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Megumi can’t stop scratching his chest. It’s annoying.
He’s already frustrated with himself for the mission gone wrong. Despite having Itadori and Kugisaki with him, they’d been overpowered by several special grades and had only managed to get out of it with help from Sukuna—a fact that Megumi had known they would have to report, but one he’d hoped he could keep away from Gojo if at all possible.
Life is never that generous.
“It’s nothing,” Megumi had told him later, after seeing Shoko for treatment. “Just a scratch.” And it was true, then. Just a scratch, not very deep but long, stretching diagonally across his chest as a result of letting Sukuna a little too close when he was feeling a little too bloodthirsty.
“If it starts to irritate you,” Shoko had said then, “come find me immediately.”
Sukuna could have killed him, but he didn’t. Megumi isn’t sure why Sukuna keeps him alive when he obviously has no issue toying with Megumi, sinking his fingernails into him and making him bleed. It’s clearly not for any kind of loyalty to him or Itadori—that much is very clear—and it frustrates Megumi even more to realize that the only reason he is still alive is not just because Sukuna saved them, but because he willingly spared them.
He scratches the itching wound harder, uncaring that he’s only irritating it further. He can’t help it; it feels like there’s heat radiating out from the edges of the wound, even though it’s been thoroughly cleaned and there’s no sign of infection. Even when he raises his shirt to peer down at it, nothing seems amiss.
It’s just a scratch.
And yet, the longer he tries to ignore it, the hotter it becomes, until it’s no longer itchy but throbbing, like it’s the source of all of this heat currently spreading throughout his body.
Megumi needs to sit down.
It doesn’t help that the heat in the building seems to be malfunctioning in the dead of summer. Megumi grunts as he sits on the nearest bench, one of the ones in the common area where he wandered in looking for a bottle of cold water from the fridge. They’re out, of course, because he’s the only one who restocks the water even though everybody drinks it. He’ll have to settle for tap, then.
He makes to stand and nearly falls back onto the bench again, knees buckling underneath him even though there’s nothing weighing him down except his own failure. He catches himself, shakes himself out of it, and manages to fumble for a clean glass from the cabinet and fill it up.
The water helps a little. It’s not as cold as he’d like it to be—it’s too hot here in the summer to get truly cold water flowing from the tap—but it still helps to soothe a little bit of the overheated sensation that’s been building for the past several hours.
Seriously, someone needs to check on the heater, or the A/C, or whatever. It definitely shouldn’t be this hot inside.
He comes across Itadori on his way back to his room, after downing another full glass and refilling it again. Itadori waves, all smiles despite their disastrous mission last night, but Megumi doesn’t have the energy to do more than nod in response.
“Hey, Fushiguro, you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he mumbles.
“You sure? You don’t look so good.”
“It’s the damn heat,” Megumi grunts. “You’d think a building full of jujutsu sorcerers could figure out how to fix a thermostat.”
Itadori cants his head to the side, giving him that confused puppy dog look that he wears so well. “Is there something wrong with the thermostat?”
The look Megumi shoots him is nothing short of murderous, he’s sure. And judging by the way Itadori’s face heats up, he must realize he’s said something incredibly stupid.
“Ah, I usually run warm, so I guess I didn’t notice…” He scratches the back of his head, sheepish, and somehow still wearing his uniform jacket even though Megumi ditched his own and the shirt underneath hours ago in favor of walking around in just his undershirt. If nobody can be bothered to fix the heat, he can’t be bothered to wear the uniform properly.
“It’s fine,” Megumi says. “I’m going to take a shower.” He turns to go, only to hear another voice seconds later chuckling darkly. He knows that voice.
“A shower won’t help you, Megumi.”
Megumi turns to look over his shoulder and finds Itadori with a hand over his face, presumably over Sukuna’s mouth. It doesn’t matter; the mouth appears on the back of his hand instead and continues talking without interruption.
“Feeling warm, are you, Megumi?”
Megumi scoffs. “So what? It’s summer.”
“This isn’t that kind of heat,” Sukuna replies with a shit-eating grin, but before Megumi can question him further, he sinks back into Itadori and doesn’t come back out.
“Whatever,” Megumi sighs, head too foggy to play Sukuna’s mind games. “I’ll see you later.”
Back in his room, it only gets worse. He lies sprawled on his bed in nothing but his underwear and his undershirt, dripping sweat from every pore in his body. He feels delirious, almost, except that he still has enough sense to realize there may be something wrong.
It’s not that kind of heat rattles around inside his brain, but he can’t make sense of what it might mean. Not that kind of heat? Not what kind of heat?
It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. Sukuna is just messing with him, as usual.
There’s a knock at the door some time later. Megumi has no idea how much time has passed. He’s given up trying to do anything except lie on his bed and try not to melt. He had contemplated lying on the floor at one point instead, thinking it might be cooler down there, but then he tried to move, and that only made the heat worse, so he stayed. Instead, he had summoned his shadows in an attempt to block out as much light as possible, stave off the heat even if only just a little.
