, you both ordered green tea instead, the faint bitterness grounding, steadying.

Megumi sat with his hands folded loosely on the table, shoulders relaxed, his expression as unreadable as ever—but his eyes flicked up to meet yours more often than they used to. And held longer when they did.

You sipped your tea slowly, letting something hazy settle behind your ribs. Comfort. Safety. History. Something that wasn’t going to survive tonight intact.

“You still hate raw uni?” you asked, out of the blue.

He looked up slowly and blinked. “Despise it.”

A grin pulled at your mouth.

“Yuuji tricked you into eating it once,” you said.

Megumi sighed. “He said it was mango.”

You laughed. “I’ve never seen you make that face again.”

“I was betrayed,” he said, as dry as ever—but the corner of his mouth curved just slightly, like the memory had cracked something open.

You rested your chin lightly in your hand, letting yourself stare.

“Remember our first mission together? The abandoned school on the coast?”

“The one Nobara swore was cursed because the classroom doors opened too fast?”

“And Yuuji tried to exorcise them anyway. Just… in case.” you chuckled.

“He made up a chant,” Megumi muttered. “O spirits of questionable carpentry…”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed loud enough to earn a glance from the waitress. It had been so long since you laughed with him like this. It caught in your chest like a bruise blooming backward—painful and welcome.

“We were so stupid,” you sighed softly.

Megumi tilted his head, a glimmer of something warmer in his eyes. “We were trying.”

“You were always serious,” you mused. “But you took care of all of us. Even when it wasn’t your job.”

He looked down at his tea.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he murmured.

You stared at him, the words lingering in your chest. Heavy and soft all at once. There was a silence then—not uncomfortable, not tense. Just full.

“So,” you inquired, smiling faintly, “did you ever think we’d end up here?”

Megumi raised an eyebrow, setting down the menu. “Here meaning—Harajuku? Fancy sushi? Or just… alive?”

You giggled, the sound breaking some of the stiffness between you.

“Alive, definitely,” you said, grinning. “But also… this. You and me. Dinner that’s not takeout between missions.”

He huffed something close to a real laugh, glancing away like he didn’t trust himself to meet your eyes for too long.

“You were a mess back then,” he said, voice dry.

“You were worse,” you shot back easily. “I seem to recall a lot of ‘brooding in the corner’ energy from you.”

He smirked—small, reluctant. You hadn’t seen that expression on him in a long time.

“It’s called being cautious,” he retorted, mouth twitching at the edges. “Unlike a certain idiot who ran headfirst into every cursed object she found.”

You rolled your eyes, nudging his shin under the table with the pointed toe of your heel.

“Yeah, well—someone had to make your life interesting.”

A quiet smile tugged at his mouth, soft and a little crooked.

“Do you remember that one mission in Shizuoka?” he quizzed. “The beach town with the cursed painting?”

You raised an eyebrow. “The one that was just a creepy guy in cosplay?”

His mouth twitched. “The one that turned out to be a school art teacher obsessed with cursed object replicas. Yeah.”

You laughed—quiet and warm, the sound slipping loose without effort. “Yuuji still has that stupid cursed brush.”

“He keeps it in a shoebox under his bed,” Megumi said dryly. “Claims it improves his handwriting.”

You covered your mouth, stifling another laugh.

“It doesn’t.”

He shook his head, his eyes crinkling faintly.

“Summer training camp in Kyoto? Our first year?” you tilted your head at him.

“The one Gojo forgot to tell the faculty we were coming to?”

“Where we had to sleep in that busted storage room for two nights before someone noticed.” you managed to say through your chuckles.

He let out a quiet breath—something between a scoff and a laugh—and shook his head.

“And Yuuji tried to grill fish over that weird cursed stove we found in the shed.”

“That thing exploded.”

“It growled first,” Megumi corrected.

You bursted giggling, soft and sudden, the noise catching you by surprise.

Megumi’s eyes warmed faintly at the sound, and for a moment he just watched you. The way your shoulders curled a little forward when you laughed, like you were trying to soften it. Like it still felt dangerous to be that unguarded.

“The cursed tool Gojo tried to teach us how to use that one time?” Megumi pressed, determined to pull another laugh from you.

“The one that almost took Yuuji’s hand off?”

“That one,” he let out a quiet huff of a chuckle, shaking his head. “Pretty sure it took out half the training field too.”

You tittered softly, the melody threading warm through the dim air.

“Gojo just shrugged it off,” you added. “Like it was part of the lesson plan.”

“He said something about ‘experiential learning,’” Megumi muttered, taking a slow sip of his tea. “And then left early to get takoyaki.”

You covered your mouth to muffle your chirps.

It was stupid, really. These old memories—small, chaotic, messy—still alive between you. Still something you could touch without it burning your hands.

You leaned forward a little, the candle catching the gleam in your eyes.

“Did you know he used to let Nobara and me cheat at drills if we brought him sweets?”

Megumi snorted under his breath, a sound so rare and unguarded it made your heart hitch.

“I knew,” he said. “I just didn’t care enough to snitch.”

You smiled at him—tenderly through the haze of the past.

“You always were good at letting us be idiots,” you observed.

He shrugged, eyes dropping to the table for a beat.

“Someone had to keep you alive,” he murmured.

The words weren’t sharp.

Just simple.

True.

Your smile faded a little, the warmth between you shifting into something heavier, something thicker.

“Thanks for that,” you noted quietly.

Megumi’s hand flexed slightly where it rested on the table, like he almost moved—almost reached for you—then thought better of it.

The silence settled again, softer now.

“How about that mission with the warehouse full of cursed larvae?”

Megumi huffed a quiet breath, shaking his head. “Don’t remind me.”

You chimed in. “I still have scars from that.”

“You deserved them,” he teased dryly. “You walked in without waiting for backup.”

“I had a plan.”

“You had a death wish.”

You laughed, and so did he—just a breath, quick and rare, but it lit something in your chest all the same.

“I think that was the mission where Yuuji got the bright idea to use a fire extinguisher as a cursed weapon,” you added.

“He nearly concussed himself,” Megumi quipped, lips twitching. “And he still brags about it like it was a strategic win.”

You smiled, letting the memory settle around you like old fabric—well-worn, familiar. The moment between you built slowly—quiet and soft, woven with small stories, shared laughter, harmless teasing.

He told you about the time Gojo tried to prank Kusakabe by switching out his tea for sake during a staff meeting, and forgot which cup was which.

“Didn’t he end up drinking it himself?” you pried, grinning.

“Yeah,” Megumi remarked, lips twitching. “Then tried to teach class drunk and fell asleep halfway through the sparring demo.”

“That was the class he made Yuuji wear the panda costume, wasn’t it?”

“God. That thing.” Megumi winced.

“He claimed it helped with ‘fear resistance.’”

“And made him more ‘approachable.’” he chipped in.

You beamed again, easier now, the chime catching in your throat a little. Your eyes felt damp, but not from sadness.

Megumi watched you.

You ended up talking about Nobara next, about her stubbornness, about the time she’d broken her wrist during training and still insisted she could fight, her threats of violence every time she was made to study.

About Yuuji, dragging everyone out for ramen after missions, smiling so wide it felt impossible not to match it. About his endless pranks.

And about Gojo.

The name hung heavier between you, but you didn’t dodge it.

Not tonight.

You found yourself laughing—really laughing—leaning into the warmth that sprouted slowly between you, so natural you barely noticed it until it was already there.

You mentioned a photo Nobara had found a few weeks ago—an old one from your first year. Gojo had taken it. You and Megumi blurry in the background, Yuuji posing with something flaming and ridiculous in the foreground.

Megumi stirred his tea, eyes watching the slow swirl of the liquid.

“I miss that,” you stated. “All of us. Back when things were still… manageable.”

He went quiet. His gaze dropped to the cup in his hand, expression unreadable. You knew what you’d done—what you’d invoked. And still, you waited.

“I think that’s the last time we were all together, before…” he trailed off.

He didn’t need to finish it. You nodded once. Quiet. Heavy.

“It still feels recent,” you remarked. “But also… far.”

“It is both,” he replied softly.

You didn’t speak. Not right away.

“Freshman year feels like another life,” he muttered. “Some days it doesn’t feel real. Other days it’s the only thing that does.”

Your chest tightened.

“Sometimes I still think I’ll see him at the school gate. Or that he’s just late. Just somewhere else for a while.” Megumi scoffs. “I still expect him to be around the corner sometimes, or barging into a mission briefing with something insane.”

His gaze dropped to the table once more. He sat still, almost too still.

“I can still hear his laugh sometimes,” you murmured. “In those stupid moments. Like when Yuuji trips over his own feet or Nobara makes fun of me for running from rats. I hear it.”

“He was the reason I could be at Jujutsu High at all. The reason Tsumiki and I weren’t left at our own luck. She'd be God knows where… I'd be stuck with that fucking family.”

You nodded, listening.

“He bought my uniforms. Paid my school fees. Covered every meal for years before I ever knew how to say thank you. And when I finally did… he just made a joke about how expensive I was.”

You smiled, lips pressed tight against the ache.

“He used to show up at Tsumiki’s school plays,” he mumbled eventually, voice low. “Even when I told him not to. Always in sunglasses. Always late. But he was there.”

His hands were still, palms pressed lightly to the lacquered tabletop.

“He taught me how to fight,” he stated. “But more than that—he taught me how to choose. What to walk away from. What not to. What mattered.”

You let the silence hold him, because you knew he needed it.

Megumi swallowed. “He was the first person I ever saw treat power like a responsibility, not a privilege. And I still—”

His jaw locked. His hand curled tighter around the cup.

You gulped, throat thick and dry with sorrow. He finally looked up at you, and his voice changed—softer, rasping a little at the edge.

“When he died…” he paused. “I thought I’d feel angry. Or lost. But it was more like something foundational just… gave out.”

The words came slow, like they cost him. “It’s hard to talk about him.”

“I know,” you replied.

“You’re the only person I can talk about him with like this,” he said quietly.

The shift was gentle, but immediate.

You lowered your hands to your lap, your expression softening. “Why?”

