Megumi is woken up by a loud crash outside his dorm room, followed by a muffled curse. Moonlight creeps in from the edges of his shuttered windows, enough to illuminate the shortest hand on his mechanical clock – just past midnight.
There is only one person who would try to barge into his room at this hour, and he sighs, all traces of sleep evaporating as he gets off the bed.
Outside, the cursing continues at a low volume, mixed in with the jingling of keys. As Megumi gets closer to the door, he makes out Gojou’s voice: “Darn, which one was it…”
As he wrenches open the door, Megumi sighs, “I see that there are downsides to owning too many properties, too.”
Gojou, so tall that the top of his head should have scraped the top of Megumi’s doorframe, but currently slumped to one end, beams widely. His eyepatch has slid off on one side, hanging across his face haphazardly, revealing one eerily blue eye framed by pale, curling lashes.
Gojou takes one step and immediately wraps him in a crushing hug; Megumi grunts, feeling most of the air in his lungs escape under the pressure. He nearly stumbles back – Gojou has put most of his weight onto him as well, which, well. Most of Gojou is quite a lot. His mentor and guardian’s short, fuzzy hair, moist with condensation, tickles the side of his face and neck.
Gojou nuzzles into his shoulder and hums, cat-like. The tip of his nose is like a chip of ice.
Megumi allows himself to sigh internally. Routine takes over in place of his sleep-deprived brain. Gathering Gojou closer into his arms, Megumi carefully maneuvers the both of them inside, closing the door with the tip of one foot.
He shuffles slowly into the dorm, until he is within safe distance to lay Gojou down on the bed.
He is met with some resistance, though, Gojou unwilling to leave the closest source of warmth he finds, whining wordlessly, low in his throat, as Megumi attempts to peel his long frame off with gentle but insistent nudges to his shoulders.
Gojou’s fingers, ice-cold, shock Megumi further awake as they slip under his loose nightshirt and graze the back of his sleep-warm waist.
Tamping down an involuntary shiver, Megumi tries again.
“Gojou-sensei,” he says, trying his best to sound stern and implacable.
Giving in to Gojou’s whims when he’s in this state is no good at all, Megumi knows. Left to do as he likes, Gojou would sleep twisted up around Megumi for the whole night on the tiny single bed, even if he wakes up sore and stiff, with a crick in his neck – which, knowing Gojou, he’ll go on to complain about for the entire next day and a half, and it’ll still be Megumi who suffers in the end.
Except now, Itadori and Kugisaki are likely to join him in his suffering, as well. The responsibility of sparing them that fate and returning to the world a more-or-less functional (and tolerable) Gojou Satoru tomorrow, Megumi knows, falls entirely on his own shoulders. As usual.
Fortunately, he’s had plenty of practice.
“Gojou-sensei, I’ll be back in five minutes,” Megumi enunciates, until Gojou’s long, octopus-like limbs finally release him. “Promise.”
Making it to the storage rooms at the end of the dorm row, Megumi quickly picks out the largest wooden bathtub there, and drags it back to his room while attempting to make as little noise as possible.
If they were at Gojou’s main apartment, he could’ve just dragged Gojou to the ensuite bathroom, which included the largest, most extravagant built-in bathtub he has seen to date, more like an artificial hot spring than a regular bathtub, complete with jacuzzi and sauna and all the rest of the trappings, tailored to Gojou’s every need.
But this isn’t Gojou’s ridiculously expensive Tokyo abode, and much as he knows Gojou likes his luxuries in his down time, Megumi can only make-do with what he has.
While waiting for the extendable shower head to fill the tub with hot water, Megumi rifles through his wardrobe to find the loosest shirt and trousers he owns. They won’t be nearly long enough for Gojou, but at least the man will be able to put them on with no difficulty.
Speaking of – Megumi shuts the water off and glances at his bed. Contrary to his expectations, Gojou isn’t dozing. Sprawled on the unmade bed, Gojou blinks slowly, rhythmically, tracking Megumi’s every move around the room with half-lidded eyes. They are a clear, icy blue, a frozen-over lake in the faint moonlight. Even in the gloom, the sickly bruises under them are clearly visible.
It’s been two whole weeks since Gojou has come back to anywhere near Tokyo, Megumi knows. In that time, the Special-Grade sorcerer has travelled nearly half of Japan, sometimes hitting three cities in a single day.