Whoever is at the door knocks again, and Megumi realizes he didn’t answer the first time. He can’t get up—that’s for sure—so he grunts and hopes whoever it is takes it as either an invitation or a rejection; he doesn’t care which.
The door creaks open, and Megumi thinks maybe he does care a little, because the idea of trying to have a conversation right now is almost as excruciating as the flames licking the inside of his torso. They started in his chest, right around the edges of Sukuna’s scratch, but they’ve been slowly licking outward toward his limbs, now filling up his stomach and attempting to set his arms and legs on fire, too.
“Shit,” someone curses, but Megumi can’t lift his head to see who it is. All he can do is lie here, drenched, slowly becoming a puddle that will eventually evaporate in all this heat. Someone touches his forehead for just a second before pulling back quickly, like they’ve been burned, and he figures they probably have considering he’s made of fire now.
“Get Gojo,” the voice says. He vaguely recognizes it—Kugisaki, maybe?—and the agreement from the answering voice—definitely Itadori, he knows that one.
He doesn’t even realize he’s sinking into his own shadows until he feels strong arms pulling him out.
“Come on, Megumi. Stay with me.”
Ah, yeah, he knows that voice, too. He likes that one.
Vaguely, he begins to register that everywhere those arms touch feels better. It’s like being wrapped in a cooling cloth, and he unconsciously seeks it out, clinging to the person holding him and taking in all of the blessed cool they have to offer.
“Whoa, did you miss me?” the voice chuckles, lilting and playful, and it kicks up Megumi’s heart inside his chest, which had slowed to a crawl before now. There’s another burst of heat that feels like it’s coming directly from his heart, seeping throughout his body and concentrating on all of the points where he isn’t currently being touched. He clings tighter. “Wow, you really are burning up,” the voice says. It lifts his shirt, and Megumi nearly moans for how good it feels to have skin against his skin; or maybe he actually does, because the hand stops and pulls away and Megumi feels himself whine at the loss.
“Yuuji, start a bath,” the voice commands. “As cold as you can get it. Use ice. Nobara, get Shoko.”
Two voices chorus their understanding, and then Megumi is being undressed, and that feels good. So good, in fact, that he can’t help the keening moans and whimpers that slip out of him as big, strong hands flit across his skin.
“Come on,” he begs quietly, still weak with exhaustion, though he can feel himself getting better the more those hands touch him. He attempts to shift himself closer, wants to feel more of that heavenly sensation, the only thing keeping the flames inside him at a low smolder rather than a raging blaze. Once his shirt and uniform pants are off and the hands leave him, he forces his eyes open to find Gojo sitting at the foot of his bed, hands hovering over him like he doesn’t know if he should touch.
Well, Megumi thinks, he can solve that dilemma for him.
He grabs for one of Gojo’s wrists, instantly relieved when he makes contact, and brings the hand to settle against his bare chest. It’s like a shot of pure relief directly into his veins. He feels himself buck up off the bed, feels his dick twitch inside his cotton boxer briefs, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s painfully, desperately hard. He feels Gojo start to pull away and his eyes widen in panic. He can’t stop touching Megumi now! He needs this, damn it!
“Gojo-sensei,” he breathes, chest heaving with his galloping heartbeat and gasping breaths. “Please, please—”
He cuts himself off, only partly because of the pathetic neediness of his voice but mainly because without Gojo’s touch, the flames inside spread like wildfire, and suddenly he’s melting again.
“Fuck,” Gojo swears and places one of his refreshingly cool hands on Megumi’s forehead. It helps a little, but not nearly as much as when he was touching Megumi’s back or chest. “Yuuji! How’s that bath coming?”
“Almost ready, Gojo-sensei!” There’s a commotion in the hallway before Itadori comes skidding back into the room. “I couldn’t find anything to transport the ice, so I just brought the whole machine. I hope no one gets mad…”
Gojo lets out a loud bark of laughter and uses the hand not on Megumi’s forehead to high-five Itadori.
“Good work, Yuuji!” To Megumi, he says, “Come on, let’s get you in the bath.”
Megumi doesn’t fight it, but only because Gojo scoops him up into his arms and cradles him to his chest, and it’s the most human Megumi has felt all day. He’s still so hard, but he can’t get any friction at this angle. There’s nothing to rut himself against, no matter how hard he tries to shift himself in Gojo’s arms.
“Alright, alright,” Gojo says, “we’re gonna get you all better, just you wait and see, Megumi!”
Of course you are, Megumi thinks, because you are the only one who can help. Can’t you see that with your Six Eyes?
The door slams open again, this time to let in Kugisaki and Shoko.
“What’s the problem?” Shoko asks.
“Hot,” Megumi gasps, the warmth still radiating throughout him despite the cool patches along the parts that are pressed up against Gojo’s clothes.
“He’s hot,” Gojo repeats.
“So you’re putting him in an ice bath?”
“Obviously.”
