Work Header

waiting to be crushed

Work Text:

The first time.

The first time it happens.

Fushiguro starts it, but it’s not exactly his fault.

Here’s who to blame: Itadori, who needed a place to stay just when Fushiguro’s old roommate moved in with his girlfriend. Itadori, who drinks beer in the living room and watches his own highlights shirtless, calculating plays long into the night. Itadori, who comes home from practice drenched in sweat. Itadori, who walks out of the shower with his skin steaming.

He had tried alternatives. Fushiguro tried not thinking about him, but Itadori slipped into his dreams. He tried masturbating until he was thoroughly disgusted with it, and he came with Itadori’s name on his lips. He tried repeatedly internally chanting, He’s straight. He’s straight. He’s straight every time Itadori laughed or smiled or looked his way, and all it did was put a strange ache in his chest.

So then he started hanging around the football team. He had the in through Itadori, who was more than happy to bring him along to their parties and after parties. Fushiguro started staying out later with them, drinking more and wearing less, making sultry eyes at anyone whose gaze he caught lingering. It was easy.

If Itadori watched the way Fushiguro moved when the music played, if he glimpsed those times Todo or Kamo cornered Fushiguro in the dark hallway that led to his bedroom and grabbed and groped and touched him, he didn’t say. He didn’t blink an eye when Megumi started fucking his way through the team roster, maybe just completely oblivious. And now when Fushiguro shows up by the locker rooms after a game and half his teammates eye him like a piece of meat begging to be snapped up, Itadori still just laughs and jokes around with Coach Gojo, utterly unconcerned with anything Fushiguro could be doing.

So when something finally does happen, Fushiguro starts it. But it isn’t his fault. He’s tried everything.

Itadori comes home covered in the sweat and glory of a game and the scent of cigarettes and perfume on his skin  —  whose house was the party at tonight? Inumaki’s? If Itadori isn’t already wasted, he’s at the very least drunk on the attention he receives, girls crowding him obsessively. Fushiguro’s seen it, the way they grind their skin on his, the way Itadori will get sucked in and dance with them like they’re already fucking. It’s obscene, the way he moves his hips. And he knows it must be good because he hears the girls Itadori brings back to his bed. He hears them moaning Yuuji and he bites his lip til it bleeds.

At least no one is hanging off of Itadori’s arm tonight. That means he’ll want to just kick back on the couch for a while and they can binge some dumb television together.

“Megumi!” Itadori sings happily when he comes through the door. Fushiguro looks up. Itadori is wearing grey sweatpants.

“Since when do you call me by my first name?” he says, subtly moving a pillow to his lap.

“Ah, just tonight,” says Itadori, with a broad grin. “Special night. I feel good. I wanna watch a movie.”

“You won the game, then?” Fushiguro starts scrolling through the multitude of streaming subscriptions they’ve somehow come to split the bills on.

Itadori grabs the remote from him without asking and navigates to some category where every movie stars a blonde girl with perky tits. “Why, didn’t you watch me play?”

His voice is teasing, but Fushiguro looks away. “I have a bio test next week. I needed to study.”

If Itadori’s feelings are hurt, he doesn’t show it. He selects a movie and leans back into the couch with a happy sigh. “Will you get me a beer?”

Fushiguro looks at him. Itadori laughs, and then licks his gorgeous lips. “Please, Megumi?”

Fushiguro experiences a heart palpitation, then glares and says, “I was going to get myself one. Otherwise I wouldn’t.”

He wasn’t going to get himself a beer. He hates beer. He grabs one for both of them anyway. When he hands one to Itadori, his shirt rides up just enough that Fushiguro can clearly see the trail of soft hair leading down his sweatpants, and it’s an act of divine cruelty for God to let him witness such a thing.

And why does Itadori look hot like this, anyway? Why is it that he can come home  —  come back to the apartment  —  looking like a mess and smelling like someone cheap, body broken from a day of pushing himself so hard for no reason, and Fushiguro can still want to lick the lines of his hips?

During the movie, Itadori seems too tired to talk, and happy enough to enjoy the silence. Fushiguro makes his standard dry commentary on plot holes and loose threads, and Itadori just laughs instead of what he normally does, which is tell Fushiguro to shut up and watch the movie, this is the good part.

He leans back when they get to the part of the movie where the blonde girl starts stripping, his t-shirt riding up enough to be unfair. Fushiguro tries to resist, he really does, but he can see the outline of Itadori’s half-hard dick.

He’s sitting so close he can feel the heat rising off of Itadori’s body. He can smell him, that mix of sweat and party and something else lurking underneath, that scent that obsesses him, that makes him want to use one of Itadori’s dirty shirts as a pillowcase.

“You’re staring,” Itadori says, and wraps his lips around the neck of a beer. It makes Fushiguro’s mouth go dry. 

“Sorry,” he says. Fushiguro has no idea what he’s apologizing for. He looks away, but some sort of magnetism keeps drawing his eyes back. The line of Itadori’s throat. The way the thin fabric of his t-shirt rests on his muscles. The half-boner that already looks stupidly large.