In their line of work, the more capable one is, the more they must take on. And there is only one like Gojou Satoru in all of Japan.
“Gojou-sensei, the bath is ready,” Megumi says in a low voice. He weighs his next words with some caution, but says them in the end, anyway. Which isn’t particularly self-preserving of him, but, well. Megumi has enough self-awareness to know he doesn’t have enough self-preservation to fill a thimble on the best of days. “Do you need help getting in - ?”
Gojou stares at him for a beat, the corners of his mouth curling up with lazy amusement.
“Megumi is too good to me,” he says, musingly, as if only to himself. Then: “I’m fine. Would love a cup of hot chocolate, though.”
Megumi rolls his eyes – which he knows was Gojou’s intention, anyway, judging from the quiet laugher from behind him – and makes the trek to the kitchens.
When he gets back with the requested beverage, Gojou is already curled up in the large bath that is taking up roughly a third of Megumi’s tiny dorm room. Pointedly looking away, Megumi shoves the mug at him. He’s about to head to his desk when Gojou says,
“Come here, Megumi.”
Megumi glances back.
Gojou is leant on the edge of the bathtub, one pale arm riding along the lip, while he rests his chin on his hand. Silver hair, drenched with water, curls placidly around Gojou’s fine-boned features. From this angle, Megumi can just about see the ivory, smooth line of Gojou’s bare shoulders, half submerged in water. And the raised scar along the edge of his forehead, glaring like the lone crack in a perfect piece of porcelain.
Megumi walks back to the bathtub and sits down cross-legged on the floor, leaning back onto the warm wood. Gojou hums; a moment later, Megumi feels fingers in his hair, idly playing.
He is familiar with this part, too.
Closing his eyes, Megumi begins retelling things that happened while Gojou has been away. Little things, mostly: things such as Itadori breaking the world record in an 800-meter race for the third time that month, or Zenin Maki destroying a seven-hundred-thousand yen worth piece of equipment in a fight and getting dragged over the coals by headmaster Yaga for it.
Gojou listens, hums and chuckles in places. A few of those laughs even sounds genuine, which speaks well of his efforts, Megumi thinks. He’d put at least a dozen sugar cubes into that mug of hot chocolate, and a full three packs of chocolate mix, so that the resultant product resembled a silt-ridden sludge more than anything else.
It would be just about enough to kickstart Gojou’s exhausted brain into its normal hyper-functioning state again.
It takes about thirty minutes for the sugared drink to start to have an effect. In the meantime, Megumi can track Gojou’s brain functions coming back online bit by bit, by the change in his speech patterns; when Gojou starts pestering him for the details of a recent mission that Megumi had let slip he’d broken a wrist in, with real, audible glee, he deems it’s about time to hound Gojou out of the bath and into bed already.
Again, Gojou is predictably uncooperative, but Megumi’s reluctant recounting of the aforementioned incident mollifies him enough that he gets out and dresses without too much complaint.
In any case, Megumi figures, Gojou knows enough embarrassing stories about him anyway that one more doesn’t really make a difference. In the grand scheme of things.
“How do I look?”
Megumi glances up from busying himself with tidying his room, which didn’t really need any further tidying, and fights off the grin that threatens to emerge on his face, which he knows Gojou had been aiming for.
Gojou is sat on his bed, hair still dripping, long, naked toes flexing on the hardwood floor. His bare shins, lean and smooth, gleams in the low light. He looks something like a statue straight out of the classical world, except for the clothes: Megumi’s long-sleeved shirt and full-length gym pants have ended up looking like ill-fitting summer wear on Gojou.
“You’ll get a cold like that, sensei,” he sighs instead, picking up the towel Gojou had thrown on the chair and walking up to him. “I’ve told you many -”
His words are cut short as Gojou yanks him down onto his lap without warning. Megumi lets out a small, surprised breath at the sudden upset of balance, and immediately has to contend with Gojou’s beautiful, inhuman eyes, up close. Looking up at him with something dangerously close to adoration.
“Like I said,” Gojou lilts, voice backed with a deep resonance in his chest that sends a shiver up Megumi’s spine, “Megumi really is too good to me. Are you just doing this because you think it’s your duty, or something? That would be so Megumi-like, ha. I wonder – hm?”
Halfway through his teasing commentary, Megumi drops the fluffy towel onto his head, covering those distracting eyes with familiar, fond exasperation. As he starts carefully and thoroughly toweling off Gojou’s hair, Megumi mutters,
“Shut up. The sugar is turning your brain into mush.”