Shoko’s hand rests briefly against his forehead before Megumi flinches backward, the heat searing against his already overheated skin. He gasps, curling in toward Gojo, who for once doesn’t seem to know how to react. “He doesn’t need an ice bath,” Shoko says. “It’s not that kind of fever.”
“How can you say that?” Itadori asks. “We need to cool him down, don’t we? Won’t the ice help even if it won’t cure him?”
“Maybe,” Shoko says with a shrug. “Or it could make him worse. If this is what I think it is—”
“Which is what, exactly?” Gojo asks, his usual carefree tone strained.
“—there’s only one thing that’s going to help him now.”
Sukuna’s sadistic laugh echoes through Megumi’s mind, rattles around inside his brain alongside not that kind of heat not that kind of fever.
He feels himself being lowered into the bath anyway, heat licking through him as he’s removed from the relief of Gojo’s arms. He runs on instinct now, scrambles to hold on, to get back to safety, to sweet relief—
It burns, it burns everywhere and someone screams—
“Take him out!” Shoko shouts, and there’s that laughter again, that taunting laughter that Megumi remembers hearing when he received the scratch. “Fuck. Itadori, get your ass over here.”
He’s laid out on the bed again, and again Gojo tries to set him down, but Megumi can’t—there’s no way he’ll make it out of this without burning to death if he just keeps getting hotter—“Gojo,” he gasps. “Sensei, please, please—”
“Okay, I’m here. I’ve got you,” Gojo answers, and to Megumi’s sweet relief, he curls up against him and lets Megumi burrow as close to him as physically possible.
It’s still not enough.
Megumi’s breaths continue to come out in harsh pants. His front feels better, pressed as it is against Gojo, but there’s still an overwhelming heat coursing through his veins, faster and faster as his heart continues to try to pump, as his body tries to sweat out its fever.
“Sukuna,” Gojo seethes. His voice is low, dangerous; it makes Megumi shiver, cuts through the heat for just a nanosecond as it all concentrates in his groin at the attractive sound of it. He shifts closer, trying to press his hardened length against Gojo, but Gojo’s strong hand grabs him by the hip and holds him still, and he whines.
“Yeeesss?” Sukuna’s voice taunts. Again, Megumi hears it’s not that kind of heat on repeat, like it’s become a part of who he is—he can’t escape it.
“Not that kind of heat,” he mumbles, just to externalize it, and Gojo must hear him because he stills.
“What was that, Megumi?”
It’s too much. He can’t say it again. Just that phrase took so much out of him with the effort it’s taking his body to stay alive in the face of his own personal inferno. Even with Gojo so close, the heat is becoming all-consuming, too overwhelming no matter how much contact they make.
Sukuna’s dark, chuckling voice echoes through his skull. It’s difficult to know if it’s real or imagined. He thinks he hears the conversation unfolding around him, but he can’t be sure he isn’t just dreaming—or hallucinating.
“Pity,” Sukuna (real or imagined) says. “Not quite the outcome I was hoping for, but I admit it is more amusing this way.”
“Oh? And why is that?” Gojo asks. He’s holding Megumi tightly, rubbing comforting, cooling strokes up and down his back.
“Well of course, I’d hoped his body would call for me,” Sukuna drawls. “I would have loved to solve this little problem for him. Pretty thing that he is.” Gojo’s grip tightens in what Megumi’s fever-addled brain perceives as a protective manner. “Unfortunately, it looks like his heart has already bonded.” The voice takes on a teasing tone, one that grates on Megumi’s few remaining nerves. “So it looks like he’s your problem, now, Sensei.”
With that, Sukuna disappears inside Itadori once again, and if the irritatingly loud voices are any indicator, he doesn’t seem interested in coming back out.
“Alright, everybody out,” a voice says, and after a few moments of shuffling feet and closing doors, the voice gets closer and lower. “Satoru,” the voice—Shoko—says, “you know what this is now, don’t you?”
“It better not be,” Gojo growls.
“But it is,” Shoko says. Megumi thinks he might hear pity in her voice. “And it looks like you’re the only one who can help him.”
The door closes shortly thereafter, and everything goes blessedly quiet.
“Megumi,” Gojo murmurs, breath cool and soothing against his burning ear. “How are you feeling?”
Megumi grunts, not able to muster anything beyond that. Sweat rolls down his temples onto Gojo’s arm where his head rests. The rest of him is covered in a layer of it as well. His sheets must be drenched.
“You’re okay,” Gojo soothes. “You’re going to be okay. Tell Sensei what you need, Megumi. I’ll help you.”
“Please,” Megumi rasps. “Please…”
The clothes are in the way. They have to go.
With only that thought and the need to dispel this heat, Megumi pushes his hands up under Gojo’s jacket.
“Whoa,” Gojo gasps, reflexively grabbing for Megumi’s wrists but releasing quickly when Megumi protests. “Just going right for it, huh?”