“I can take care of that for you,” Fushiguro says, eyes trained on the floor. He is so aware of his body he can feel every pulse of blood going through his fingertips. 

Itadori pauses. Fushiguro’s heart stammers out a rhythm too fast and uncertain to understand.

“Okay,” says Itadori.

The rhythm stutters and, for a second, stops.

“Okay,” Fushiguro repeats. His mind is racing in a single circle, cycling the last second on loop. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.

With great effort, he tears his eyes away from the floor. He moves his carefully trained gaze to Itadori’s calves. His thighs. His free hand lazily reaching down his sweatpants.

“Come here,” says Itadori, and spreads his legs a little wider. Fushiguro obeys wordlessly, settling on his knees on the couch in front of him, and looks up through dark eyelashes.

“What?” says Itadori. He looks at Fushiguro with mock disapproval, a little smile in his eyes. “Aren’t you going to get started?”

“Shut up,” he mutters, knowing his cheeks are red. How many times has he done this for other men? He’s kneeled in bedrooms or bathrooms or a corner of the football team’s locker room. He’s knelt and taken some guy into his mouth, let him fuck his face, grab his hair and control him like a sex toy, a thousand or more times. Why is he blushing so painfully now?

Itadori takes his cock out of his sweatpants, and Fushiguro’s pupils dilate. He’s huge. Bigger than Kamo, bigger than Inumaki, bigger than most of the dildos and plugs he keeps in his nightstand. His breath hitches a little, and Itadori laughs.

“Go on,” Itadori says with a little nod. Fushiguro can’t hear anything but the heavy pounding of his heart. Is the movie still playing?

He’s hesitant at first. He licks the tip, small little movements. Itadori cards his fingers through Fushiguro’s hair, soft and raven-dark, and guides him to take his cock in his mouth. He tastes like sweat and salt, heady and heavy. Fushiguro has to go down a little bit and then up, then down a little further and up again. He feels like a shy virgin, unsure of how to suck dick, but the thing is he does know how   —  Itadori is just so fucking big that he has to train himself to stretch his throat again.

When Itadori’s cock touches the back of Fushiguro’s throat for the first time, he lets out a low, guttural moan that goes straight to Fushiguro’s dick. Spurred on by the sound, Fushiguro takes him even further down his throat. Itadori flexes his hips the smallest amount, barely restraining himself, and Fushiguro gags.

It’s just a little gag  —  just for show, really, just to test how Itadori will react  —  but he gets more than he bargained for when he feels Itadori’s cock throb in his mouth. Abruptly Itadori is thrusting up into him, fucking his throat while Fushiguro kneels on the floor in front of him like he exists for him to use. Fushiguro’s eyes are watering as he tries to breathe on the downstroke, but there’s no room for air in his throat. Itadori is fucking him like it’s his right, like Fushiguro is designed to get him off, and that fucking entitlement is so infuriating and hot that it has him hard.

Itadori’s head is tilted back, low noises coming from his mouth. He fists his hands in Fushiguro’s hair and holds his head in place while he fucks his mouth, hard and consistent thrusts that are reducing Fushiguro to a teary mess.

“So good, Megumi,” he groans, eyes closed like he’s lost in the sensation, like just feeling Fushiguro’s mouth is all he can handle. Fushiguro feels his dick twitch at the praise, and he’s suddenly grateful Itadori isn’t watching him because he can’t control his reactions in the slightest. 

Itadori starts fucking Fushiguro’s mouth more erratically, and normally he doesn’t like for them to come down his throat, but this time he might. Just maybe. He has some ugly, carnal desire to be used by him. Some piece of him that wants to be broken and bruised and fucked into the ground like he deserves.

“You gonna drink my cum?” Fushiguro makes a choked noise in response and Itadori takes that as his cue. He holds Fushiguro’s head down and moans as he cums, a long, filthy sound that Fushiguro is certain will play again and again in his dreams.

He swallows all of it. 

Itadori pulls himself out of his mouth, and Fushiguro knows how he must look. Tears and snot running down his face, lips swollen and red, hair disheveled with Itadori’s fingers still gripping him tight. But Itadori looks at him like he’s precious. Like he did something right, something good.

He moves his hand from his hair to….cup Fushiguro’s cheek? His hand is rough and calloused, and Fushiguro has to fight hard not to nuzzle into it. Itadori tilts his head up and kisses him.

“Thanks, Megumi,” he says, and presses their foreheads together. It’s strange but sweet. Fushiguro wonders if it’s some kind of male bonding ritual  —  he can imagine Todo teaching it to Itadori.

“You don’t have to say thanks,” Fushiguro says quietly. His eyes are closed, like it will help him absorb every second of skin contact he’s getting.

Too soon, Itadori pulls back. “It’s only polite,” he says. His smile is so goddamn goofy and earnest. Fushiguro aches .

Itadori pulls his pants up, stands, and stretches. “See you in the morning, Fushiguro,” he says, and flashes one last grin at him before he goes to bed.

And Fushiguro aches.