Archive of Our Own ^beta

I beg you, eat me up. Want me down to the marrow.
— Helene Cixous, The Love of the Wolf

In the morning light the stretched line of Megumi’s body is a siren call. Arms overhead, spine arching off the mattress catlike as he yawns still sleep-rough. The hem of his shirt rides up. Yuuji’s eyes trace the sliver of exposed skin, the ladder of ribs, the shadows pooled in the hollows of his collarbones. Megumi’s wrists cross above his head, casual, unselfconscious.

Yuuji’s mouth goes dry.

One hand. That’s all it would take. One hand to circle both wrists, press them into the pillow, hold him there. Test how long before Megumi would struggle. If he’d struggle at all, or if he’d go slack beneath him, eyes wide and waiting—

“You okay?” Megumi asks, lowering his arms. Yuuji must have been gawking.

“Yeah,” he says, blinking. His voice comes out scraped. “Yeah, just. Admiring the view.”

Megumi’s mouth quirks. He rolls into Yuuji’s side, and Yuuji loops an arm around him. They slot together like puzzle pieces. The wanting sits like a stone in Yuuji’s throat.

***

It’s new, between them. And old, always in the making, true from the very moment Yuuji put his eyes on him in a hospital corridor, true from the instant he decided to swallow the world’s end for him, but also new. Yuuji waited for them to be done with school to court him, take him on cheesy dates and late night walks absurd and enormous in their normalcy; shy and chivalrous and ridiculous but never tentative, never uncertain. All in, marrow-deep. He set the terms before that, cards on the table, I’m in love with you months before the kiss, and Megumi had smiled tiny and happy and trusting, unsurprised. Who else could it ever be? Who else? Yuuji swam to him in the abyss of his soul. Megumi has seen him with his heart torn out. Yuuji’s life is off-kilter without him. Megumi is his logical conclusion. 

It’s new, also, between their bodies. Yuuji spent days, weeks, months dreaming him. Imagining him bare and open, arching towards Yuuji sunflowerlike. The slightest contact would set him alight—Megumi’s hand curled over his bicep, Megumi’s knee against his under the table, blazing through two layers of denim, the brush of Megumi’s fingers over his knuckles when sharing a water bottle. He’d pictured their first time in his mind’s eye so often he’d worn the tape thin, to the point of static, but centrally it had remained the same: he’d lay Megumi down, kiss him worshipful, word the unwordable with his hands. 

The script he’d rehearsed had vanished on Megumi’s twin-sized mattress. Megumi had licked into his mouth like he’d been waiting for Yuuji to catch up. Yuuji had planned for reverence, something ceremonial; instead Megumi had hooked a leg around his waist and pulled him in urgent and untamed, and Yuuji’s wanting had morphed into a gut-stab. Megumi’s touch had been guiding all night—on Yuuji’s jaw, his hips, molding over the back of his hands. In the novel, beautiful noises he’d made there had been an edge of pleading, agonized hunger.

Yuuji hadn’t understood the voltage of it, back then.

***

They fuck in the shower three days after that first afterimage, the first inkling of something awry. Steam thick enough to choke on, Megumi braced against tile, water sluicing down the curve of his spine. Yuuji grips his hips, keeps the rhythm steady, watches the flex of muscle under skin. Megumi’s cheek is pressed to the wall, mouth open, panting, little huffs of air in the shape of pleasure. His hands scramble for purchase on the slick surface.

Yuuji’s palm slides up his back. The knobs of his spine. The sharp wings of his shoulder blades. Higher. The nape of his neck, shiny dark hair plastered to skin.

He could fist his hand there. Tilt Megumi’s head back, or press it forward. Pin his face to the tile and fuck him harder, watch him take it with nowhere to go. 

Yuuji’s rhythm falters. He pulls Megumi upright instead, arms around his chest, buries his face in the crook of his neck and finishes with his eyes screwed shut. Mouths I love you into Megumi’s wet skin, the words always inadequate. The water runs cold before either of them moves.