He shook his head slowly. “It’s not that I don’t miss him. I do. Constantly. But usually when people bring him up, it’s like… all they see is how he died.”

“And with me?”

“With you,” he asserted, voice low, “I can remember how he lived.”

You didn’t speak right away. Just looked at him—at the curve of his mouth, the steady line of his jaw, the way his eyes didn’t flinch under yours.

“I still feel it,” he declared, softer now. “The dread. The guilt. But when it’s you, it’s easier to remember the good parts too. Not just… the ending.”

You let the moment breathe between you.

“It wasn’t just that he was powerful,” Megumi went on. “It was that he made space for us. Me. Tsumiki. You. He made room for us when no one else did. Even when he was reckless. Even when he was impossible.”

A pause.

“He wasn’t perfect,” he continued eventually, “But he was… ours.”

“I think he’d be glad we still talk about him,” you offered. “That we still remember.”

“I think,” Megumi murmured, “he’d be making inappropriate jokes about this dinner.”

You huffed softly, smiling into your tea.

“He’d make fun of me for this,” Megumi tossed in with a faint smirk. “For getting sentimental.”

“He’d cry. Loudly. In public. Just to embarrass you.”

Megumi huffed a small laugh, shaking his head.

“I don’t know if it ever gets easier,” he said quietly, “but with you it’s… bearable. Even good, sometimes. It doesn’t feel like… like dragging a knife through it.”

The air between you felt heavier, softer.

“Thank you,” he added after a moment, the words simple but so heavy they pinned you in place.

You blinked. “For what?”

“For not making it feel like a eulogy. Just… like remembering someone we knew. Someone who was ours.”

You swallowed around the lump rising in your throat.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you declared.

“I know,” he asserted. “Still do.”

He held your gaze for a moment longer than he should have, the air between you taut with something that had nothing to do with grief and everything to do with the impossible space that had grown smaller and smaller between you over the years.

You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to answer that kind of raw honesty.

So you just smiled, soft and a little unsteady, and said: “You’re welcome.”

And he smiled back.

You didn’t reach for his hand. You didn’t need to. The space between you felt full, and for a moment, that was enough.

—

The food came. You ate slowly, the conversation turning back to softer things—missions with Kusakabe, Nobara’s absolute refusal to follow any instruction she didn’t agree with, Yuuji’s brief obsession with boxing after watching a late-night documentary.

“I remember thinking Kusakabe hated us,” you said, picking at the last piece of sushi.

“He probably did,” Megumi replied, smirking faintly. “We weren’t exactly easy.”

“You were.” you shrugged—a raw honesty in your tone this time. “You were focused. Thoughtful. And terrifying when you got serious.”

That made him laugh—just a breath—but it shook something loose inside you.

“I'm glad you thought so highly of me.” he chuckled. “Truth is I didn't know what the fuck I was doing either.”

You giggled. “I had a crush on you, you know. Back then.” you added, bringing back up the little confession you let slip when this whole thing started—just in case he was too tuned out to catch it fully, just in case he had forgotten.

He blinked. “I didn’t.”

You beamed, eyes lowered. “I wasn’t subtle.”

“I was,” he muttered.

Your gaze lifted.

He looked away.

And just like that, the tension between you swelled again—rising from the floor, the walls, the candlelight, curling warm and dangerous around your ribs.

Dinner stretched long into the evening, plates cleared away, tea growing cold in abandoned cups.

Still, Megumi didn’t move to leave. He lingered—fingers tapping idly against the edge of the table, asking questions he already knew the answers to just to keep hearing your voice.

You told him about a mission last year where you and Yuuji got trapped underground for twelve hours, eating protein bars and playing stupid card games by flashlight. He listened, head tilted slightly, the ghost of a smile touching his mouth at the parts you made dramatic just to make him roll his eyes.

Megumi then asked you about an old mission—one from your second year that had gone sideways because of a misread sigil—and listened to you recount it with amused embarrassment. His eyes softened when you talked about Kusakabe, and how you still remembered the way he sighed every time Yuuji opened his mouth during briefings.

“Do you miss it?” you pried. “Before everything?”

Megumi didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t miss being younger,” he stated finally. “But I miss being… less aware.”

You nodded. “I miss thinking I knew what I wanted.” you said softly. “I used to think I’d be a teacher someday.”

Megumi looked up. “You?”

You huffed a small giggle. “Only because Gojo once said I had the attitude for it. And I didn’t know if that was a compliment or an insult.”

“Both,” he affirmed without hesitation.

You tittered, and he caught it again—the sound, the flash of your smile—and it made something under his skin hum like an exposed wire.

God, how long had it been like this? He didn’t understand it—how it had crept up on him, this thing in his chest that pressed harder every time you were near.

All these years—you had always been there. Always familiar. Always close enough to reach for and never quite touched. When had it changed? All these years beside you, and somehow it had only taken root now. Or maybe it had been growing all along, silent and patient and waiting for him to look.

A flicker of memory—Yuuji years ago, chirping, nudging him too hard during a walk back from a mission, saying something like “man, you’re practically her shadow, you know that?”

Megumi had shoved him off with a glare. Brushed it off—laughed it off, even.

He wasn’t laughing now. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe he just hadn’t let himself see it—hidden, buried under missions and responsibility and the quiet certainty that he didn’t get to have things like you. Until now, when it was already too late.

Still, he didn't move to leave—shoulders loose but too still, like part of him wanted to stretch the moment out longer, hold it there between you. Not just because he particularly enjoyed it. Because he knew what was waiting once you left. The final nail in the coffin—and he was as excited as terrified.

He knew he was being selfish, sitting there, dragging it out. He knew it—and still he stayed. Across the table, you simpered at him—soft, patient—and Megumi felt it again, that stupid, traitorous ache inside him.

The waitress returned with the check, bowing gently. The spell broke. It felt too soon. Too final. Like someone had yanked a thread loose too hard and now it was unraveling.

He reached for his wallet before you could even move.

“I’ve got it,” he announced.

You touched his wrist lightly, fingers brushing his skin in a way that wasn’t casual.

“You always do,” you murmured.

Time was up.

—

The car ride back wasn’t silent. It was waiting. Every red light felt longer. Every gear shift too loud. The engine low and smooth beneath you, your bodies still too aware of how close they were.

You shifted in your seat, your dress whispering softly against the leather. Your legs crossed, then uncrossed, a stretch of your skin exposed every time the streetlights cut across the glass. You didn’t shift to hide it. You didn’t need to.

Megumi didn’t speak. Didn’t reach for the radio. He drove with one hand on the wheel—knuckles pale against the dark interior—the other resting on his thigh.

Every glance at you was a fight.

You smelled like the soap you used, like faint perfume and skin and something warmer now, something that wasn’t just memory anymore but promise. He could feel you watching him—small glances, flickers—and knew you were feeling it too. The weight of it. The inevitability. Every mile closer to home wound the tension tighter and tighter between you, until the only thing louder than the hum of the car was the desperate pounding of his own heart.

When he glanced at you, once, your eyes were already on him. But you didn’t smile. You looked… calm. Ready. Like you knew the moment he stopped the car, everything would change. And you weren’t afraid of it. He didn’t know if that terrified him more—or if it was the fact that he wasn’t, either.

The gravity had already shifted. You were just waiting to hit the ground.

—

You made it up the stairs with your breath already caught in your chest, fumbling with your keys, your heels clicking too loudly in the quiet.

Megumi followed just behind—silent, tall, composed in a way that made your skin feel too tight. You could feel him without looking. The heat of him. The pressure. The way his presence always filled every corner of the space he stood in.

He could still taste your voice in his ear from dinner, still feel the weight of your laughter behind his ribs, still see the shape of you sitting across the table—wrapped in soft fabric, legs crossed, mouth shining from the tea. The dress clinging to you like it had been sewn for his hands to take apart.

You paused at the door. Your fingers trembled a little as you unlocked it. The bolt clicked. You pushed the door open halfway. And then—just as you turned to him—his voice stopped you cold.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in this time?” he said, tone dark with amusement, a rare, teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The sound of it—quiet, low, teasing in a way that was completely uncharacteristic—ripped a whimper straight out of you.

You turned to face him fully, heat flooding your face. He was leaning slightly against the doorframe, one hand in his pocket, the other braced above your head. It made your knees nearly buckle.

Even in heels, he loomed over you—broad-shouldered, long-limbed, the shadow of him spilling into your apartment before he even stepped through. He watched your cheeks burn red. Watched your lashes flutter. Watched your fingers tighten around the doorknob like you might melt.

You grabbed his wrist, dragging him inside with a force that surprised even you, shoving the door closed behind him—but he didn’t let you take him far. His hand came up, catching you easily at the hip, spinning you so your back hit the wood with a soft thud—breathing in the sound you made when you landed there.

His palm splayed wide across your waist—his fingers spanning the space easily, like you were something breakable in his hands. Your body under his hands was unreal—warm, alive, straining forward into him.

Even through your heels, you barely reached his collarbones. He had to dip his head to speak close, to kiss your temple. He didn’t mind. He loved that he had to bend to reach you. Loved the way your body folded under his like it had always meant to.

He hovered just close enough to feel the tremble in your limbs. To feel your breath catch. His body stayed close but didn’t press, holding just enough distance to make you ache.

“Slow down,” he murmured, voice dark silk against your ear.

Your hands fumbled for his shirt, tugging him closer, trying to yank him down. He let you for a moment, just long enough for your fingers to fist the fabric. Then he leaned in over you and kissed the corner of your mouth, maddeningly slow. Like he was testing the shape of you, like he had all night to learn your taste.

You arched into him, mouth parting. But he didn’t deepen it. Not yet. Instead, his hands skimmed along your hips, up your sides, over the fabric of your dress. You shivered at the friction of his palms dragging up the tight, body-con material.

“You wore this for me?” he murmured, voice husky.

You nodded before you could stop yourself.

“It’s tight,” he said, voice dipping lower, almost reverent. “Fuck.”

“It’d be off in thirty seconds if you’d stop teasing me.”

His lips curved against your jaw. “You think I’m teasing you now?”

You were already flushed. Already wet. Already squirming.