The question doesn’t seem to need an answer, or at least, Megumi has no plans to give one. All he can focus on is getting Gojo out of his clothes and putting all of that blessed, cool skin on display. He pushes against the fabric, irritated with the amount of time it’s taking to get what he wants, but even just the palm of his hand against Gojo’s stomach helps quell the flames engulfing his arm.
“More,” he gasps.
“Alright,” Gojo says. “Alright. Just hang on a second, Megumi.”
He pulls away, then, and Megumi tries not to scream at the speed at which the heat consumes every part of him no longer touching Gojo. His head spins, and his vision begins to black. He can barely breathe; it feels like he’s pulling in flames and smoke with every breath, and no matter what he does, he can’t exhale them.
Something hot rolls down his cheek, leaving a trail of scorched skin behind. It’s quickly followed by another hot trail, and then a third, until Gojo’s thumb reaches up to wipe away the molten drops and cool his blistering skin.
“Gojo-sensei.” It comes out as a whimper. Everything hurts. It hurts so badly. Megumi has never felt pain like this in his entire life—not when got beaten to hell by two different special grade curses, not when he got blasted through reinforced concrete, not even when Tsumiki fell into her coma.
He feels the waistband of his boxers being lifted; the fabric scrapes against him as it’s pulled down and over his hips, but once it’s gone, he feels some relief. He allows himself to be completely undressed, submitting to the feeling of cool touches along the length of his body as the last of his clothes are peeled away.
“How does that feel?” Gojo asks. He places the flat of his hand on Megumi’s face, covering as much surface area as possible. “Better?”
Megumi tries to nod, but it hurts; there are torches in the notches of his spine. Weakly, he reaches for Gojo’s chest and gasps when his hand meets skin. He jerks forward on instinct, pressing himself against his apparently naked teacher.
It’s heavenly.
A long, pleased sigh seeps from Megumi’s lips as he begins to relax for the first time in what must be hours. “Better,” he breathes against Gojo’s neck. On his next inhale, he catches a familiar scent that makes his heart skip a beat. He hums contentedly before pressing his face up against the smooth skin of Gojo’s long neck.
Gojo freezes for just a split second, but then he slides one of his legs between Megumi’s and pulls them completely flush against each other.
Megumi’s cock throbs. Now that he can breathe again, the majority of this cursed heat is concentrated around his groin. He rolls his hips forward, which elicits a gasp from Gojo.
“Megumi,” Gojo says. “Are you with me?” One hand smoothes up and down Megumi’s back while the other continues to caress the side of his face. The constant touches and bodily contact help Megumi’s mind clear enough that he can formulate an actual answer.
“Yeah,” he says, voice low and shaky with pain and adrenaline. “This helps.”
“This is a special kind of curse, Megumi. One I haven’t taught you about.”
Megumi takes several deep breaths, still instinctively grinding himself against Gojo. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers that Gojo has gotten hard, too, somewhere in all of this, but he doesn’t have the capacity to examine that right now.
“Don’t care,” Megumi says. “Just—” He nuzzles against Gojo’s pulse point, a blissfully cold spot that feels like a cool breeze every time he inhales. His lips brush the skin when he moves, and that feels even better. He presses more intentionally, and Gojo releases a rippling moan; the sound rips through Megumi, utterly ruining him. He has to hear it again.
“Listen, Megumi,” Gojo says. But he doesn’t pull back. He doesn’t remove Megumi’s lips from his throat, or his leg from where Megumi is literally humping it. In fact, it feels like he’s barely restraining himself, and the idea of Gojo wanting him makes Megumi’s curse-stupid brain buzz.
“Come on, Gojo-sensei,” he says between pressing kisses along Gojo’s neck. Gojo releases a shuddering breath that ruffles the hair over Megumi’s ear. “Come on,” Megumi insists. “Touch me.”
Whatever Gojo has been trying to say is forgotten as he finally follows Megumi’s advice and wraps his huge hands around Megumi’s waist. Cool tendrils in the shape of Gojo’s fingers spread throughout his core, and before he can react, he’s pushed onto his back, and his breath is pushed from his lungs.
“Jesus, Megumi. I always knew you had a mouth on you, but I never imagined you’d be this chatty in bed.”
In the next instant, Megumi’s lips are engulfed by Gojo’s sweet ones, and his mind goes blank.
For several long, blissful seconds, all Megumi can feel is the insistent press of Gojo’s lips and the rapid beating of his own heart. All he can make himself do is kiss back with all of the ferocity he can muster; his body moves of its own accord, legs wrapping around Gojo’s hips and pulling himself off of the mattress to get closer to him.
His mind is an echo chamber right now, always bouncing the same phrases around because he can’t think straight enough to do anything else. And with Gojo’s last utterance, the words I never imagined you’d be this chatty in bed bump against the sides of his skull over and over until the first seed of intrigue starts to germinate.
That thought can’t go any farther, though, and it’s pushed to the recesses of Megumi’s mind when Gojo reciprocates the motion. He presses Megumi down into the mattress, one hand traveling up his side and over his chest and the other trailing long fingers along the length of his thigh. He props himself up on his forearm, just enough not to crush Megumi with his full weight, but remains low enough to stay pressed against him. The hand on Megumi’s thigh squeezes, and Megumi bucks up again, grinding their straining erections together.