*

Megumi is reading on the couch, legs tucked under him. Yuuji brings him tea without asking, sets it on the side table. Megumi glances up and smiles, small and private, meant only for Yuuji, before returning to his book.

“Thanks,” he murmurs after a moment, reaching for the cup without looking.

“Anytime,” Yuuji says. He should move. Go do something else. He said he’d empty the dishwasher, and there’s paperwork he’s been putting off. Instead he stands there, watching Megumi’s fingers curl around ceramic, the way his throat works when he swallows.

The book is thick, hardcover. Megumi holds it one-handed now, elbow propped on the armrest. His other hand rests on his thigh, loose and unguarded.

Yuuji imagines taking the book. Setting it aside. Megumi would tilt his face up, questioning. Yuuji wouldn’t explain. Would just take that wrist, bring it to his mouth. Press his teeth to the pale underside where the veins show through. Not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to leave a mark. Hard enough for Megumi to see it every time he looks down at his own hand for the next few days. The prospect goes to Yuuji’s head faster than aged sake. He’s ravenous.

“You’re staring,” Megumi says, not looking up from his page.

“Sorry.” Yuuji retreats to the kitchen, runs the tap cold, drinks until his stomach hurts.

*

Saturday night they go to some izakaya in Shinjuku with Kugisaki and her girlfriend. The place is cramped, loud, the atmosphere heavy with smoke and sweet soy and sizzling meat. Megumi sits pressed against Yuuji’s side, thigh warm against his. They share yakitori, Megumi stealing the best pieces off Yuuji’s plate with his chopsticks. When he laughs at something Kugisaki says, his head tips back, throat exposed, the tendon there taut and vulnerable.

Yuuji sees himself setting his mouth there. He always wants Megumi, a vague awareness of the distance between them like a buzz in his epidermis at all times, but the force of this particular vision almost knocks him over. The throb of Megumi’s pulse against his tongue, the quick inhale when Yuuji’s teeth skim him. If he closed his hand around the column of Megumi’s throat, thumb settled in the hollow, would Megumi’s pupils blow wide? How much pressure would Yuuji have to apply for his breath to catch? For his lips to part soundless, for—

“Earth to Itadori,” Kugisaki says, waving a hand in front of his face.

“Hm?”

“I asked if you wanted another beer.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.”

Under the table, Megumi’s hand finds his knee. Yuuji covers it with his own, laces their fingers together. Holds on too tight. Megumi doesn’t pull away, but when Yuuji glances over, there’s  curiosity curling in his eyes. Yuuji looks away first.

*

Sunday morning, golden and lazy. They don’t leave bed until past noon. The sex is slow, face-to-face, Megumi’s legs wrapped around Yuuji’s waist. Afterward Yuuji fetches water, comes back to find Megumi sprawled on his stomach, face buried in the pillow. There’s a bruise on his hip. Small, purpling. Yuuji’s fingers, from where he gripped too hard.

He sets the water down. Sits on the edge of the bed. The bruise is the size of a thumbprint. He could make more. Could map Megumi’s entire body in shades of violet and blue. Fingerprints scoring his legs. The remnants of Yuuji’s grip circling his wrists, his ankles. Bite marks high on the inside of his thigh, where leg gives way to groin and the skin goes tender, where Megumi would feel it when he walks. Love bites pain-dark, burgundy, clustered at the hinge of his jaw, the slope where neck meets shoulder. Traces that wouldn’t fade for days. Proofs of Yuuji’s presence. An undeniable message for anyone who’d see Megumi bare.

“You coming back to bed?” Megumi asks, voice muffled.

“Yeah,” Yuuji says. He pulls the sheet up over them both, tucks it carefully around Megumi’s shoulders. Keeps his hands to himself.