You reached for the straps of your dress, dragging them down your shoulders fast, half-crazed with need. But Megumi caught your wrists—gently, but firmly. Pushed the straps back into place. Smoothed them over your skin with careful fingers.

You let out a small, wounded groan and he laughed softly, unsteady and quiet. He almost kissed you for it.

“Gumi,” you gasped, “come on—”

“Oh. I'm Gumi now?” he smirked, dropping his forehead lightly against yours. “Are you trying to be cute to get what you want?”

“You’re not calm,” you accused, trying to wriggle forward against him. “You’re pretending.”

He bent down again—bigger than you in every direction, boxing you against the door, shadowing you completely.

“I’m savoring,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the hollow under your ear. You whimpered as he kissed a line up your neck, slow, lazy, like he was tasting you inch by inch.

How could you not feel it? How hard he was shaking under the surface? He wasn’t calm. He was on fire.

“How are you—” your voice caught in your throat, “—how are you still in control?” It almost made him laugh. His control was performance now, a costume—threadbare and useless.

His mouth brushed your ear.

“I’m not,” he stated, exhaling. “I’m just holding on long enough to make you feel everything.”

Your knees buckled slightly. He caught you again—easily, carefully—his large hands firm around your hips, steadying you.

“I want you trembling,” he whispered. “Shaking so bad you can’t think.”

You moaned, soft and ragged.

“I’ll take this dress off when you’re begging me to,” he went on. “Not a second before.”

You whimpered, mouth falling open, your entire body already pressing into his, trying to close the distance he kept teasing wide again.

He caught your chin between his fingers, tilting your face to look at him. His eyes were dark, fevered, wild with the effort it took to stay controlled.

“Be patient, baby,” he demanded. “I’m gonna have you come on my tongue… and my fingers… before you even think about taking me.”

You shivered violently, your thighs pressing together instinctively. He chuckled, feeling it.

“I'm gonna break you in for me,” he breathed into you. “Gonna be soaked before I even take this off you. Dripping down these gorgeous fucking legs.”

You pushed up on your toes, kissing his jaw, his cheek, his mouth—anything you could reach. Your hands clutched at his shirt again, dragging him down, chasing the heat. And he let you. Let you press against his chest, tug at his sleeves. But when you ground your hips into his—he stilled you with a hand at your waist. Firm, grounding.

He knew—knew—he could have you against the wall in seconds if he wanted. You’d let him. You’d beg for it. But he wanted more. He wanted to own the look on your face when you unraveled. Wanted to memorize the way you said his name when there was nothing left in you but need.

His lips brushed yours—slow, coaxing—until your mouth opened to him, and then he kissed you properly, tongue stroking slow and deep, like he was claiming every inch of your mouth with quiet, patient ruin. You were melting. Panting. Whimpering. And still, his hands moved only in measured strokes—over your sides, your waist, the curve of your ass, slow enough to drive you insane.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, between kisses. “Let me take care of you.”

You nodded, barely aware you were doing it. Your body—hot, trembling, aching—pressed into him shamelessly now.

When his fingers finally caught the hem of your dress, it wasn’t rushed. It was reverent. When he finally peeled it from you, he didn’t yank it. He unwrapped you.

He bunched the body-con fabric slowly, slowly up your thighs. It hugged you like a second skin, and he cursed under his breath when it caught at the swell of your ass. You were so fucking beautiful. Every curve poured into that dress like it had been designed to drive him insane.

He eased it up higher—hands warm on the backs of your thighs, over your hips, around your waist. You whimpered when he lifted it over your chest, and he kissed the center of your collarbone to keep you quiet. The dress came off over your head with care. The fabric whispered to the floor, like a secret you’d finally let go of.

You stood there against the door in nothing but your heels and your panties.

Megumi stepped back, just slightly, to look at you. And fuck, the way he looked at you—It was like worship. Like devastation.

His chest rose and fell too fast. His hands twitched at his sides, aching to touch but still holding back, still drinking you in like he could memorize every inch of you with his eyes alone.

You shifted, squirming under the intensity of it, one hand brushing instinctively over your stomach. He caught your wrist gently, pulling it away.

“Don’t,” he said, voice shaking faintly. “Don’t hide from me. You’re fucking perfect.”

Your knees wobbled as you swallowed a moan. “Gumi…”

His eyes lifted to yours—dark, glassy, hungry.

“You don’t even know,” he said, voice wrecked. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Then he sank to his knees in front of you—this time, not to worship.

To devour.

#jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk #jjk megumi #jujutsu kaisen #fushiguro megumi #jjk fanfic #megumi smut #megumi x reader #jjk x you #megumi fushiguro #jujutsu kaisen megumi #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu megumi #megumi x you #megumi x y/n #megumi fluff

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manicpixiedreamkira · 22 days ago

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kigatsukeba

part one | chapter index

a.n: let me know if i missed anything, hope y'all like this one <3

w.c: 11,228

Megumi Fushiguro didn’t jerk off.

Not because he was a prude, or shy, or hadn’t thought about it—he had. He was a twenty-something man with a healthy sex drive and more than a few opportunities to take the edge off.

But he didn’t need to.

He was disciplined. In control. Raised with restraint wired into his spine like steel. If the need got bad enough, there were hookups—casual, clean, quiet. No mess, no entanglements. No reason to wrap his own fingers around his cock like some desperate teenager.

Until tonight.

Until your scent sank into the sterile hotel air, soft and lingering. Until it clung to the couch cushions beside him, where you’d been tucked up against a throw pillow with your damp hair dripping onto your shoulders, skin still flushed from the shower. Until he could still see the shape of your thighs in the shorts you'd worn to bed, still hear your laughter under the glow of the movie you'd picked—some dumb action thing you swore was "a cult classic."

Until all of that stayed behind when you left.

The door to your room had clicked shut almost an hour ago. The suite had gone quiet. And still, the ghost of you lingered.

So now, Megumi had his cock in his hand.

Fingers curled tight, dragging up the flushed length of it, slow and frustrated. The head was red, slick with precum, veins straining against the weight of his restraint. His teeth dug into his lower lip so hard he tasted blood.

He hated this.

Hated the way his brain conjured the image of you, lazy and smiling, your bare legs stretched across the ottoman while you licked popcorn salt from your thumb. Hated the way your scent was everywhere. Hated that your name was on the tip of his tongue, curling like a curse.

His hips jerked against his fist, and he choked down a sound—something dark, desperate, pathetic. The walls were thin. You were right there.

And this—this was humiliating.

He squeezed harder.

God, he hated himself.

—

It was supposed to be a special-grade curse—dangerous enough that two full-fledged sorcerers were dispatched without question—but someone had definitely screwed up the classification. By the time you and Megumi arrived, it was clear the threat was barely even worth a second-year’s time. A third-grade curse, at best. One of you could’ve handled it solo, easy.

Still, neither of you complained. It was Shizuoka—quiet, a little more suburban than Tokyo, with the ocean close enough that the air smelled fresher. The hotel they’d booked for you was nicer than expected too, tucked a little away from the touristy parts, the restaurant downstairs good enough that you decided to make a night of it.

After the clean-up and the paperwork, you and Megumi shared dinner at the hotel restaurant, lingering over fresh sushi and grilled fish, sipping tea and half-heartedly talking about work. Mostly, though, you caught up. Missions had kept you both busy in different parts of the country lately—you hadn’t seen him in nearly two months.

It was easy, like it always was. He didn’t have to force conversation with you. Didn’t have to pretend to be anyone but himself. You laughed about old missions, filled him in on some dumb drama with other sorcerers at Jujutsu High, told him about the new cat you adopted. He listened, really listened, watching you from under the messy fringe of his hair with something almost soft in his eyes.

If he noticed how the curve of your mouth distracted him, he didn’t say anything.

If you noticed how he looked at you a little too long, you didn’t either.

Later, after dinner, you both showered and changed into comfortable clothes—loose shorts and a tank top for you, sweatpants and a t-shirt for him—and sprawled across the couch in his room to pick a movie.

Now you were lounging sideways with your hair still damp, loosely swept to one side. A blanket was thrown haphazardly over your legs, one foot sticking out. The TV glowed across your skin, casting faint blue shadows that made you look ethereal. Megumi tried not to stare.

“This is the dumbest movie I’ve ever seen,” he said flatly.

You beamed. “Isn’t it amazing?”

He rolled his eyes, but there was no heat behind it. He’d let you pick the movie, like he always did, and like always, you chose something objectively terrible. Over-the-top stunts, cheesy one-liners, paper-thin plot. And yet—he was smiling a little. You made it entertaining. You always did.

“Admit it,” you said, nudging his shin with your toe, “you’re having fun.”

He didn’t answer, which only made you grin wider.

Outside the wide windows, Shizuoka’s lights twinkled against the dark, the city slowing down for the night but never fully asleep. Your mission was done. You had nowhere to be until tomorrow. The world, for once, felt slow.

You yawned and stretched, arms above your head, tank top riding up just slightly before you let them drop again. “Alright. Bedtime. Early train and all that.”

Megumi nodded once, eyes carefully on the TV.

“Night, Fushiguro.”

“Night.”

You stood, gathered your things, and padded off toward the left-side bedroom, the one you’d claimed when you arrived. The door closed softly behind you.

He didn’t move.

Just sat there, rigid, jaw tense, listening to the distant hum of the hallway and the quiet creak of the walls. Thin enough that he could hear you shuffling around, zipping up your overnight bag, plugging in your phone.

Thin enough that if he weren’t so tightly wound, so furious with himself, he might imagine hearing the faint rustle of your sheets as you crawled into bed.

Instead, he pressed his palms to his face, exhaled sharply through his nose, and cursed under his breath.

He needed a shower. A cold one.

—

But he doesn't take a shower.

Instead, thirty minutes later, he’s flat on his back in the dark, one hand buried under the waistband of his sweats, jerking himself off to the thought of you—after making sure to lock his door. It’s not even a coherent fantasy. Just flashes. Snapshots. The sound of your voice. The way your hair stuck to your neck. The shape of your thighs when you shifted positions on the couch. That one time you stretched in front of him in your sports bra before a mission and didn’t even notice he’d stopped talking mid-sentence.