Megumi swallows Gojo’s moan and feels it spread through him like an antidote. Every sound Gojo makes, every shift of his body and breath that ghosts across Megumi’s lips makes Megumi’s body thrum with a more pleasant kind of heat. The searing flames that previously engulfed him have receded into something low and smoldering. Even the scratch across his chest feels less raw.
“Gojo-sensei,” Megumi moans, for no other reason than to say the man’s name. “Ah.” Pleasure spikes through him with a well-placed thrust, steadily growing as they grind together.
“Yeah?” Gojo licks his lips, tongue just grazing the sensitive skin of Megumi’s lips. “You like that? Do you feel good, Megumi-chan?”
Megumi moans again, catching Gojo in another passionate kiss. The slide of Gojo’s tongue against his feels nothing short of incredible. When they break apart again, Megumi nods. “Yes, sensei, so good.”
“Good,” Gojo pants. “That’s good. Tell me what you need, baby.”
The word need pulses through him, enters his veins and spreads to the tips of his fingers and toes. Everything curls, his toes inward and his fingers into the skin of Gojo’s broad, gorgeous back.
“Need you.” He digs his fingernails into Gojo’s skin, and Gojo whimpers.
“Fuck, Megumi,” he moans. “What am I supposed to do?”
Rather than deign to respond, Megumi attaches his lips to Gojo’s neck and begins to suck. Gojo’s pulse races beneath his lips and teeth, and Megumi’s races to match. Every single touch feels like something new—Gojo’s hand leaving bruises on his thigh, Gojo’s hips sliding against his own, Gojo’s broad torso pinning Megumi to the bed, Gojo’s thick cock leaking droplets of pleasure onto Megumi’s stomach. It’s all so good, so much, too much, not enough—
The pleasure that has been building is ready to snap; Megumi can feel it drawing nearer with every press of their bodies, until—
He comes with a cry of “Gojo-sensei,” and holds the man as tightly as his body will allow as he shakes through his orgasm.
A rush of clarity lifts the fog that’s been clouding his mind for… however long it’s been. What time is it, anyway?
It doesn’t matter. What matters is that his teacher, his—his whatever Gojo is to him—is hovering above him, very naked, with a hard-on and Megumi’s come on his thigh.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
He tries to move, but he’s pinned in place. “Gojo-sensei,” he says, proud of how sturdy his voice sounds. “Get up.”
Gojo huffs a disbelieving laugh, but does as he’s told. Megumi thinks he hears a quiet, “Shit,” but he can’t be completely sure.
He’s reeling from everything that has just happened. He’s sober enough to realize what he’s done, but though the heat has mostly dissipated, he still feels something not quite right thrumming through his veins. He looks over at Gojo to find him with his head in his hands, still breathing heavily. Had he exerted himself that much? Megumi’s breathing has calmed; why hasn’t his?
“Gojo-sensei?”
“Satoru,” Gojo says quietly. “Just for now, don’t call me Sensei.”
Guilt drops into Megumi’s gut. What has he done? The memories of the day flood through him, and he’s faced with the mortification of exactly how pathetic he’s been. But the longer the quiet stretches on, the more confused Megumi becomes. There are a few things that don’t quite add up.
After a long silence, long enough that Megumi suspects there won’t be any need for him to say Gojo’s name anymore, Gojo finally speaks.
“This probably isn’t over,” he says. Slowly, he looks up at Megumi, meeting his eyes. For the first time since this all started, Megumi realizes that Gojo isn’t wearing his blindfold. The sun has begun to set, and the golden beams of light streaming through the window make him look even more ethereal than usual. The sky blues of his eyes are softened to a pretty aquamarine, and Megumi is reminded of the first day he met Gojo, and every day they’ve spent together since. He’s so beautiful; and throughout all of the years they’ve spent together, he’s only grown more so.
He’s always been so out of reach.
Even now, the two of them sitting naked together on Megumi’s bed after doing… that, he feels more untouchable than ever.
“What do you want me to do, Megumi? What’s the right thing to do, here?”
Megumi’s eyes widen. He hadn’t expected that question. He doesn’t even know how to begin to answer it. He wants to say, Stay. I want you to kiss me again. I want you to tell me that what I did wasn’t the worst thing I could have done. But he can’t.
“How do you feel?” Gojo’s voice breaks through his distress again.
“Fine,” he lies. “You can go.”
“I can’t,” Gojo says. “And you’re not fine.” He drops his hands from his head and leans back, tilting his face toward the ceiling. His beautiful eyes sparkle despite his serious demeanor. “Fuck. What else was I supposed to do?”
This time, the question sounds like it’s aimed toward himself, not Megumi or anyone else.