*

Tuesday. They’re cooking dinner together, some recipe Nobara sent that looked easy and isn’t. Megumi chops vegetables with focused precision while Yuuji manages three pans at once, the kitchen filling with steam and the smell of garlic and ginger.

“Pass me the soy sauce?” Yuuji asks.

Megumi hands it over without looking up from his cutting board. The motion is automatic, easy. Yuuji says “add the mushrooms now” and Megumi does. Says “taste this” and Megumi leans in, lips parting for the spoon Yuuji holds out.

“Needs salt,” Megumi says.

“Yeah?” Yuuji reaches for it, but he’s watching Megumi’s mouth. The thought slips in: Megumi follows his instructions without question, moves when Yuuji tells him to in this kitchen like he does on the battlefield. How easy it would be to say other things. Kneel. Open your mouth. Wider. And Megumi would, wouldn’t he? Would look up at Yuuji with those dark eyes and obey, and Yuuji could—

The pan hisses, something burning. Yuuji jerks back to it, lowers the heat.

“Yuuji,” Megumi scolds.

“Sorry!” Yuuji yelps. “Sorry, distracted.”

That night Yuuji lies awake, Megumi asleep beside him. The room is dark except for the blue glow of the alarm clock. Yuuji stares at the ceiling and catalogs every terrible thing he’s craved in the past week. The list is long. The desire doesn’t stop.

He gets up, goes to the bathroom, splashes water on his face. In the mirror his eyes look hollow. Haunted. He clutches the edge of the sink hard enough that his knuckles go white.

Whose hands are these?

When he comes back to bed, he keeps to his side. Doesn’t reach for Megumi even when Megumi shifts toward him in sleep, seeking warmth.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

*

Slumber takes him eventually. He finds himself in their bedroom but the proportions are wrong, the ceiling too high, the walls breathing. Megumi is there, under him, around him. Skin fever-hot where they’re joined. Yuuji moves and Megumi moves with him, perfect synchronicity, the slide and pull of it obscene and right.

Megumi’s wrists are pinned above his head. Yuuji doesn’t remember putting them there but his hand traps both, holds them down. Megumi writhes beneath him, beautiful, mouth open on a sound Yuuji can’t hear. The room is silent except for the wet slap of flesh, the creak of the bed. Megumi’s eyes are wide and liquid and fixed on him.

“Please,” Megumi says, or maybe Yuuji just knows he’s saying it, reading it in the shape of his mouth. “Please, Yuuji—”

Yuuji looks down at where they’re connected. His hips rolling forward, Megumi taking him, opening around him. Megumi is so tight around him it’s almost painful, clenching and fluttering, and when Yuuji pulls back there’s red on his cock, streaking Megumi’s thighs. Ice spills inside Yuuji’s veins.

His hand on Megumi’s wrists isn’t his hand. The fingers are too long, tipped in claws. Black marks crawl up the forearm like cracks in porcelain, like rot spreading through wood. Yuuji tries to let go but his grip only tightens. Megumi gasps, bones grinding together under Sukuna’s palm.

“No,” Yuuji says, or tries to. His voice comes out layered, double-tracked. His own voice and something else beneath it, something old and amused.

He looks down again. The marks are spreading across his chest now, blooming like ink in water. His other hand is on Megumi’s hip, holding him in place, and the grip is bruising, vicious. Claws dimple skin. Pierce it. Megumi’s blood wells up hot and red between his fingers.

Megumi is still looking at him. Still saying please. Like he wants this. Like he’s asking for it.

Yuuji tries to pull out, pull away. Can’t. His body won’t obey. He thrusts forward instead, deeper, and the motion tears something. Megumi’s back arches, mouth open on a scream Yuuji still can’t hear. The black marks spread from Yuuji’s skin to his, crawling across Megumi’s chest, his throat. Claiming him. Rewriting him.

Mine, something purrs inside Yuuji’s skull. Always mine.