Your smell. That lotion. Sweet and warm and unmistakably you.

He bites back another noise, this one closer to a whimper.

It’s not like this is the first time he’s noticed you. He’s not that blind. He’s seen the way other people look at you—sorcerers, civilians, even cursed spirits in the middle of battle. You’re beautiful. Sharp. Capable. Terrifying when you want to be.

But this is the first time it’s hit him like a goddamn truck.

The first time he’s had to acknowledge how deep it goes. How the fondness has turned into tension, how the teasing has gotten sharper, closer. How your hands linger longer when you pass him a drink. How your voice softens when it’s just the two of you.

His eyes squeeze shut as he strokes faster, chasing the high he doesn't want to admit he needs. His name on your lips. Your lips on his skin. The idea of you slipping into his bed and—

Fuck.

He comes with a stifled grunt, biting down hard on his own wrist to keep the sound from leaking out. His whole body tenses, the aftershocks wracking through him as he lies there, spent and furious and still half-hard because it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

He wipes himself off with shaking hands, then lies back against the mattress, chest heaving.

He’s so fucked.

—

The next morning, Megumi was already awake when your alarm buzzed faintly through the wall.

He hadn’t slept.

He’d laid there in the dark for hours, shame prickling under his skin like a fever, staring at the ceiling and replaying every humiliating second over and over in his mind.

The worst part wasn’t that he jerked off.

It was that he couldn’t stop thinking about you even after he came.

It was that it didn’t make it better. It made it worse.

Now, sunlight was creeping pale and soft over the city outside. The train back to Tokyo left in a few hours. And Megumi knew he had to face you.

When you finally emerged from your room—stretching and yawning in an oversized hoodie and leggings, hair still mussed from sleep—Megumi’s stomach twisted painfully. You smiled at him, easy and warm, completely unaware of the disgusting mess he’d made of everything inside his head.

You could have climbed inside his mind right then—he felt that vulnerable, that raw. Like you could peel him open and see every shameful, ugly thought he'd ever had.

He dropped his eyes to the floor immediately.

“Morning,” you said, voice a little scratchy.

He grunted something back that barely qualified as a greeting.

You cocked your head slightly. "We’ve got time before the train—wanna grab breakfast downstairs?"

Your tone was so casual. So normal. Like nothing had changed. And maybe for you, nothing had.

But Megumi couldn’t even look at you.

He shook his head stiffly. "Not hungry," he muttered.

You blinked. "You sure? Their buffet looked—"

"I’m fine."

It came out harsher than he meant. Too harsh. He saw it—the flicker of confusion in your face, the way your mouth pressed into a softer, uncertain line.

Guilt bloomed hot under his ribs.

He felt like throwing up. For touching himself thinking about you. For thinking he could pretend nothing had happened. For hurting you now, too, on top of everything else.

You nodded once, careful, and disappeared back into your room to grab your things.

He hated himself more with every second that passed.

—

The train ride back to Tokyo was miserable.

You tried—god, you tried.

Little things. Commenting on the weather. Pointing out a funny ad in the station. Mentioning how badly you wanted a real breakfast once you got home.

Each time, Megumi answered in one or two clipped words, eyes glued to the window or his phone, refusing to meet your gaze.

He felt your energy falter gradually—like a dimming lightbulb. Confusion first. Then hurt. Then that heavy silence he knew was you giving up.

It made him feel even sicker. But he couldn't fix it. Couldn't find it in himself to risk looking at you again and you seeing everything written on his face.

So he stayed turned away, watching the landscape blur past, counting the minutes until he could get away from you.

Coward.

—

When the train finally pulled into Tokyo Station, Megumi was up and moving before it even fully stopped.

He grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder with a speed that was almost rude. You barely had time to get up before he was halfway down the platform.

"Fushiguro—?" you called, voice cutting through the sea of people.

He half-turned—just enough to throw a glance over his shoulder. Not enough to meet your eyes.

"I’ll see you later," he said quickly. "Thanks for the mission."

And then he was gone—shoulders stiff, disappearing into the morning crowd before you could say anything else.

You stood there for a long second, your bag dangling from your hand, the city roaring around you.

Had you done something wrong?

You replayed the past twenty-four hours in your head, frowning. Dinner had been fine. The movie had been fine. You hadn't fought. Hadn’t said anything weird. Hadn’t—

You sighed, pushing those thoughts down and started moving, blending into the busy city folk.

—

Two weeks went by.

You didn’t see him.

Not at Jujutsu High. Not in the training halls. Not even with Yuuji and Nobara, having lunch at that chinese place they always seemed to be at.

The absence sat heavy in your chest, even though you told yourself it was stupid to care. It wasn’t like you were anything important to him. Just friends. Just mission partners.

And maybe not even that, anymore.

It wasn’t until Yuji’s birthday—March 20th, a Saturday this year—that you finally crossed paths again.

Nobara was throwing a party for him at a loud ramen place near Shibuya. She’d booked a private room, packed with more people than should have fit, all of them loud and happy and shoulder-to-shoulder at the long tables. The air thick with laughter and clattering bowls of noodles.

You were already there, wedged between Aoi and Maki, when Megumi arrived, a few minutes late.

You felt his presence before you even saw him—like your body knew.

He ducked inside the room, hair damp from a shower, wearing a black hoodie half-zipped over a plain t-shirt.

He looked exhausted.

He looked beautiful.

He looked like he wanted to turn right back around and leave the second his eyes landed on you.

You caught the stiff jerk of his shoulders, the way his mouth flattened into a hard line. You turned quickly back to your drink before you could make it worse.

But your chest ached.

—

You weren’t planning on getting drunk.

But a few shots in, it stopped feeling like a decision.

The private room Nobara booked was packed, heavy with the scent of broth and beer, the buzz of a dozen overlapping conversations. Ramen bowls clattered against the wooden tables, servers squeezed between chairs with trays of drinks, and someone had cranked the music up too loud on the old stereo in the corner.

You lost track of how many shots Yuuji poured into your cup. You lost track of how many toasts you cheered to. You stopped caring. Mostly, you drank to drown the sharp, ugly knot in your chest.

Across the table, Megumi sat stiffly, his dark hair falling messy across his forehead. He’d shrugged off his jacket, and the plain black t-shirt he wore clung to the lines of his shoulders, his arms. Even sitting down, he was long and lean, legs sprawled slightly under the table in a way that made him look like he didn’t quite fit in the too-small space.

He wasn't drunk.

He never got drunk.

He'd had a beer, maybe two, the lazy flush of alcohol just barely pinking his cheeks, but that was it. Always controlled. Always careful. Always responsible.

You hated him for it tonight.

You hated the way he sat there, silent and brooding, without so much as looking at you.

So you drank more.

You wore a slip dress tonight—short, backless, the silky fabric clinging to the curve of your hips, dipping low across your spine. It shimmered slightly when you moved, catching the dim restaurant light like liquid metal. Your makeup was heavier than usual too, smoky and dark around your eyes, your mouth glossed and soft.

You knew you looked good.

You wanted Megumi to look.

But if he did, he hid it too well.

Somewhere between your third and fourth drink, Yuuji slung an arm around Megumi's stiff shoulders, laughing too loud.

"What's with the funeral face, Fushiguro?" he teased, breath warm with sake. "It's my birthday, not yours, asshole!"

Megumi shrugged him off without much force, shooting him a withering look.

"Just tired," he muttered.

"Tired of what?" Nobara crowed from across the table, half-sprawled over Maki. "You've been sitting there looking like someone kicked your puppy all night!"

"I don't have a puppy," Megumi said, deadpan.

Yuta leaned in, smiling, voice gentle. "Maybe he just needs another drink."

"I think he needs to get laid," Todo declared, raising his glass with a booming laugh.

The table erupted into laughter. Even Toge, nestled between Panda and a slouching Noritoshi, muttered a muffled "Salmon" into his drink.

You laughed too, a little too loud, the alcohol making everything slosh and sway a little inside you.

When you looked over at Megumi, his jaw was clenched so tightly you thought he might break a tooth.

Good, you thought viciously.

Let him suffer a little.

That's when Ino slid into the empty seat beside you.

Takuma Ino—messy, charming, handsome in that way that didn’t feel serious. He’d hit on you before, more than once, always easy, always harmless. You never thought much about it.

But tonight... you were angry. You were drunk. And Ino was smiling at you like he thought you were the most interesting thing in the room.

"You look incredible," he said, tipping his drink toward you with a lazy wink. The dim restaurant light caught his sharp cheekbones, his strong jaw, the slope of his nose. The shadows made him look sharper, older. Handsomer.

Still—he looked like nothing next to Megumi.

That only made you angrier.

You smiled back at Ino, slow and syrupy, letting your hand trail lightly down his arm.

"Do I?" you said, leaning in, letting the neckline of your dress slip a little lower.

Across the room, Megumi’s hand tightened around his beer bottle so hard his knuckles went white.

He told himself to ignore it. He told himself you were drunk, you didn't mean anything by it. He told himself he didn’t care.

And for a few minutes, he almost managed.

Until he saw Ino’s hand slide lower on your back—fingers brushing the bare skin where your dress dipped scandalously low.

Until he saw you tilt your head back and laugh at something Ino whispered against your ear.

Something sharp and ancient tore through Megumi’s chest. He was moving before he realized it.

One second you were laughing into Ino's shoulder—the next, a large, strong hand clamped around your wrist, pulling you to your feet.

"Hey—!" Ino protested, half-rising from his seat.

Megumi didn’t even glance at him. His grip was firm but not painful, his body radiating a heat and fury you could feel down to your bones.

"She's done for tonight," he said curtly.

No one argued. Not even Ino.

Too much of something simmered under Megumi’s voice. Too much promise of violence.

You stumbled a little as he pulled you toward the door, your head spinning. Your heels clicked clumsily against the wood floor.

"Fushiguro," you slurred, trying to pull your hand free, "what the fuck are you—"

"Be quiet," he muttered under his breath.

Your heart stumbled.