Gojou pouts, cheeks puffing out like a hamster’s, which frankly is far cuter than it has any right to be on a fully-grown man, thinks Megumi with some amount of indignation.
Megumi doesn’t deign to give that a response. The air is filled instead with the faint rustling of cloth against skin.
Gojou’s body, fresh from the bath, is melting him slowly like a furnace. In this moment, Gojou is docile and pliant beneath Megumi, like a sated cat, or an exquisitely life-like doll. His arms are locked securely around Megumi’s torso, one hand wrapped around the curve of his hip angled away from him, unconsciously protective.
Shielding him, even in this state. Megumi swallows against the thought, before lifting the towel away.
Blue eyes blink open and lock back onto him with the same steady intensity as before. There’s that thing again – the thing that has hovered between them for a while now, so vague and indefinable that Megumi sometimes thinks he must be imagining it, hallucinating it, projecting it, even.
After all, how could it be? They’re guardian and ward, mentor and protégé, teacher and student, superior and subordinate – their many and varied relationships are anything but romantic. And yet, it has never really felt that way.
There are no words for it: Gojou’s faint smile in his direction under a flowering tree in spring, huddled under the same kotatsu in winter, passing wedges of mandarin oranges and warm cups of sake back and forth; lazy morning texts and meandering evening calls, endless bags of souvenirs, Gojou’s show of vulnerability and weakness deep in the night, in moments like this.
Nearly a decade worth of growing up and growing into each other, together.
And, lately, those lingering looks, the quickly averted gazes, the deliberately kept distance, more glaring for its sudden appearance than anything else. Pretending that they’re nothing more than teacher and student in front of others, most of whom are not privy to their long and winding history, their roles in each other’s lives. Carefully dancing around something invisible and nameless in the room.
He keeps waiting for Gojou to make a move, clarify the situation with some sign, but it never arrives. They go on in a kind of two-person limbo, something vague and indefinable having shifted and continuously shifting between them.
It has never been easy, defining what they are. Even now, Gojou – ever in motion, ever powerful - remains still beneath him, around him, neither closing the distance nor expanding it, only watching him with those quiet, undemanding eyes. As if waiting for a sign.
Gojou’s demands have never been a problem for Megumi, no matter how wild or unreasonable. Gojou being undemanding – that is a problem.
Megumi exhales, slow and controlled, and pushes at Gojou’s shoulders.
“Come on, lie down. Lie down, I said. You need the rest.”
Gojou blinks, slow and heavy.
“I’m too tired to sleep,” a simple statement, plainly stated.
Trying to see through those eyes – eyes which see through everything – is futile. In his memory, Megumi can count the number of times Gojou has uttered the word “tired” with one hand. That he confesses to this now, in words, might or might not signify anything. Much as Megumi would like to, he can’t claim perfect expertise of Gojou’s many and erratic moods, or their often obscure means of articulation.
There is still no trace of urgency, a request, or even a question coming from Gojou. At least, Megumi doesn’t think there is.
But maybe. Maybe a lack of urging doesn’t always mean a lack of desire, or rejection.
Suddenly aware of his own racing heartbeat, Megumi leans down an infinitesimal amount. Gojou remains in place, watching him with the same gaze, steady as open water.
In the back of his mind, Megumi comes to a foregone conclusion.
It is likely that Gojou already knows, anyhow, which is a kind of pardoning in and of itself. Megumi gives himself fully over, watching with a sense of surrealism as he leans down carefully, and slots his lips to the other’s.
Or tries to. He doesn’t get the angle quite right – their noses bump together awkwardly, Megumi sucks in a breath, and Gojou comes alive under him suddenly, fingers tightening on his body as he tilts his head and captures Megumi’s lips again, properly this time, sealing the rest of the world away, along with Megumi’s fate.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Megumi thinks, they had both always known it was going to end up like this. The only question had been when.
Gojou – Satoru – kisses slowly, and far more gently than Megumi would have supposed him capable of. Long, lingering kisses that are more like caresses, dipping in to nip at his lower lip at moments, sweeping a warm, coy tongue over Megumi’s lower lip at others. Somewhere in the kiss-warm haze, Megumi thinks, I never imagined his lips would feel this soft, and is almost startled into laughing by the absurdity of the thought, the situation in general. Him, kissing Gojou – his superior, his mentor, his guardian, all of those and yet none of them at once.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Gojou murmurs in between light, playful nips that curl Megumi’s fingers with helpless arousal.