“Goj—Satoru,” Megumi murmurs, resisting the strong urge to reach out and touch. “I’m…”
And yet, he can’t bring himself to apologize. By now, he’s worked out that whatever Sukuna poisoned him with has only positively responded to touch—specifically, Gojo’s touch. He needed Gojo—still does, probably—and he can’t make himself apologize for trying to survive.
At the same time, he feels guilty. He can try to make himself believe that what he felt from Gojo earlier was real, but he has to acknowledge the likelihood that his mind was playing games with him. Gojo was just doing what he had to do to help. He’s a good teacher—a good person, no matter what anyone else says—and Megumi knows that Gojo would never willingly let anything happen to him. He has always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Megumi hates himself for adding another burden to the pile.
The tips of his fingers and toes, his ears, his nose—warmth spreads back into his body in reverse, heating his extremities first and then converging in the center, like it’s been sucked back in after trying to escape.
Megumi’s heart rate kicks up fiercely, and fear grips him.
Only now, he knows what he needs, and he’s too afraid to ask for it.
He startles when he feels a splash of cool ripple from a spot on his leg. He looks down to see Gojo’s hand there, and the way it spans so much of his thigh makes Megumi’s throat dry out. He’s assaulted by the new memory of his legs wrapped around Gojo’s hips, Gojo’s fingers pressing so hard on his thigh that when he flexes the muscle, he can still feel them there.
Gojo’s thumb strokes against Megumi’s leg, and after several seconds, he feels himself begin to calm.
“Megumi,” Gojo murmurs, voice closer than expected. “Look at me.”
He does, and despite himself, he feels safer.
“I’m sorry, Megumi. If there was anything else I could do—” Ah, there it is. “—I would. But this is the only way.” He pauses, takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. Megumi tries not to let his emotional hurt show on his face. “It’s what’s called a curse of passion. They’re all a little different—different triggers, different terms to fulfill—but they all manifest pretty much like this.” He pauses to assess Megumi, gazing intently into his eyes, and Megumi has never felt the weight of all six of his enchanting eyes on him so keenly. “You’re still hot, yeah?”
Heat rises to Megumi’s face. In a better world, he’d be secretly pleased about the double entendre, but in this one, he knows Gojo means nothing by it.
So much for being wanted.
“Yeah, a little,” he reluctantly admits. A thought occurs to him in that moment, and he steels himself. He won’t be the reason Gojo’s spirit breaks. He won’t make Gojo do this if he can’t stomach it. “You don’t need to stay. I can find someone else.”
The corners of Gojo’s lips turn up in a wan smile. “No, you can’t.”
Megumi gawks, indignant; his face is red for an entirely different reason, now. “What.”
“Ha!” The laugh bursts out of Gojo, startling Megumi enough to confuse him but not enough to make him forget how insulted he feels. “I didn’t mean it like that. Of course you could walk out of here and get pretty much anyone on this campus to help you out, and not one of them would consider it a hardship. Especially if you go out there looking like that.” There isn’t even time for Megumi to register the whiplash from the compliment before the temporary good humor drops from Gojo’s expression. “I know one King of Poisons who would jump at the chance.” He looks murderous, and not in the manic way he usually does when he’s fighting curses. This feels personal; if Sukuna weren’t currently housed in Yuuji’s body, Megumi is sure he would already be dead.
“So why not let him?” he snaps before he can stop himself.
Gojo’s eyes snap to his from where he’d been staring off into space. “Don’t joke.”
Something in Gojo’s expression pokes at the sore spots on Megumi’s heart. He wants to provoke Gojo. He’s humiliated and self-conscious, and maybe he feels hurt enough that he wants to hurt Gojo back.
“I’m not joking. Go get him.”
“Megumi—”
“Go on. Get Sukuna. That was the whole point of this, right? Because he wants to fuck me? So let him fuck me. What difference does it make to you?”
“He’s not going to put his filthy claws anywhere near you,” Gojo seethes.
“Why the hell not?!”
“Why would you even want him to?” Gojo’s voice is starting to do that thing where he sounds a little crazy, a little manic. Whatever is going on inside his head is a mystery, but at least it looks like Megumi’s words have affected him, if only just a little. “You could do so much better! You could have anyone you want!”
“And yet I’m stuck here with you!”
There’s the briefest moment of silence before Megumi breaks entirely.
“You say I can have whoever I want, but that’s a load of shit, isn’t it? You’re so fucking tortured to be here with me, doing this with me. Just get the hell out of here if it’s so disgusting to you. Go get Sukuna and fuck off. At least Sukuna wants me.”
In the next instant he’s on his back with piercing blue eyes boring into him, too close for comfort.
“So mouthy,” Gojo growls. The sound of it shoots through Megumi, disturbing the flames that have spread through him in the time since his last orgasm. “Is that what you think, Megumi? That I don’t want you?”
Megumi swallows, mouth suddenly dry as every cell in his body screams for Gojo’s touch.
“If you do, you sure have a funny way of showing it.”
“I’m not supposed to show it. You’re my student.”