Not because of the words. But because of the way he said them—low, rough, desperate.

You shut up.

Megumi didn’t let go of your wrist until you reached the sidewalk, the noise of the restaurant fading behind you. Only then did he stop, his chest heaving slightly, his hand dropping away like he was afraid of burning himself.

The second the restaurant door closed behind you, your skin prickled with cold, the flimsy silk of your backless dress no match for the crisp breeze rolling in from the river. You hugged your arms tightly to yourself, wobbling slightly on your heels as the alcohol buzz settled deeper into your bones.

You swayed slightly, like you were going to fall. He caught you instinctively, hands steadying you at your waist—but the second you were upright again, he snatched them back like he couldn't stand to touch you.

You stared up at him—blinking, confused, still dizzy with alcohol.

He was tall.

Much taller than you, the way he loomed over you without even trying—broad-shouldered, all lean, restrained strength wrapped in soft cotton and dark denim.

You had to tip your head back to meet his eyes.

And he was looking at you like you were a problem he didn’t know how to fix. Something dark flickered across his face—something he quickly, ruthlessly shoved down.

The night air bit sharper against your skin now, sobering you just enough to register the awful silence stretching between you.

Megumi still hadn’t said a word, still as stone and gaze trained on the pavement. Just a shadow in the orange wash of the streetlight, broad-shouldered and silent, his expression unreadable.

You turned your head slowly to face him, your voice sharp and slurred with anger.

"You dragged me out of there," you bit out, voice louder than you intended, "and you can’t even look at me?"

Megumi flinched almost imperceptibly—like your words physically hurt—jaw clenched. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, and even now, in his rigid silence, he couldn’t bring himself to meet your eyes.

"You’re drunk," he said shortly. "You don't know what you're saying."

"Fuck you, Megumi," you snapped, chest heaving. "I know exactly what I'm saying."

He raked a hand through his hair, rough, frustrated. For a moment, you thought he might actually say something—something real—but still, nothing. No answer. Not even a flicker of emotion.

You gave a bitter, breathy laugh and turned away from him, hugging yourself tighter. A shiver rattled your shoulders.

And then, quietly, there was the rustle of fabric behind you.

He stripped off his jacket in one swift movement, draping it over your shoulders without looking at you. His hands brushed your upper arms only briefly, barely even touching, but it was enough to send a warm pulse through your chest.

The heavy fabric smelled like him—cedar, clean soap, something faintly citrusy underneath.

You looked up at him in surprise.

Even now—especially now—he couldn’t stand to see you shivering on the street because of him.

You tugged it closer instinctively.

It covered most of your slip dress, the silky hem barely peeking out from underneath, hiding the vulnerable expanse of your bare back and thighs.

You blinked.

“Thanks,” you muttered, mostly to the sidewalk.

Megumi’s face was a mask. But inside, he was screaming. He didn’t even trust himself to touch you again. Didn’t even want to risk it.

You crossed your arms against the cold, his jacket still warm from his body. It was only then you realized—in his rush to pull you out—you’d left everything behind. Your jacket, your purse, your phone... even your damn house keys.

Panic flickered up your spine, quick and mean.

"You made me leave all my stuff behind," you said accusingly, your words wobbling. "What am I supposed to do now, genius?"

Megumi's shoulders stiffened.

"I’ll figure it out," he muttered.

You wanted to hit him. You wanted to scream.

—

She was cold because of you, Megumi thought. She was standing here without a jacket because you pulled her out without giving her the chance to grab her things. Because you couldn’t stomach watching Ino touch her.

Because you couldn’t do a single fucking thing without messing it up.

You shifted uncomfortably beneath the weight of his coat, and Megumi glanced back toward the restaurant—jaw tight, throat working.

You’d left everything. Your phone. Your purse. Your house keys. Even your damn jacket.

He could take you back, let you go in, get what you needed. You deserved that, at the very least.

But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

The thought of Ino still sitting at that table—smirking, buzzed, smug, maybe even brave enough to pull you back down beside him—sent a hard, nauseous twist through Megumi’s stomach.

He didn’t trust himself not to lose it.

So he pulled out his phone instead, typing out a quick message to Nobara:

[ hey. she left her shit at the restaurant. grab it before you go? i’ll pick it up in the morning. ]

A moment later, the read receipt popped up.

[ sure. you owe me. ]

He slid the phone back into his pocket and looked at you.

You stared at him, confused and blinking through the drunken haze.

He didn’t answer.

A minute later, he ordered a cab.

—

The car rolled up to the curb a few minutes later.

Megumi opened the door, gesturing stiffly for you to get in first. You stumbled, nearly missing the step up into the backseat. The ravenette was there instantly, steadying you with a hand on your lower back—but he jerked away again like he'd been burned the second you were inside.

He gave the driver his address without hesitation.

You blinked at him, still confused.

"My place," he said shortly. "You’re not getting into your apartment without keys."

You opened your mouth to argue, but the seat was warm and you were so tired, and it was so much easier to just slump against the window and close your eyes.

—

The ride was short but suffocating.

You could feel Megumi beside you, rigid as a statue, tension rolling off him in waves. His hands stayed firmly planted on his thighs the entire time, clenched into white-knuckled fists.

When the cab pulled up to his building, Megumi got out first, circling quickly around to your door.

You hesitated before climbing out, legs wobbly in your heels, the cold sinking deeper through your skin despite his jacket wrapped around you.

"Goddammit," Megumi muttered under his breath.

The stairs to his apartment loomed ahead.

You squared your shoulders, stubborn, trying to prove some kind of point. But your heel caught on the very first step and the world lurched sideways beneath you, your ankle buckling.

Strong hands caught you before you could hit the ground.

Megumi exhaled through his nose, long and slow.

"You're impossible," he muttered under his breath.

You blinked up at him, dizzy. “You’re the one who—”

“I know,” he bit out, frustrated. “I know.”

Before you could say anything else, he bent low, one arm behind your knees, the other at your back—and lifted you.

“Megumi—”

“Just—don’t.” His tone was tight. Controlled. But there was heat simmering underneath, wild and cracked and guilty as hell.

You wanted to fight him. You wanted to cry. You hated how safe you felt, pressed against him—despite your rage, despite your confusion—curling unconsciously closer, cheek resting against the steady rise and fall of his chest.

He smelled like cedar and clean soap. Like safety. Like someone you’d once known well and now couldn’t reach.

He didn’t look down at you once—carring you all the way to the third floor, barely breathing heavily, his jaw locked tight.

At his door, he shifted you higher against his chest with a grunt and somehow managed to fish out his keys. The door swung open, spilling the familiar, clean scent of his apartment into the hallway.

He set you down carefully just inside the entryway.

The moment your feet hit the ground, you swayed dangerously again.

With a frustrated sigh, Megumi guided you toward the couch, his hand at your waist, keeping you upright.

You collapsed into the cushions with a groan, burying your face in his jacket still draped around your shoulders.

He hovered for a second, clearly unsure what to do.

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him, mascara smudged slightly beneath your eyes.

"Why do you even care?" you muttered, voice raw. "You don't even like me anymore."

Megumi tensed.

"You don't even look at me," you mumbled. "You don't talk to me. You don’t want me around."

The words hung between you—heavy, accusing, bitter.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

A beat passed. Then two.

You laughed, short and sharp, and turned your face away from him.

“Thought so,” you whispered, curling into the couch.

You didn’t see the way he looked at you after. Didn’t see the way his fingers curled tight at his sides like he wanted to reach for you—but wouldn’t let himself.

You were already asleep.

—

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the smell.

Crisp, clean, familiar—cedar and soap and something warm underneath.

The second thing was that you weren’t on the couch anymore.

You blinked against the low citylight leaking through the curtains, heart thudding heavily in your ears as you sat up slowly. Megumi’s bed was bigger than yours—neat, sparse, a simple navy comforter tucked tight around you. His jacket had slipped halfway off your shoulders in your sleep, cool silk brushing against your skin.

You were still in your dress. Barefoot.

The room was silent. Heavy.

You pushed the jacket back up around your shoulders and slipped out of the bed, the cool floor making you shiver.

Somewhere past the half-open door, you heard it—the faint, broken rhythm of someone's breathing.

Careful, quiet, you padded down the short hallway until you reached the living room.

And there he was.

Megumi sat hunched on the couch, elbows braced against his knees, head cradled in his hands. The thin cotton of his t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, the tense line of his back rigid with something you couldn't quite name. His legs were spread wide, his long frame taking up most of the space—a tall, powerful body crammed uncomfortably into a small seat he clearly hadn’t been able to sleep in.

For a second, you just watched him.

He was so much bigger now than when you’d first met years ago—taller, broader in every sense. Even folded over like this, he still took up too much space. It hit you all at once: how much he'd grown, how different he was, how painfully far away he seemed now.

"Megumi?" you called softly.

He jerked upright, hands flying off his head, his whole body tensing like he'd been caught doing something wrong.

His face—God, his face.

There was a flush blooming under his cheekbones, hot and sharp against his pale skin. His mouth pressed into a hard, thin line, and he couldn't meet your eyes.

"You should be resting," he murmured, voice low.

You took a tentative step closer. "I woke up and... I was confused. Why did you move me to your bed?"

He hesitated, fingers clenching into fists. "You were uncomfortable," he muttered, voice rough, not looking at you. "On the couch. Figured... the bed would be better."

You shifted awkwardly, hugging his jacket tighter around yourself. "And you?"

Megumi grimaced. "I'm fine."

You glanced down at the cramped, sagging couch, trying to imagine someone as tall and built as him trying to fold himself into it for the night. Your throat tightened painfully.

"You gave me your bed... and you took this?" you said, voice cracking slightly.

He still wouldn't look at you.

"I—" he started, then broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. "Doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter?" you repeated, a bitter little laugh escaping before you could stop it. "Then why won’t you even look at me?"

Finally, he did.

And what you saw there—wild guilt, raw frustration, something worse lurking underneath—nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

You took a step closer, heart hammering.

"What did I do?" you asked, voice wobbling. "Tell me, Megumi. What did I do that's so awful you can't even stand to be around me anymore?"