“Just that you’re way too conscious for someone who probably hasn’t slept in thirty-six hours,” says Megumi, trying his best to control the breathiness of his own voice and mostly failing.
“Well,” says Gojou, tightening his arms around Megumi’s waist. “This is even better than coffee,” and Megumi has to make him shut up, even if his imitation of Gojou’s technique is clumsy at best – how did Gojou learn to kiss so well, anyway?
If at first Megumi doesn’t gain the upper hand through skill, at last he wrestles it over with sheer, bloody-minded stubbornness. Gojou chuckles under his breath while Megumi bites and sucks at his lower lip with a singular ferocity, falling back obligingly when Megumi pushes him down and straddles his hips.
Only thin linen lay between their bodies, and Megumi is very, very conscious of the bulge he is half-way perched on. He shifts self-consciously, watching as the small, contented smile on the edge of Gojou’s lips grows.
How rarely he smiles like that – understated and genuine.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Megumi leans down to mouth clumsily at Gojou’s lean, pale neck, the sharp jut of his Adam’s apple. He feels Gojou’s hands settle on his hips, scalding through the cotton of his trousers.
He works his way down slowly, carefully, treating every inch of unblemished skin as he would a work of art, an object of worship: the long, winged curves of Gojou’s collarbones, the dip in the hollow of his throat, the shallow valley going down the middle of Gojou’s well-muscled, spotless chest.
When Megumi reaches the edge of the loose t-shirt that’d turned abnormally tight on Gojou, his fingers reach for the hem, but Gojou is already there. He leans up slightly and peels the shirt off himself in one fluid motion, then sprawls back with such an air of unblushing display that Megumi pounces on him immediately, fingers mapping out the planes of Gojou’s battle-honed body, lips moving down, down, down.
By the time he reaches the drawstrings of the gym pants, however, his fingers still freeze, and something within him still does a small flip, the momentum of boldness and abandon that had carried him so far vanishing all at once.
If the kiss didn’t feel like it, then this certainly feels like the breaching of some unspoken taboo, the crossing-over of some forbidden threshold from which they could never return, with no telling what’s on the other side. A precipice, a steep-drop.
Megumi’s fingers freeze for the smallest fraction of a second, and in his brief spike of panic, his eyes flick up to find Gojou’s, watching him in the dark.
An errant beam of moonlight has slipped through a crack in the shutter and caught in Gojou’s hair, a bright silver band; his eyes, half-shuttered by pale lashes, glitter with a secret, inner light, gem-like.
“If Megumi doesn’t want this,” Gojou speaks up, more seriously than all the times Megumi has heard him, “then we don’t have to do this. Not ever.”
Somehow, it’s this unreserved promise steels his resolve. After all, Gojou has never went back on his promises to him. Not once.
Megumi inhales. “No,” he says, and steadies the shakiness in his voice. “I want this. I need this.” And I think you do too, he thinks but doesn’t say, only undoing the drawstrings and exposing Gojou’s girth to the night air.
Megumi may have no practical experience in pleasing a man – or a woman, really – but he’s read the books and seen the diagrams, and he’s a fast learner, if nothing else. As he’s learned from Gojou, everything is worthy of study.
Taking a deep breath, Megumi dips his head and presses tentative kisses up Gojou’s length, feeling as if branded by every kiss. He doesn’t dare look up at Gojou before he takes him by the hand – he can feel his face burning – and give an experimental stroke. Gojou’s thighs shift minutely around him, giving him some much-needed courage.
Thus, equipped with plenty of theoretical knowledge, eagerness and not much else, Megumi sets to studying how to bring out the moans and gasps from Gojou that he so desperately needs to hear, that he’d imagined to himself from bits and pieces spied through their months of cohabitation – Gojou’s indistinct groans in the shower, almost inaudible through the pattering of water; nebulous sounds filtered through a thin, wooden door when Megumi happened to pass the other’s room, deep in the night.
Sounds that he should, by all rights, have forgotten, but instead has hoarded and replayed time and time again while he laid awake under the covers, night after night, recalling again and again until they sounded almost as if they were playing right by his ears, until they sounded almost real.