He doesn’t know if it’s his thought or Sukuna’s. Doesn’t know where one ends and the other begins. His hand is around Megumi’s throat now. He doesn’t remember moving it but the claws are denting the skin there, the vulnerable softness. Megumi’s pulse rabbits against his palm. One squeeze and he could—

Megumi smiles. Blood on his teeth. The marks cover his face now, twin slashes under each eye. His eyes aren’t green anymore. They’re Sukuna’s eyes, red and gleeful and hungry.

“Deeper,” Megumi says in Sukuna’s voice. “Come on. I know you want to.”

Yuuji is inside him and Sukuna is inside Yuuji and Sukuna is inside Megumi and there’s no separation anymore, no boundary between bodies. The geometry collapses. Yuuji looks down and sees his cock buried in Megumi but also sees Megumi’s body from the inside, the meat of him, the blood and viscera. Sees himself tearing through it. Consuming it.

His mouth finds Megumi’s throat. He means to kiss but his teeth are too sharp, they sink in, they tear. Copper floods his tongue. Megumi writhes under him, against him, inside him. The pleasure is immense and terrible. Yuuji comes and comes and it feels like dying, like killing, like—

He wakes up gasping, hard and horrified. For a moment he doesn’t know where he is. The room resolves slowly: their bedroom, unchanged, the alarm clock reading 3:47. Megumi asleep beside him, breathing even and undisturbed.

Yuuji’s hands are shaking. He looks at them in the dark. His hands. Just his hands. Blunt human nails, no claws. No marks crawling up his forearms. The skin pale and ordinary in the blue glow of the clock.

He’s still hard. The wanting hasn’t gone anywhere. It just sits there, patient and implacable, waiting.

Yuuji gets up carefully, trying not to wake Megumi. Makes it to the bathroom, closes the door. Braces against the sink and stares at his reflection. His eyes are his own. Brown, wide, terrified.

He strips off his boxers. Takes himself in hand. The release when it comes is bitter, joyless. He bites his other hand to stay quiet, and afterward there are teeth marks in the meat of his palm, small half-moons that throb.

He washes his hands. His face. Stares at the mirror until his reflection stops looking like a stranger.

When he comes back to bed, Megumi has rolled into the space Yuuji left, always searching for him, even when unconscious. Yuuji stands at the edge of the mattress and watches him. The curve of his spine under the thin t-shirt. The soft dark hair curling at his nape. The vulnerability of him, trusting and undefended.

I could destroy you, Yuuji thinks. I could destroy you.

He doesn’t get back in bed. Takes a pillow and goes to the couch instead, wraps himself in the throw blanket that smells like fabric softener and Megumi’s shampoo. Lies there until the sky starts to lighten, until he hears Megumi moving in the bedroom.

“Yuuji?” Megumi’s voice is sleep-rough, questioning. “You out here?”

“Yeah,” Yuuji calls back. “Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t want to keep you up.”

A pause. Then the pad of bare feet on the floor. Megumi appears in the doorway, squinting in the grey dawn light. His hair is a mess, shirt rumpled. He looks soft and real and breakable.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Fine,” Yuuji says. “Go back to bed, baby. It’s early.”

Megumi doesn’t move. Studies him with this piercing gaze that misses nothing. “Did you have a nightmare?”

“Something like that.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No,” Yuuji says, too quick. “It’s fine. Just a bad dream.”

Megumi’s mouth does something complicated. He nods once, then retreats back to the bedroom without another word. The door doesn’t quite close all the way. An invitation, if Yuuji wants to take it.

He doesn’t. He stays on the couch, watching the room fill with watery morning light, and tries not to think about the taste of metal on his tongue.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

***

After the dream, Yuuji doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Megumi leans into him during the day, habitual and instinctive. Yuuji’s body goes rigid, Sukuna’s grin still vivid beneath his eyelids. In bed Megumi rolls toward him, hand sliding across Yuuji’s chest. A familiar gesture, an invitation. Yuuji catches his wrist before he can think about it.