He flinched, like you’d slapped him.

"Nothing," he said hoarsely. "You didn’t do anything. It’s me."

You shook your head, fighting tears. "Then what? What’s so bad?"

He opened his mouth—and for a long, awful second, no sound came out.

Then, low and broken:

"You're in my bed," he said, almost to himself, like he couldn't believe it. "Wearing that—" his hands clenched tightly, knuckles white. "Smelling like you do. And I can't fucking stop—"

You froze.

Your heart thudded, confused. "Stop what?"

His whole body radiated tension, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

"I can't stop wanting you," Megumi ground out. "Even when I don't have the right to. Even when I know it would ruin everything."

You stared at him, mouth dry, vision swimming.

And that’s when you noticed.

The heavy bulge tenting the front of his jeans, straining against the fabric, painfully obvious now that he was sitting back against the couch cushions. His thighs were spread wide, like even now he couldn’t hide how wrecked he was.

Your stomach twisted sharply. Heat bloomed between your legs—and then just as quickly, cold fear.

Because if he wanted you, why was he acting like this? Why was he avoiding you, treating you like you were some burden he couldn't wait to unload?

The tears you'd been holding back finally slipped free.

Megumi stiffened instantly at the broken sound you made.

"No," he said, alarmed, standing up so fast the couch squeaked. "No, don't—shit, don't cry—"

You stumbled back a step, brushing your cheeks angrily. "You hate me," you said, the words tumbling out half-sob, half-accusation. "You’re disgusted with me and I don’t even know why—"

"I'm not," he said fiercely, crowding closer without even thinking. "I'm not disgusted with you. I could never—"

You hiccuped through a shaky breath, clutching his jacket tighter around your shoulders.

"Then why?"

Megumi raked a hand through his hair again, looking wild, desperate.

"Because I want you," he said, voice ragged. "Because I'm not supposed to. Because you're drunk, and you're hurting, and if I touch you it’s just—it's wrong."

You blinked up at him, tears shining in your wide eyes.

"But you’re hurting me anyway," you whispered.

And that—that—split him wide open.

He cursed under his breath, stepping back like he was physically restraining himself. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. His chest heaved with every breath.

"I'm sorry," he rasped. "I’m so fucking sorry."

You stared at him, breathing hard, jacket slipping off one bare shoulder.

Megumi’s eyes flicked down—then snapped away, jaw locking tight.

He looked like he was about to break.

"I'm sorry," he said again, quieter this time, almost to himself.

You stood there, wavering, hugging his jacket around your shoulders like an armor. Your lip trembled, your eyes shining, and Megumi thought he might throw up from the way it made his chest tighten painfully.

He took a slow breath, forcing his voice steady.

"Please," he said, the word scraping raw in his throat, "go back to bed. We can... talk in the morning."

You stared at him like you didn’t believe him, like you were trying to read something from his face that he didn’t know how to hide. And maybe you could—maybe you always could, that was the problem—but still, you stayed frozen there, shivering slightly, the silk hem of your dress brushing against your thighs in the draft.

Megumi felt like his body was locked in place. His hands fisted uselessly at his sides, nails biting into the heels of his palms. His cock was still hard—achingly, miserably hard—straining against the waistband of his pants, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

He deserved it. He deserved to sit there with this shame crawling under his skin, with his body betraying him at the worst possible moment, with the sight of you crying burned into his fucking memory.

He clenched his jaw and forced himself to stay still, to stay silent, to stay contained.

Because if he let himself speak, he knew it wouldn’t come out right. If he let himself move, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.

You blinked at him, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, and Megumi squeezed his eyes shut for a second, trying to pull himself back together.

"Please," he said again, softer now, pleading. "Just... just go back to bed."

Maybe—maybe if you slept, maybe if you forgot enough of tonight, he could fix it in the morning. Pretend none of this happened. Pretend he was still the responsible one, the one who could be trusted not to ruin everything just because he couldn’t get a fucking grip on himself.

He opened his eyes and found you still standing there.

For a terrible second, he thought you were going to stay, going to push, going to ask him for something he couldn't, shouldn't give you.

But then you blinked slowly, wiped at your cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket, and without a word, turned and padded back down the hallway toward his bedroom.

Megumi stayed frozen in the living room until he heard the soft creak of the mattress as you climbed back into bed.

Then, and only then, did he let himself move.

He sagged onto the couch like the strings holding him up had been cut, head falling into his hands. His cock was still painfully hard, a pulse of need that throbbed through him with every breath, but he didn’t touch himself. He didn’t even consider it.

No.

He deserved this.

He deserved to sit here, miserable and aching, with the weight of his own self-disgust settling heavier and heavier across his shoulders.

Every heartbeat was punishment. Every shallow breath, every twitch of his muscles.

This was what he deserved for letting you get close enough to hurt. For being weak enough to want you. For making you cry.

He stayed like that, head bowed between his hands, until the first pale threads of morning light began to creep through the cracks in the blinds.

—

You woke up slowly.

The first thing you noticed was the dull, pounding ache behind your eyes, like someone had stuffed your skull with cotton and wrapped it too tight. The second was the heavy warmth of the comforter over you, the faint scent of soap and cedar sinking into your skin.

Megumi’s scent.

You shifted, muscles stiff and aching, and only then realized you were still wearing last night's dress—rumpled now, the hem twisted high around your thighs. Megumi’s jacket was still draped over your shoulders, half-off, half-on, swallowing you up in worn fabric and the echo of him.

You pushed yourself upright with a groan, blinking blearily at the morning light bleeding in through the curtains. Everything hurt—your head, your throat, your pride.

And the memories—

They floated up slowly, sickly, filling your chest with something thick and sour.

The fight. The crying. The way Megumi had looked at you—gutted, guilty, refusing to touch you even when you had all but begged for answers.

You pulled his jacket closer around yourself, cold despite the sunlight, your heart thudding unevenly as you swung your legs over the side of the bed.

The apartment was silent.

For a second you just sat there, gathering yourself, dread pooling low and heavy in your stomach.

Then, cautiously, you stood.

Your bare feet made no sound against the floor as you padded toward the door, jacket trailing behind you like a shield. The hallway seemed longer than it had last night, every step loud in your ears.

You found him in the kitchen.

Megumi stood by the counter, his back to you, hunched slightly like he hadn’t slept at all. His hair was a mess, tangled at the roots like he’d run his hands through it a thousand times. His hands were braced on the edge of the sink, knuckles pale with the pressure.

He must have heard you—but he didn’t turn around.

You hovered by the counter, nerves scraping raw inside your skin, your voice catching in your throat.

"Morning," you said, voice hoarse.

He flinched.

It was subtle—just the barest tension running up his shoulders—but you caught it, and it made something twist painfully inside you.

Slowly, Megumi straightened. His fingers drummed once, twice, against the counter before he finally turned to face you.

You almost wished he hadn’t.

There were dark shadows under his eyes, tension carved deep into the lines of his face. He looked—wrecked. Like he’d fought a battle with himself all night and lost.

He opened his mouth—then closed it again, jaw tightening.

You swallowed hard, clutching his jacket tighter around yourself.

"I remember," you said, voice small. "Not everything, but... enough."

A beat of silence stretched between you—long and sharp and unbearable.

Megumi shifted his weight, his broad frame seeming even bigger in the tight space of the kitchen, dwarfing everything. His arms crossed over his chest—defensive, protective, like he was trying to physically hold himself back.

"You were drunk," he said finally, voice rough. "It doesn't matter."

You let out a shaky breath. "It matters to me."

He looked at you then—really looked—and you hated how much it hurt. Hated how much guilt and self-loathing you could see bleeding out of him, barely restrained.

"You’re mad at me," you said quietly, not a question.

"No," he said immediately, too fast, too sharp. "I'm mad at myself."

You blinked, confused.

"I made you cry," Megumi said, the words like gravel dragging out of his chest. "I hurt you. That’s on me."

You took a step closer, careful, feeling the heat radiating off his body even from a foot away.

"You didn’t hurt me," you said. "You just... confused me."

His mouth twisted, bitter and miserable.

"I can’t—I can’t want you like that," he said, voice low and cracked. "It’s not right."

Your breath caught.

"Why?" you whispered.

He turned away again, bracing his hands on the counter, bowing his head.

"Because you’re drunk," he muttered. "Because you’re my friend. Because you deserve better than—"

"Stop," you said, sharper than you meant.

He froze.

You stepped closer until you were right behind him, close enough to touch, close enough to feel the tension vibrating through him like a wire pulled taut.

"I’m sober now," you said. "And I know what I want."

He let out a rough, broken laugh—one that sounded more like a sob.

"It’s not that simple."

"Why not?"

He turned then, so suddenly you flinched. His hands caught your arms—careful, barely touching, like he was afraid he might hurt you just by holding on too tight.

"Because if I let myself have you," he said, voice raw and shaking, "I'll get too greedy."

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

You stared up at him—at the storm raging in his dark eyes, at the way his fingers trembled against your skin—and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw the truth clearly.

This wasn’t indifference. It wasn’t disgust. It was need.

Fierce and desperate and so long denied that it had festered into something wild inside him.

Your hands lifted without thinking, tangling in the front of his t-shirt.

"I can be greedy too," you whispered.

Megumi made a strangled sound—something halfway between a groan and a curse—and dropped his forehead against yours.

He was trembling.

"You don’t know what you’re asking," he breathed.

"I do."

"You’ll hate me."

"I could never."

Megumi’s breath stuttered against your skin, the heat of him leaking through every careful inch where he wasn't quite touching you. His fingers curled tight in the fabric of your borrowed jacket, and you could feel how badly he was shaking—like he was fighting himself at every breath.

"You'll hate me," he whispered again, voice cracked and low, like the confession cost him something he couldn't get back.

You stared up at him, heart thudding too fast, your mind scrambling to make sense of the words—to shove them into a box you could understand.

Hate him? For what? Was it really that simple?

You swallowed, heart lurching painfully—but you still didn’t quite get it. Didn't see the war he was losing inside his own chest.

Instead, you gave a shaky little laugh, trying to lighten the crackling tension choking the air between you.