Megumi quickly discovers to his delight, however, that the real deal is so much better than the imagined: he has experienced few things as satisfying as the deep, vibrating groan that travels through his body by way of his hands and mouth as he swallows Gojou as far as he could go, feeling the hot, dripping tip touch the back of his throat, triggering a gag reflex that he hurries to tamp down.
He hollows his cheeks while breathing in the mix of rosy bath products and a muskiness that is uniquely Gojou, like the scent on his clothes but magnified and made more potent several times over, intoxicating. Megumi’s head spins from it, his blood rushing in his ears.
It’s impossible to get all of Gojou into his mouth – Megumi finds this out quickly. Even as he works, the already sizeable cock continues to swell under his hand, flushing deep-red and hot, and Megumi has to settle, after a while, for using his hands and his mouth at the same time. Something of a pain to coordinate, but once he gets it right, he knows it: the muscles in Gojou’s thighs shift and strain taut under him, and there’s a swallowed, breathy moan above him that turns into a low hum.
One of Gojou’s hands fall into his hair, not pushing, but absently massaging, straying occasionally to touch his face, feather-light – trailing over his cheeks, smoothing over his brows, the skin under his eyes; it settles eventually on his chin, thumb rubbing back and forth over the corner of his lips strained by Gojou’s girth.
“So beautiful,” Gojou murmurs, startling Megumi into almost grazing him with his teeth. “So good to me, my Megumi. Trying so very hard. Good. Like that.”
Megumi’s heart pounds in his chest. His face warms; there’s a stinging in his eyes that he quickly blinks to dispel. He feels strange all over, Gojou’s unusual abundance of praise having lulled him into a state quite unlike his normal self; he feels weirdly detached from his own body, but at the same time intensely aware of it in a way he has never been before. The tips of his fingers and toes feel tingly and numb, and he feels warm, much warmer than he should be, his whole body coming alive with liquid heat.
“Come here,” Gojou says, after a while, and Megumi releases him obediently, climbing up into his lap.
Gojou distracts him with kisses whilst stripping him, piece by piece: first his buttoned shirt comes off, then his jeans, his underwear. Only when he’s completely naked and exposed in the chill of the air does Megumi realize that Gojou didn’t take off his socks.
“Do you have anything on hand,” Gojou murmurs while kissing down the side of his neck, palms running up and down Megumi’s flanks, making him shiver and shift his knees on the slippery sheets. Gojou grabs his arse and squeezes, once, before his hands trail lightly down his legs to encircle his ankles. They fit inside his hands easily.
“I, um,” Megumi says, and quickly corrects it to something more coherent when he senses the amusement in Gojou’s inquisitive hum. “In the bedside table. Second drawer down.”
One hand lets go of him to retrieve the lube and condom; the other latches onto the inside of Megumi’s thigh, absently petting and stirring him into a frenzy. He looks away when Gojou pours lube onto his fingers.
“This’ll feel good,” says Gojou, “I promise I’ll make it good for you. We can stop any time you say so, yes?”
“You don’t have to be quite so careful about this, sensei,” Megumi mutters, hissing as cold, lubed fingers slip between his cheeks. He’s never quite sure how to deal with Gojou when the other actually acts his age, instead of his usual childish willfulness. “I know how this works, I’m not an idiot -”
“Is that so? Relax,” says Gojou, and thankfully there’s no smile in his voice now, only a deliberately appeasing gentleness - still a little grating, but better than amusement. “Have you done this before?”
“Not – exactly –“
One finger slips in, then the other – a tight, almost uncomfortable stretch.
“Of course not,” says Gojou in the same tone.
“But I’ve watched – stuff, and tried – ah -”
The fingers turning slowly within him touch something that makes his knees go weak; Megumi pants harshly into the bend of Gojou’s neck, trembling with need, clinging onto his broad shoulders, and has the presence of mind to feel a little indignant when Gojou’s other hand starts passing up and down his back in broad, soothing strokes.
“Keep talking. Tell me, what kind of ‘stuff’ have you watched, hm?”
“Just – videos, of men and – women, but mostly men -”
“And? Details, Megumi. Haven’t I taught you that details matter in a report?”
Megumi slaps at Gojou’s arm weakly, but this only earns him a sharp crook of those long fingers, deep inside him, that immediately drives all the irritation out of him.
“Ah – I watched, a lot of older men – with younger ones. I like it when they have, um, different builds -”
Gojou hums. “Let me guess. You like blonde actors. White-blonde.”