Megumi’s fingers flex against the sheets where he grips them, trying to hold himself back from throwing himself at Gojo again no matter how badly he needs it. “Since when do you care about getting in trouble?” he grouses. “They can’t do anything to you.” He feels Gojo’s cock throb against his hip—when did he get hard again?—and presses harder, encouraged by the reaction. “You’re above the rules and you know it. If you want me, you can have me. Who gives a fuck about what people think?”
“I don’t,” Gojo answers. “I care about your well-being.”
“Then fuck me or find someone who will.” He can feel the sweat beginning to roll off of him again, but he’s determined not to lose himself this time. “If you can stand it.”
“I’m the only one whose touch will heal you,” Gojo says, and Megumi thrills at the hint of pride, or maybe possessiveness, in his voice. He chases it.
“And why is that?”
The smirk that curls Gojo’s lips looks delicious. Megumi wants to taste it. “Sukuna says your heart is bound to me. What does that mean, Megumi-chan? Why don’t you tell me?”
“You know what it means,” Megumi snaps. He thrusts his hips upward, losing the battle with his self-control, and groans. “Stop fucking teasing me.”
Gojo’s smirk widens into a grin, his eyes sparkling with heat and mischief as he leans down toward Megumi. Megumi arches up instinctively, seeking out Gojo’s lips, but Gojo remains infuriatingly just out of reach.
“Satoru!”
“Listen very closely,” Gojo says, breath ghosting over Megumi’s lips, driving him wild. “I want you. And if you would stop being a brat for two minutes, I could show you just how good I can make you feel.”
The words set Megumi aflame. He is desperate for it. “Two minutes—doesn’t seem—very long,” he snarks between gasps. Gojo’s dark chuckle has him biting back a whimper. “Or are you all talk and no action?”
Gojo leans all the way down to Megumi’s ear and presses his lips against it, breathing hot air into his ear until he’s writhing with desire. “You’ll pay for that,” he whispers. Megumi’s heart rate spikes.
He finds himself pressed into the bed again, this time with intent. He can see now how much Gojo had been holding back before; this time, Gojo’s hands are everywhere, his hips rolling in a steady rhythm as he explores Megumi’s body and maneuvers him exactly how he wants him. His teeth gently pull at Megumi’s earlobe and he moans, already oversensitive and desperate for release.
“Satoru,” he pants, “Come on, hurry up and fuck me already.”
Gojo doesn’t respond—can’t, probably, with the way his lips graze the side of Megumi’s neck and then latch on, forcefully pulling huffs and moans and gasps of pleasure the longer he sucks.
The layer of sweat covering Megumi’s body lends a wicked slickness to the way their bodies move together, and Gojo uses it to his advantage. The way he moves—the way they move together, really—feels as natural as breathing. Megumi loses himself in the onslaught of sensations: Gojo’s lips and teeth on his neck, his ear, his lips, his collarbone; Gojo’s hands in his hair, wrapped around his waist, smoothing down his sides, gripping his thighs; Gojo’s strong legs pushing his own apart, open; Gojo’s thick cock sliding against his hip; Gojo’s long fingers wrapping around them both and jerking until Megumi is too incoherent to beg for more.
Just when he’s ready to give in and let himself go again, the pressure around him and on top of him disappears.
“Back in a flash!” Gojo says, and before Megumi can finish saying, “WHAT?” he’s already reappeared on top of him again. He holds up a little clear bottle and dangles it in front of Megumi’s face. “Had to make a quick pit stop.” He settles back between Megumi’s legs as if he didn’t just literally leave the room while Megumi was trying to come, but at this point Megumi will do literally anything to get Gojo’s dick inside of him, even if it means letting his obnoxiousness slide.
He rolls his eyes, twisting his fingers in Gojo’s hair and pulling him down for a rough kiss as he spreads his legs wide. As they kiss, Megumi hears the pop of the bottle opening, and not long after feels the press of something slick against his hole.
Gojo’s finger slides in easily, with no resistance from Megumi.
“Mm,” Gojo hums into their kiss. He pulls back just enough to speak. “Looks like you’re already ready for me.”
Megumi nods, pulling Gojo closer as he squirms against the foreign touch. It feels icy hot, burning and soothing as his body fights the curse flowing through him.
“Okay, relax, baby. I’m gonna make you feel incredible.”
He whines when the finger disappears, but then he feels something much thicker press bluntly against his hole, and that feels good. “Come on, come on,” he gasps. “Do it, please, Satoru, please.” He cries out in pleasure when the head of Gojo’s cock slides past his rim, gasping, panting, until at long last, Gojo’s hips meet Megumi’s. He’s all the way in. Fuck.
“Fuck,” Megumi echoes. “Oh, fuck, Sensei, fuck me.”
The sound that comes out of Gojo’s mouth is strangled, like he didn’t mean to let it out.
“What did I tell you about calling me that?”
Megumi isn’t even listening. All he can think about is how fucking incredible everything feels. Everywhere they touch, every single glide of skin against skin, is pure rapture.