"I mean…" you started, teasing, trying for levity, "if you’re just talking about sex, Megumi... we can make that work."

Megumi froze—went so still you thought maybe he'd stopped breathing.

You blinked at him, confused, startled by the sudden intensity in his eyes. Dark, wild, burning like a fuse had finally hit the powder.

"I’m serious," you said quickly, heart hammering harder.

You smiled, a little awkward, a little too bright. "I mean... it's not like I never thought about it," you joked, nudging at the tension with a clumsy, hangover drenched bravery. "You're hot, Megumi. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t... you know. Thought about it. Back in high school. Still do, sometimes. And if this is just... you know, a physical thing, that’s fine. We’re adults. We can be smart about it."

You winced internally the second the words left your mouth—but it was too late. They hung there, stupid and weightless, in the heavy, aching air between you.

Megumi's jaw clenched so hard you saw the muscle jump. His hands flexed uselessly at his sides, like he didn't know what to do with them. His whole body was wound tight, every inch of him vibrating with something you didn’t know how to name.

You thought you did, though.

You thought it was guilt. Fear. Worry about crossing a line you couldn't uncross.

You mistook the devastated look in his eyes for hesitation—for regret—instead of what it really was: need, thick and choking and helpless.

You pressed on before he could retreat fully, heart thudding painfully.

"I'm not gonna freak out," you said quickly, voice softening. "If it's just sex, it's just sex. I don’t want to lose you over something stupid. We’re friends first, right? We can... figure it out."

You meant it. You meant every word. You would rather give him this, would rather let your heart ache quietly in your own chest, than lose him altogether. You could handle it. You could be smart. You could keep it simple if that’s what he needed.

So you smiled—small and earnest and maybe a little shaky—thinking you were offering him something safe.

Megumi made a rough, broken sound in the back of his throat and turned away, raking both hands through his hair like he wanted to tear it out at the roots.

Your stomach twisted, misreading it entirely.

You thought he was trying to resist. You thought he was scared of ruining what you had—the ease, the history, the friendship built over years.

You didn’t realize he was breaking apart because he knew he couldn’t pretend it would ever be casual. Not with you.

Still, you didn't want him to spiral alone in whatever guilt or shame he was carrying.

"Just... think about it," you said, softer now, stepping closer, your fingers brushing lightly over his sleeve. "You don't have to decide right now. I just... I don’t want you to feel bad. I’m not gonna hate you."

He turned his head slightly—just enough that you caught the shadowed edge of his profile. His lips were pressed into a hard, miserable line, like he was swallowing back something sharp and dangerous.

Megumi stared at you like you’d just offered him a loaded gun and told him to aim it at his own heart. Like you didn’t even know what you were asking him to survive.

But he didn’t say anything.

He didn’t correct you.

Maybe he couldn't.

His fingers just flexed uselessly at his sides. His throat bobbed in a rough swallow. His jaw was so tight you could see the muscle ticking in the hollow beneath his ear.

He couldn't breathe around you. Couldn't think. Couldn't even stand there another second without feeling like he was going to tear himself apart.

Finally, he muttered, hoarse and rough, "I need to go get your stuff. Nobara has it."

You blinked at him, a little thrown by the sudden change of subject, but you nodded anyway, giving him a small, shaky smile he didn’t see because he was already reaching for his keys.

"I’ll be quick," he added, already moving toward the door like the apartment was on fire and he needed to escape before he got caught in the blaze. "Stay here. Take a shower. Eat something. Wear whatever you want."

You stared at his back, your heart thudding unevenly, confused and stinging all over.

"After that... I’ll drive you home."

You nodded slowly, even though he wasn’t looking at you.

At the door, Megumi hesitated, one hand braced against the frame, the other clenching around the keys, the metal denting the flesh of his palm.

His shoulders stiffened, and he said, almost too quietly:

"I’m taking the bike. It’ll be faster."

You opened your mouth—not sure what you were going to say—but he cut you off before you could even breathe.

"Your dress," he said, voice tight, still refusing to turn around. "It’s not... it’s not bike-appropriate."

There was something almost broken in the way he said it. Like it wasn’t just about the logistics. Like if you climbed on behind him wearing that little slip of silk and nothing else, he wasn’t sure he'd make it back in one piece.

You stood there frozen, jacket swallowing your frame, lips parted and unsure, while Megumi finally forced himself out the door — pulling it closed behind him with a soft, definitive click.

You stared at the wood a long moment after he was gone, heart hammering hard and helpless in your chest.

The apartment buzzed with silence. Heavy, humming, full of words you hadn't been brave enough to say.

You hugged his jacket closer around yourself—the scent of him sinking into your skin—and let yourself skin to the floor, your knees pulling to your chest, the cold of the hardwood bleeding through your bare legs.

For the first time all morning, you realized:

Maybe you hadn’t understood anything at all.

—

The door clicked shut behind Megumi as he stepped back into his apartment, your bag and jacket slung over one shoulder, a plastic to-go container from the ramen place clutched in his other hand—some mercy from Nobara he hadn’t asked for.

He moved on autopilot at first—slipping the keys back into his pocket, toeing off his shoes—until his gaze caught, snagging helplessly on the figure moving across the kitchen.

Soft morning light spilled through the large window to his balcony, pooling across the counters, catching the slight sway of your body as you shifted from one foot to the other. You moved carefully around the stove, stirring the contents of a pan with a spatula, the buttery smell of cooking eggs soft in the air—smothered under the domesticity you’d stitched into his kitchen like a thread he hadn't noticed pulling tight.

And you were wearing his clothes.

An oversized black t-shirt hung loose on your frame, the neckline dipping slightly but clinging just enough to stay in place, soft cotton brushing the delicate line of your collarbones. His gray sweatpants sat low on your hips, cinched tight with the drawstring, the extra fabric pooling at your ankles in lazy folds, right down to where your socked feet met the floor.

You looked small like that. Warm. Not just because the clothes dwarfed you, but because you made them look soft, lived-in—like you belonged to them. To him.

You glanced up when you heard the door, offering him a cautious, wobbly smile—so soft, so unsure—like you were ready for him to push you away again.

Like you were still trying to give him a safe out.

Megumi’s fingers tightened unconsciously around the strap of your bag.

"Hey," you said, tucking a strand of damp hair behind your ear, voice pitched soft. "I made you something."

You gestured toward the pan, where a half-folded omelette was browning gently at the edges. He could smell it from where he stood—eggs, cheese, something savory and sharp tucked inside.

You remembered. You always remembered the small, stupid things he never said out loud—like how he preferred salty over sweet in the mornings, how heavy breakfasts made him nauseous, how he took his coffee black without ever complaining about it.

The lump that formed in his throat was sudden and vicious.

He forced himself forward, dropping your bag by the door, setting the container carefully on the table without really registering the motion. His body moved on instinct, trying to pretend normalcy, trying to suffocate the riot building under his ribs—one heavy step, then another—until he was close enough to reach you if he dared.

You watched him—guarded but hopeful—twisting your fingers absently in the hem of the too-long t-shirt. Then it hit him.

The scent.

Subtle at first, creeping under the buttery heat of the kitchen, but impossible to miss once it reached him. You smelled like him.

His soap, his shampoo—cedar and musk, brightened faintly by the citrus edge he'd stopped noticing years ago—soaked into your skin, into the damp ends of your hair, familiar in a way that left no oxygen in his lungs.

You had washed yourself in him. You weren't just wearing his clothes. You weren’t just standing in his kitchen. You were wearing him. You were wound into his life now—sewn into places he hadn't even realized were empty until you filled them.

That knowledge sank its claws deep.

It was unbearable.

It was beautiful.

It was going to kill him.

He clenched his fists once at his sides, willing the heat roaring under his skin to die down, to give him some semblance of control—but it was useless. His hands itched to touch you. His mouth ached to say things he shouldn’t even think.

It was worse than before. So much worse.

Because now he knew you wanted him—even if it was just a flicker, a clumsy admission, a casual offer you’d made thinking it would be simple.

You smiled at him again, smaller this time—cautious, uncertain.

The soft curve of your mouth, the way his t-shirt swallowed your frame, the fact that you smelled like his fucking soul—it twisted something brutal deep inside him.

And Megumi knew, in some awful, bone-deep way, that he would take it. He would take whatever you offered him—even if it ripped him apart from the inside out.

Still, he forced himself to move.

"I’m gonna take a shower," he muttered, voice rough and low, already backing toward the hallway. "Then I’ll drive you home."

You opened your mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to ask him something else—but he didn’t give you the chance. He turned away before he could see the look on your face, the soft, confused crumpling of your expression—disappearing down the hallway like a man fleeing a fire he couldn't outrun.

Megumi hated himself for putting that look on your face.

It was cowardice. But if he stayed—if he let himself sit across from you, smelling like him, wearing his clothes, smiling at him like he hadn’t already broken something essential between you—he would crack open entirely.

And there wouldn’t be any putting himself back together after that.

—

The bathroom door clicked closed behind him.

Megumi leaned heavily against it for a second, head bowed, breathing ragged.

He shed his clothes like they were burning him, stepping under the scalding spray without looking at himself in the mirror. The water pounded against his skin, steam curling up around him in thick, smothering clouds—but it did nothing to drown the ache rooted low in his gut.

He scrubbed at his hair, at his skin, trying to wash away the ghost of you—the sweet, clinging imprint of your body in his clothes, your voice still echoing inside his chest.

He couldn’t. He never would.

He twisted the tap off when the water ran cold and grabbed a towel, roughing it over his hair with more force than necessary. His body was tight with frustration—blood still hot and heavy in his veins, his cock stirring half-hard again at the memory of you in his kitchen, socked feet and sweet and his in ways you didn’t even understand.

He wrapped another towel low around his hips and shoved the door open—still toweling his hair dry, eyes half-closed—when he froze.

You were sitting on his bed. Waiting for him.

The comforter was twisted around you, your legs tucked under your body, a stubborn pout blooming on your mouth as you glared at the doorway like it had personally offended you. Your damp hair clung to your temples, messy and soft.