Megumi’s fingers tighten on Gojou’s shoulders.
Gojou goes on. “Tall ones, right? Really tall.”
“That’s hardly relevant -”
“Isn’t it?” Gojou murmurs, worrying at a patch of soft, vulnerable skin under Megumi’s jaw. “Do you go out of your way to find blue-eyed ones, too, Megumi? Tell me you do.”
Megumi keeps stubbornly silent this time.
He can feel the liquefied lube, warmed by his own body heat, slipping down the insides of his thighs, can feel Gojou’s fingers, sucked snug and impossibly deep into his body, working with unhurried, aggravating patience. His right knee keeps slipping on the sheets, and Gojou has to grab his hip to keep him upright several times; he’ll probably have a bruise there tomorrow.
The thought is unexpectedly gratifying. Physical, indelible proof that this wasn’t a dream, or a madness, but something that really happened between them and cannot be erased or forgotten.
Finally, finally, Gojou seems to have deemed the preparations sufficient, and wordlessly urges Megumi to lay down, moving the pillow to slot under his hips.
It takes some maneuvering to get them both into position, the bed being too narrow; Megumi feels empty and bereft, laying there, watching Gojou tear the package and snap on the condom with a deft hand.
The sight of Gojou palming his own large, heavy cock with that beautiful, long-fingered hand is one that sends a jolt of both excitement and unreality through Megumi.
Gojou pushes between his legs and knees them apart, putting hands on Megumi’s thighs to guide them around his waist. He leans down and pecks Megumi’s on the lips, once, looking into his eyes, as if searching. For what, Megumi cannot tell.
“Tell me if it gets too painful, alright?” Gojou says. His voice, against all odds, has acquired a breathless and gravelly quality, and Megumi’s heart speeds at that subtle show of vulnerability. “I’ll try my best to go slow, but there is going to be some discomfort, especially in the beginning. Are you listening? Megumi?”
Surprising even himself, Megumi smiles at this, raising a hand to trace the edge of Gojou’s jaw. Gojou’s lips has gone a little slack, and his eyes, dilated in lust, are nearly pitch-dark. The expression on his face is very nearly wonder.
Strangely enough, now that this is about to happen, all the apprehension has left him. Somehow, Gojou’s visible nerves has calmed him down.
“I can feel you shaking,” Megumi whispers. “And that hand of yours on my thigh is definitely leaving a bruise tomorrow. Stop worrying about me and get on with it, would you?”
The shock on Gojou’s familiar, beloved face melts into a smile, impossibly soft and sweet, but Megumi only has time to appreciate it for an instant before he’s distracted - the head of something incredibly large and hard is nestled at his opening, and pushing in. And in.
It isn’t as painful as he feared, not nearly, but it is strange; he feels as if he is being cleaved apart from the inside out, but it is a mostly painless parting. He’s being pinned in place with nowhere to retreat, not with those hands on his hips, fixing him, and all he is left to do is to take it.
Megumi tips his head back, his mouth opens and he gulps down lungfuls of air as the foreign thing inside him wedges deeper, and deeper, a hot brand, occasionally pulling back and then thrusting in even further, reaching into parts of himself Megumi never even realized existed.
He loses time, a few seconds of thoughts gone blank; when he comes back, Gojou is still going.
Megumi slams the heel of a foot into Gojou’s back, incredulous. “How much more of you is there?”
Gojou’s voice, when he speaks, is strained but annoyingly cheery. “What can I say – I’m an unusually gifted man, as you well know. You’re too tight, Megumi. Maybe I should get you some toys for that?”
“Excuse me?” exclaims Megumi, deeply offended, but then the head of Gojou’s cock brushes something terribly sensitive right then and he immediately cuts off, thighs tightening into a vice around Gojou’s waist as he tries his best to swallow down the loud moan crowding up his airway, fingers digging crescents into Gojou’s forearms. “Ah -”
“Just a little more,” Gojou says, and, pausing for a breath, slams to the hilt. Megumi’s back arches off the bed, a wordless scream caught in his throat.
Gojou starts pulling out and thrusting back into him almost immediately; the lube smooths his way, but Megumi is still not nearly used to the girth and the length, and he’s left clutching helplessly at Gojou’s arms, feeling utterly overwhelmed and taken over.