“Not tonight,” he says. “I’m wiped.”

Megumi goes still. “Okay.”

When they do have sex, Yuuji moves like he’s being watched. Keeps it functional. Missionary, face to face; he stares at Megumi’s chin the entire time. Finishes fast and pulls out even faster. Megumi reaches for him after and Yuuji is already up, already moving toward the bathroom.

“I’m just gonna—” he gestures vaguely. “Be right back.”

He takes longer than necessary. When he comes out, Megumi is on his side, facing away.

*

Two weeks in, Megumi tries.

Yuuji is working at the kitchen table, laptop open, trying to focus on a mission report. Megumi appears beside him, fresh from the shower, wearing one of Yuuji’s old shirts and nothing else. His hair is still damp.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey.” Yuuji doesn’t look up from his screen.

Megumi touches his shoulder. Lets his hand drift down Yuuji’s arm, slow, certain. “You’ve been working for hours.”

“Yeah, I need to finish this.”

“You could take a break.” His voice lowers a fraction, the way it does when he’s offering more than a suggestion. His fingers toy with the collar of Yuuji’s shirt.

Heat punches through Yuuji so fast he almost chokes on it, immediate and horrifying. His stomach twists. For a moment he sees himself pulling Megumi into his lap, getting his hands in that damp hair and tugging—

He stands abruptly. The chair scrapes loud against the floor. “I really need to finish this.”

Megumi’s hand falls away. “Oh. Okay.”

Yuuji doesn’t miss the confusion in his voice, but he doesn’t turn around either. Just stares at his laptop screen until he hears Megumi retreat to the bedroom.

*

Three weeks. Megumi tries again.

They’re on the couch watching something neither of them is really paying attention to. Megumi shifts closer, thigh pressing against Yuuji’s. His hand finds Yuuji’s knee, palm warm through his sweatpants.

“Yuuji,” he murmurs.

Yuuji’s whole body tenses. “Mm?”

Megumi’s hand slides higher. “We could—”

“I’m good.” Yuuji catches his wrist, moves it back to neutral territory. “Let’s just watch the show.”

“We’re not watching the show.”

“I am.”

Megumi pulls his hand back entirely. Puts space between them on the couch. Says nothing.

The silence stretches. Yuuji keeps his eyes on the TV, the colors swimming nonsensically across the screen. 

*

At four weeks, Megumi tries differently.

Yuuji is at his desk reading mission reports from Kyoto pink stabilo in hand, something about a cluster of low level curses that would be insignificant on their own but ring all sorts of alarms popping up close together. He hears the door of their old refrigerator creak and then a beat later Megumi appears in the doorway. He watches Yuuji for a moment. Yuuji allows himself to hold his gaze, stack of papers forgotten in his slackening grip. He drinks it all in like a portless sailor: the determined jut of Megumi’s chin, the proud glint in his green irises. 

Megumi crosses the room with purpose. He swivels Yuuji’s chair, plucks the reports from Yuuji’s hands, sets them on the desk with the highlighter. 

Then he drops to his knees. 

Yuuji’s breath catches. “Baby, what—”

Megumi’s palms settle on his thighs. He leans forward, presses his face against the front of Yuuji’s sweatpants. Noses at him through the fabric, deliberate.

Yuuji’s voice comes out strangled. “Megumi—” 

Megumi doesn’t stop. He mouths at him through the cotton, hands sliding higher, grip tightening. His breathing is already heavier, and when Yuuji looks down he realizes with a jolt that he’s pressing his thighs together, seeking friction. 

Yuuji’s body responds. He can’t help it; blood rushes south, his cock filling. Megumi lets out a soft breath when he feels it, opens his mouth against the growing hardness, gets the fabric wet with spit. Yuuji’s fingers move to his hair without permission. His fingers tangle in the black. He could pull Megumi away. 