“Sensei, fuck, ah—”
“Shit,” Gojo gasps. “Megumi, I’m not going to last.” His thrusts are hard and punishing—greedy. Megumi wraps his legs tighter and pulls Gojo’s hips against himself harder, forcing him deeper. Gojo groans. “That’s it, Megumi. Come on. Use me. Let me make you feel good.”
Just like before, the pleasure builds slowly until it begins to reach a crescendo; but this time, the sensation builds from within, pulsing through him with every rough thrust, pumping him full of it until his vision goes white—“Gojo-sensei…!”—and he can’t see or hear anything else. There is only this peak of ecstasy, stretching on for what feels like an eternity.
Eventually, he begins to come down. As he does, he realizes that the persistent heat and thrum of the curse is gone. He registers that, and the relief he feels knowing he’ll be okay, before he registers any of his surroundings.
There’s a weight on his chest preventing him from taking deep breaths, but he doesn’t mind. Weakly, he brings his hands around Gojo’s back and drapes them there in a lazy hold. Gojo doesn’t move yet, so Megumi waits him out, drawing slow, nonsensical patterns across his back while he waits.
Minutes tick by before either of them says anything. At some point, he becomes aware of the fact that his teacher’s dick is still inside him; and though his face heats at the realization, he has to admit (to himself only) that it feels nice—intimate—to stay like this for now.
“Gojo-sensei,” Megumi eventually calls when it feels like it’s been too long. “Are you okay?”
Gojo stirs above him, slowly pushing himself up onto his forearms to relieve Megumi of his full weight. For a second it looks like he’s going to answer, but changes his mind and leans in instead, catching Megumi’s lips in a soft, lingering kiss.
Megumi’s heart skips several beats at the tender display of affection. He knows he must look completely wrecked—he definitely feels it—and he knows he definitely made an idiot of himself while he was out of his mind. Yet, here Gojo is, still kissing him even though he’s not in anymore immediate danger.
“I’m good,” Gojo murmurs after pressing another chaste kiss to Megumi’s lips. “How are you feeling? Your cursed energy feels like it’s back to normal.”
“Yeah,” Megumi agrees. “I feel good.”
“No more heat?”
“No more heat.” He pauses, briefly considering, before adding, “It’s just me now.”
“Good,” Gojo answers with a soft smile.
With that, he moves to unsheathe himself from Megumi’s hole, pulling out with one final, quiet moan. He rolls over and flops onto his back next to Megumi. Megumi automatically rolls onto his side to cuddle against Gojo, resting his head on Gojo’s chest where he can listen to the steadying sound of Gojo’s heartbeat.
“Sure you’re okay?” Gojo asks, wrapping his arm around Megumi and pulling him close.
Megumi nods. “Just… don’t leave, okay?”
“Sure,” he answers easily. “I’ll stay as long as you need me.”
They settle into a peaceful silence then, and Megumi nearly finds himself dozing off before Gojo finally speaks again.
“Megumi.”
Megumi’s eyelids are heavy, but he manages to keep his eyes open. He doesn’t have a clue what time it is, but he’s exhausted.
“Hm?”
“I want you to know something.”
“What is it?” he mumbles sleepily.
“It’s important, so stay awake, okay?”
Megumi nods, adjusting himself so that he’s looking up into Gojo’s eyes where Gojo gazes down at him.
“I will always do whatever it takes to keep you safe,” Gojo says. “But it’s not just because I have to. I want to help you. I want to be near you, and to know you’re healthy and happy. I don’t always know what is the right thing to do, especially when it comes to you. I don’t know how to make you happy. All I can do is keep you safe.” Long fingers card through Megumi’s hair and scratch lightly against his scalp with a level of gentle care he can’t ever remember feeling from Gojo. “I have always wanted you to have the freedom to enjoy your youth. I never wanted to get in the way of that. This—the two of us together, like this—I just thought if it ever happened, it would be later, years down the road when you’ve had time to grow up and figure out what you want.”
“I know what I want,” Megumi says with a conviction he feels deep in his soul. “Whether this happens now or years from now, my feelings won’t change. You heard what Sukuna said: my heart is yours. And don’t you dare act like you somehow cursed me into it, because you didn’t. I am the only person in charge of how I feel. Got that?”
Gojo’s answering smile is gut-wrenchingly soft. “You always know just what to say, Megumin.”
Megumi’s face heats once again at his own blunt speech. “Yeah, well…” He buries his face in the crook of Gojo’s neck and hugs him tighter. He feels a kiss pressed to the top of his head and can’t help the small smile that results.
“So you’re sure this is what you want, then?” Gojo asks. “Think carefully, because if you say yes, I’m going to hold you to it.”
Megumi doesn’t need to think. “Yes.”
“I said you should think—”
“I’ve thought enough. I want… you.” And then, just so that there’s no confusion, he adds, “Forever.”
Gojo’s body shakes beneath him as he laughs quietly.
“Well alright then. Forever, it is.”