He has the distinct impression that Gojou is penetrating the entirety of him, gouging out a place for himself where none had existed before, and has to hold back on the instinctive urge to struggle, even as fireworks of pure, almost intolerable pleasure exploded across the back of his eyelids.
So, sex is possession, and that isn’t exactly new, the thought flits through Megumi’s mind before it sinks somewhere less immediate, to be examined at a different date.
Gojou’s forehead drops onto his shoulder. He’s panting, too, Megumi hears distantly, short, harsh pants that punctuate his thrusts; he’s almost bending him in half. Propping himself up by his elbows, Gojou starts lapping and mouthing along the length of Megumi’s collarbone, up the side of his neck, at the edge of his jaw, sucking at his earlobe. One of his thumbs is circling a nipple, a sensation somewhere between pleasure and pain.
“My Megumi,” Gojou whispers by his ear, warm breath driving Megumi out of his mind, “my sweet little Megumi, who likes to take care of me, who tries so hard to be so good for me. Tell me, how long have you wanted this?”
Megumi clutches helplessly at Gojou’s back, feeling the muscles there work and shift.
“Did you think of me at night, hm? Knowing that I’m right next door?”
Gojou’s movements have gentled, short, jagged thrusts turning into long, slow glides that are no less forceful or devastating for their unhurriedness. Megumi wants to answer, but can’t, which only leaves Gojou to ramble on, sounding more plaintive by the second.
“Is this good for you? Tell me if it feels good. Please say yes, darling. I need something verbal,” Gojou’s voice, suffused with desire, is almost like singing.
“…Yes,” Megumi forces himself to choke out, half-moan, half-speech. “Yes, yes, yes, Gojou-sensei - ah, good, it feels good -”
“You never ask me for anything, my Megumi. Ask me for something now, hm? I want to give it to you.”
Megumi lifts his head with difficulty and struggles to find his tongue. “…Kiss me, p-please,” he finally manages, and Gojou instantly moves to comply.
One of Gojou’s hands, the one not propped on his stomach and pushing down with his thrusts, threads into his hair. He sweeps Megumi’s sweat-soaked bangs away from his forehead, and then grabs onto a handful to tip his head back; warm lips and teeth find his Adam’s apple, biting and lapping in turn, then Gojou trails the tip of his nose up Megumi’s throat, lips finding his.
This kiss, unlike their previous one, is absorbing and all-consuming; Megumi loses himself to it, like falling. When he comes to, sparks of white light are fizzing out in his vision, and aftershocks are crashing through him like waves, leaving him shivering and gasping, clinging to the man above him as the drowning clutches a raft of wood. His throat feels raw and ravaged; one of Gojou’s hands moves away from his mouth.
When Megumi finally manages to refocus his eyes, he is treated to a rare and glorious sight above him: Gojou Satoru in the throes of passion, well and truly out of control. His expression is one of intense focus: bright, luminous eyes contracted into thin rings of blazing colour, a high flush in his normally pale cheeks, white hair sticking every which way. The tip of his pink tongue is caught between his teeth: he is staring at Megumi with a look of utter naked devotion, as if there could not possibly be anything more exquisite in the entire universe than him, as if Megumi were nothing less than its very truth and centre.
Seized with a sudden, overpowering wave of affection for his lover, Megumi smiles up at him, utterly disarmed.
Gojou freezes for a fraction of a second, and then he is leaning down and gathering Megumi into his arms, infinitely gentle and careful as if handling something quite breakable. Nonetheless, the angle causes him to press even deeper into Megumi’s body; sucking in quick breaths to ride out the discomfort, Megumi winds his arms tighter around Gojou’s body and holds on, feeling Gojou speed up, his pants becoming heavier, movements growing erratic, until he freezes again and his cock pulses within Megumi’s body, and then he is collapsing atop him all at once.
“Oof - !”
His immediate reaction is to push at Gojou until he gets up and stop crushing him, but his teacher’s breaths are evening out beside his ear, muscles relaxed, seemingly on the verge of sleep, and Megumi hesitates.
Gojou hums drowsily from the crook of his neck, turning his face to look up at him, spikey hair tickling his exposed skin.
Megumi is briefly torn between letting Gojou sleep like this, still half-buried in his body, and mustering up the courage to mention the point so that they could rearrange their positions. He could feel himself flush: before tonight, he’s barely even talked about sex with anybody, much less had sex, and with Gojou of all people. Two conflicting emotions war within him: incredulity and a pure, euphoric sort of joy, the kind that one only gets from a miracle come true, a dream somehow metamorphosed into technicolor reality.