He doesn’t. He lifts his ass when Megumi pulls the waistband down, his boxers too. The first touch of Megumi’s tongue is tentative, then bolder. He takes Yuuji in, practiced, and makes this needy sound low in his throat. His free hand disappears between his own legs, rubbing himself through his pants. Yuuji’s hips buck up. His hand is still twisted in Megumi’s hair. I should apologize. Megumi presses him back into the supple leather of the chair and Yuuji’s abdomen goes taut, his muscles locking. He stays frozen while Megumi works, head bobbing, little muffled moans escaping around Yuuji's cock.

Megumi’s rolling his hips now, grinding against his own hand. When he pulls off for a second to catch his breath Yuuji sees his pupils blown wide, his lips slick and swollen.

“Yuuji,” he gasps, and the name is hungry in his mouth, aching. Yuuji can’t think about the grief he hears in the Yuu, the way the ji reaches out for him like a tendril of yearning.

“Keep going,” he grunts.

Megumi goes back down, takes him deeper. The wet, rhythmic slick of it fills their quiet apartment. Yuuji can see him working himself through his pants, can hear him gagging softly every time the head of Yuuji’s cock hits his throat. Yuuji tightens his hold in his hair and Megumi moans around him open and wild. 

The urge to push is there, implacable and vicious. God, he wants to make Megumi choke on it, wants to see tears streak down his face—

His vision whites out and he comes. No buildup, no warning—a mechanical release. Megumi swallows it down, makes this satisfied little noise, keeps sucking until Yuuji has to physically pull him off because the sensation has gone from good to unbearable.

Megumi sits back on his heels, still working himself frantically. His free hand reaches for Yuuji’s knee, holding on like he needs the anchor. When he spills it’s with his eyes closed, a broken keen, body curling forward.

The silence after is thick. Megumi stays on his knees, panting. He looks up at Yuuji eyes big and glassy and unfocused, the tilt of his head hopeful and fragile. Yuuji reaches down and cups his face with one hand, thumb brushing across his lower lip. The tenderness comes without thought; written in Yuuji’s bones like code, a command overriding his carefully constructed restraint. He needs me. 

“Come here,” he says hoarsely.

Megumi climbs into his lap. Tucks his face into Yuuji’s neck, Yuuji’s arms coming around him automatically, holding him close. His hand strokes through Megumi’s hair, gentle now, trying to make up for the grip from before. 

“Was that okay?” Megumi asks against his neck, voice small.

“Yeah.” The lie tastes bitter. “Yeah, baby. You’re always good.”

*

The thing is, one-time success emboldens Megumi.

Yuuji is making dinner when he comes up behind him, slides his arms around Yuuji’s waist, presses his face between his shoulder blades. His hands are warm through Yuuji's shirt.

“Hey,” Yuuji says. It comes out tight.

“Hey.” Megumi’s hands are flat against his stomach. He’s barely wearing anything—sleep shorts and one of Yuuji's old tanks, the kind that hangs loose on his frame, allows a tantalizing peek of his pectoral muscles.  “Missed you today.”

“Yeah, long day.”

Megumi’s hands start to wander. One slides up Yuuji’s chest, slow and intentional. The other dips lower, fingers playing with his waistband. “Let me help you relax.” His voice has dropped into a curved, supple thing. He presses closer, hips flush against Yuuji’s back. Mouths at his flexed trapezius through the fabric of his shirt. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Dinner can wait.”

Lust hits Yuuji like a fist. He imagines spinning Megumi around, pressing him against the counter—

He steps away from the stove. Away from Megumi’s touch. He’s already proven that he can’t be trusted once Megumi gets his hands on him. 

“Baby, I’m exhausted.”

Megumi’s arms fall. He doesn’t move for a moment, just stands there in the space Yuuji vacated. “Yuuji.”

“What?”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on. I’m just tired.”

“You’re always tired lately.”

Yuuji focuses on the pan, on stirring, on anything but the hurt in Megumi’s voice. “Work’s been busy. That shit in Kyoto is a real headache.”