You looked... furious. Frustrated. And so heartbreakingly beautiful he thought he might actually fall to his knees.

Megumi’s brain short-circuited.

He stopped breathing.

You blinked at him, wide-eyed, your gaze catching—and sticking—low on his body, on the way the towel around his hips barely hung there, still damp from the shower, clinging to the hard lines of his waist, the ridges of muscle cut low across his abdomen. Water still beaded at his throat, trailing down the tense lines of his chest.

You swallowed—visibly—your breath hitching.

And then—

The barest flicker of want flashed across your face—raw and unguarded and so blindingly obvious it punched the air from his lungs.

And when your eyes lifted again, locking onto his—

It was over.

His cock hardened instantly—painfully—straining against the towel, throbbing with brutal, humiliating urgency, blood flooding south so fast it left him dizzy.

You caught the movement—the twitch, the thickening at the front of the fabric—and your lips parted, your breath hitching almost silently, thighs pressing together instinctively where you sat on his bed.

Megumi’s whole body locked up.

For a second, neither of you moved. The air was thick, humming, heavy enough to drown in.

And in that frozen heartbeat—

Megumi realized he was done.

There was no guarding himself anymore. No holding back. Not when you looked at him like you wanted him. Not when every trembling, uncertain beat of your heart was written across your face.

He was already drowning. He may as well let you pull him under.

—

He moved before he could think—before caution, before guilt, before anything but you existed in his blood. One step, then another, until he stood at the edge of the bed, the space between you crackling like a live wire.

You blinked up at him, your pout slipping into something softer—questioning, uncertain—but you didn’t move away. You didn’t run.

You just looked at him—chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths, damp hair framing your face—waiting.

Megumi dropped the towel from his hips with a dull thud against the floor. There was no ceremony in it—no attempt to hide the way his cock strained heavy and flushed between his thighs, already leaking at the tip, already so hard it hurt. But he didn’t reach for you with it. He didn’t even touch it himself.

You stared—your breath catching sharply in your throat.

The scars were impossible to miss.

But they were there.

They would always be there.

And still—he was beautiful.

More beautiful than anything you’d ever seen.

You leaned back into the bed, your hands curling loosely into the sheets beside you—an unconscious invitation.

He, instead, reached for the hem of the t-shirt you wore—his shirt—curling his fingers carefully into the soft fabric, pausing just long enough for you to nod once, almost imperceptibly.

He peeled it up over your body, baring you inch by inch.

No bra, just smooth, warm skin—the soft swell of your breasts, the gentle slope of your waist. His hands trembled slightly where they brushed your sides, fighting the instinct to grab, to worship, to fall apart.

He tossed the shirt aside without looking, gaze locked on you like you were something sacred.

Then his hands slid lower—slow, reverent—tugging at the waistband of the sweats you’d borrowed.

You lifted your hips automatically, helping him, and the pants slid down easily, crumpling at your ankles. He knelt briefly, steadying himself with one hand on your calf, the other working to peel the fabric free.

That’s when he saw the socks still clinging to your feet.

A muscle ticked sharply in his jaw—something raw and restless flashing across his face.

He hated it—hated leaving anything between you. Hated the barrier of it, the wrongness of something so small when the rest of you was already laid bare before him.

He hooked his fingers into the cuffs, tugging them down carefully one at a time, leaving you completely naked in front of him. Vulnerable. Beautiful.

You shifted slightly, propping yourself up on your elbows, watching him with wide eyes, your breath coming a little faster now.

Megumi sat back on his heels, dragging his gaze up the beautiful lines of your body—the soft curves, the warm flush blooming across your chest, the way your thighs pressed together instinctively under his stare.

That's when he noticed. You weren’t wearing panties.

You must have folded them away with your dress from last night—leaving yourself dressed only in him, in his scent, in his space.

It undid him.

He crawled up onto the bed, straddling your hips lightly, his hands bracing on either side of your head. His hair dripped faintly onto your skin, dark and wild across his forehead, casting shadows across his desperate, wrecked face.

He cupped your cheek, rough thumb brushing your skin, his expression cracking wide open—reverent, starving.

"Need you," he rasped, voice raw, before crushing his mouth to yours.

The kiss was messy—desperate—all teeth and tongue and broken sounds.

You whimpered into him, arching helplessly, your hands flying up to fist into his still-damp hair, pulling him closer, needing more, needing everything.

Megumi groaned low in his chest—a hungry, guttural sound—as he kissed you harder, tilting your head back, his mouth sliding hot and open against yours. He kissed you like he was drowning. Like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

"Fuck, baby," he gasped against your mouth, panting, "feel so good... so fucking good."

He kissed down your jawline, your throat, mapping every inch of skin with his lips, his teeth—hungry, possessive. His hands roamed greedily, skimming over your waist, your hips, your ribs—leaving nothing untouched.

"Mine," he whispered against your collarbone—low and rough and barely audible.

You shivered, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into the hard lines of muscle beneath your palms.

He worshipped your breasts next—kissing over the soft curves, mouthing at your nipples until they peaked under his tongue, drawing gasps and helpless moans from your lips.

"Fuck," Megumi groaned, scraping his teeth lightly against sensitive skin, "could spend forever on you, pretty girl."

Your legs fell open without thinking, hips canting up against him, desperate for more friction, for more of him—anything he would give.

He kissed down your stomach—lingering over the dip of your navel, the soft curve of your hip bones—leaving open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thighs until you were shaking under him.

"So perfect," he muttered, voice hoarse, hot against your skin. "Gonna make you scream for me, baby. Gonna ruin you."

You whimpered—a broken, wrecked sound—and Megumi’s hands slid under your thighs, spreading you wider, lifting you toward his mouth.

You gasped softly as he bent down, pressing his mouth to the inside of your thigh, inhaling the clean, dizzying scent of your skin. He pressed another kiss higher, then another, slow and deliberate, until his nose brushed the tender crease where your thigh met your hip.

You were already wet—glistening faintly in the low light, the smell of you thick and sweet in the air between you.

And then he buried his mouth against you—tongue flattening against your soaked pussy, licking a slow, filthy stripe up your dripping folds. He groaned against you—the sound vibrating straight into your bones—and licked again, deeper, hungrier.

"You taste..." he muttered into your cunt, voice wrecked, "...fuck, baby, taste so fucking good... like you’re made for me."

You cried out, thighs trembling, head tossing back against the mattress as his mouth worked you open—his tongue fucking into you, circling your clit in devastating patterns that made your whole body shudder.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling, clutching, desperate for something to anchor you.

"Please," you gasped, voice wrecked, "Megumi—!”

You jerked, a soft, but he only held you steady—hands braced under your thighs, locking you in place as he devoured you like a man starved.

"That's it," he rasped against your cunt. "Give it to me. Let me hear you."

His tongue was relentless—flicking, swirling, tracing maddening circles around your clit, dipping down to fuck into your dripping heat and back again. Every sound you made—every breathless little whimper, every shuddering gasp—sank into his blood, pulling him deeper, deeper.

He could have lived with his mouth between your thighs forever.

Could have drowned there, if you let him.

You moaned—high, broken—your hips grinding helplessly into his mouth as he licked you harder, faster, losing himself completely in you.

He rutted against the mattress without even thinking—humping slow, desperate circles against the sheets—chasing the friction he needed like a man starved.

Your fingers twisted into the sheets—into his hair—tugging, clutching, as your thighs trembled around his head.

And Megumi—God, Megumi—he was dizzy with it, overwhelmed by the taste of you, the heat of you, the desperate slick noises filling the air as he licked you messily, sloppily, building you higher and higher until—

You broke—with a soft, shattered cry.

And when you came—when you sobbed his name and clutched his head between your thighs, trembling and wrecked—he followed.

Spilling hot against the mattress, undone by nothing but your taste, your sounds, your smell.

It was messy—his body locking up with the force of it—and it still wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close to enough.

But he was wrung out. Hollowed. Broken open in a way he didn’t know how to survive.

He slumped forward with a low, exhausted groan, nuzzling his face against your bare hip, arms wrapping loosely around your waist like a lifeline.

You lay there stunned, your body still twitching with aftershocks, your hand falling instinctively to card through his messy, damp hair.

You could feel him trembling still—feel how hard he’d fought to hold himself together and how completely he’d lost, feel the weight of his exhaustion, his surrender.

Still, he didn’t try to fuck you. He didn’t even move to touch himself again—to maybe see if could go another round.

He just pressed closer—snuggling into your skin like he could crawl inside you and stay there forever.

You stared down at him, confusion flickering through the soft haze of afterglow.

Is this... how friends with benefits are supposed to work? you thought vaguely.

Just him... going down on me and falling asleep?

You didn’t understand it.

Didn’t understand how he could be so... so selfless. So unguarded. So Megumi.

But you didn’t push it. Didn’t question it.

You just let your hand drift lower, tracing the broad span of his back—feeling the thick ridges of the scars that marred his ribs, sitting low under his pecs. Another one—brutal, ragged—slashed across his stomach, cutting from one hip to the other, just above his belly button.

You shivered—not from fear, but from memory.

The scars were old now—years healed—but they told stories you couldn’t forget. Stories of possession, of battles he almost didn’t survive.

Your hand hesitated briefly over his stomach, over the brutal scar left where Sukuna’s mouth had once gaped open.

Softly—almost reverently—you smoothed your fingers across it, feeling the uneven texture under your touch.

And when you lifted your gaze, your heart squeezed painfully in your chest.

You knew, if you squinted, you could probably still catch the faint ghost of the ones that had cradled his face—two pale shadows along his right temple, over his eye and along his cheekbone, another one just below his left eye—almost invisible now, healed under Shoko's careful hands.

But they were there.

A ghost of the pain he carried.

A ghost of the boy he had been—and the man he had become.

You tucked the comforter up around his broad shoulders, cocooning both of you in warmth. He stirred slightly—a low, content hum rumbling against your skin—but didn’t wake.

And so you stayed there, tangled together, your fingers gently stroking along the scars and across his soft, dark hair.

Letting him rest. Letting yourself hold onto him, just a little longer.

Wrapped in him. Wrapped in something dangerously close to love.

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