Fortunately, Gojou seems to have regained enough awareness and spares Megumi the effort, moving out of him carefully – Megumi still winces a little – and disposes of the condom before settling down beside him. Which is practically on top of him, owing to the pitiable size of the bed.
“Gojou-san,” Megumi starts, then realizes he’d unconsciously reverted back to the form of address he’d used before Gojou formally became his teacher, nearly two years ago now. “Gojou-sensei,” he begins again, ignoring Gojou’s sparkling look in his direction, “are you sure you don’t want to teleport back home for the night? You’ll only end up sore all over tomorrow if you sleep like this.”
Gojou blinks innocently. “Am I the one who’s going to be sore, then?”
Megumi feels his face burn up even more. “Gojou-sensei!”
Gojou chuckles. His chin is hooked into the dip of Megumi’s shoulder, and the vibration travels through half of Megumi’s body, causing him to shiver a little.
“Like this, then,” Gojou murmurs, and rearranges them until they’re both on their sides, Gojou’s back against the wall and Megumi tucked in front of him, their knees neatly slotted together. He slings a heavy arm over Megumi’s waist and leaves the other one under Megumi’s head, solid and warm.
A pleasant kind of exhaustion is overtaking him, turning the edges of his vision black and spotty in places. Megumi yawns and grumbles, “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you tomorrow.”
There is a brief, suspicious silence behind him. Then:
“Did Megumi really search for tall, blonde, blue-eyed porn actors online? Can I get some recommendations?”
Megumi has to resist the urge to slam his elbow back into the insufferable man behind him, hard. “Please shut up and go to sleep, sensei.”
Gojou giggles, quick, faint breaths puffing out against the nape of Megumi’s neck, tickly and moist, shiver-inducing. “As Megumi probably knows, I’m a very busy man, so I’m not very well-versed in that particular art form -”
Megumi tries to turn around and cover that irritating mouth of his, an effort mostly made in vain as Gojou easily overpowers his attempt by tightening the arm around his waist.
Megumi falls still when he senses Gojou’s forehead coming to rest on his neck, nose nuzzling the first knot of his spine.
“Megumi -” Gojou starts, low, tone suddenly sober, something indefinable in his usual brash, self-assured voice.
Megumi sighs and pats the arm around his torso, threading his fingers into Gojou’s. He scoots backward some more, hooking his ankles with the other’s, legs tangled together, until they are plastered head to foot under the sheets, a wall of steady, radiating warmth at his back. Two pieces of a puzzle – a perfect match. Something within him loosens, a long stretched-taut wire, and he breathes out, long and slow.
“Yes, I’m doing this because I love you, sensei - Satoru. I suppose you know this already, but – I always have. How could I not? You gave me a home when no one else did, when no one else could, or bothered to.”
"But if - "
"Shh. Shut up and listen to me."
Staring at the nebulous darkness of the room before him, the vague outlines of furniture, pieces of clothing – the moon has hid behind a cloud – Megumi feels words long buried in the dark side of his soul flow out, as of water from a secret well, released by a seismic change in the landscape. And perhaps it is a little perverse to speak of love now, after all the carnality, but Megumi can’t frankly say that he regrets the way it happened.
To him, this has only been another stage in the continual evolution of what they are, another natural change to get used to. A way-station, on the path to the bright, indefinite future of their imagining where Megumi walked shoulder to shoulder with Satoru, an equal in the long march, the war of their lives.
“I haven’t regretted being your student, you know,” he informs the quiet man behind him. “I haven’t regretted becoming your ward. And I think you should trust me not to regret this, either.”
He feels Gojou exhale, long and shivery, feels his hold on him tighten further, as if afraid of letting go.
“You have always been my shelter, my anchor – my home. I only hope that I can be the same for you, too.” He squeezes Gojou’s hand, the undertow of sleep washing up on him and starting to sweep him away, and himself unwilling to resist. “Now sleep.”
He feels infinitely light, finally free of the words that have long weighed down his soul; lulled by the rhythmic, steady thump of heartbeats at his back, Megumi let sleep overtake him in the quiet darkness of predawn.
Before he slips under, Megumi registers the reply that follows into his dreams, a confession uttered only in this, the darkest hour of the day -
“And I - ”