“Is it me?” Megumi asks quietly. “Did I do something?”

“No.” The answer comes too fast. “No, you didn’t do anything.”

“Then what—”

“Can we not do this right now? I’m trying to cook.”

It’s harsh, harsher than he usually allows himself to speak to someone he loves. He regrets it the moment it crosses his lips, but he can’t take it back. Megumi’s expression shutters—he leaves the kitchen. Yuuji hears the bedroom door close, punctuation mark.

When Yuuji brings dinner to the table twenty minutes later, Megumi has changed into his own clothes. Sweatpants and a hoodie, fully covered. He doesn’t look at Yuuji when he eats.

*

Five weeks in Megumi stops trying.

He doesn’t reach for Yuuji anymore, stops drifting into his orbit on instinct. Doesn’t initiate. When Yuuji does touch him, casual, the way that’s supposed to be safe—Megumi doesn’t lean into it. Just tolerates it, stone-still, until Yuuji pulls away.

They sleep back to back now. The bed feels enormous.

*

Six weeks. It gets worse.

Megumi is doing laundry, folding Yuuji’s clothes with mechanical precision. Yuuji tries to help and Megumi shifts away when their hands brush.

“I’ve got it,” Megumi says.

“I can help—”

“I said I’ve got it.”

His voice is flat. Yuuji has heard Megumi angry, has heard him hurt, but this tonelessness is new. Yuuji curls his fists uselessly at his sides. 

*

At dinner he barely eats. Pushes food around his plate.

“You okay?” Yuuji asks.

“Fine.”

“You’re not eating.”

“Not hungry.”

“Megumi—”

“I’m fine, Yuuji.” Megumi stands, takes his plate to the sink. “I’m going to bed.”

It’s seven thirty.

*

Seven weeks. Everything Yuuji does is wrong.

He tries to give Megumi space and Megumi’s jaw gets tighter. He tries to close the distance and Megumi flinches away. He can’t win. Can’t fix it. Can’t give Megumi the one thing he seems to want.

They train together and Megumi moves like he’s trying to break something open. He comes at Yuuji too hard, too fast, strikes snapping through the air with a precision that borders on reckless. Yuuji blocks, dodges. Holds back too obviously, and Megumi’s frustration blooms into something bladed.

“Fight back,” he snaps.

“I am.”

“No, you’re not. You’re treating me like I’m made of glass.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Megumi’s breath stutters, wild around the edges. “Maybe I want you to!” His eyes are moon-wide, furious. “Did you ever think of that?”

Yuuji freezes. The world narrows down to the shape of Megumi’s voice, and he can’t follow it. He can’t go where it’s asking him to go. 

Whatever Megumi sees on his face, it shutters something in him. He turns and walks away. Leaves Yuuji rooted to the mat, heartbeat loud in his ears, mind reeling.

*

At seven and a half weeks, Megumi decides he’s had enough of this cold war.

Yuuji is brushing his teeth when he appears in the bathroom doorway. He’s wearing sleep clothes but he looks wide awake, wired.

“I need to know,” he says without preamble. “Are you done with me?”

Yuuji spits, rinses. “What?”

“You heard me.” Megumi’s voice is controlled but there is a slight tremor in his hands. “Are you done? Because if you are, just say it. Don’t—don’t make me guess.”

“I’m not—” Yuuji turns to face him. “Megumi, I’m not done with you. Why would you—”

“Because you won’t touch me!” The words come out raw. “Because you look at me like—like you can’t stand to be near me. Because every time I try to—” He stops. Swallows hard. “I thought maybe I was doing something wrong. So I tried—I tried everything I could think of and you just—”

He stops again. Looks away. There’s color high in his cheeks, the kind that means he’s embarrassed. Humiliated. Yuuji has humiliated him. 

“You weren’t doing anything wrong,” Yuuji says, his sentence cracking. “Megumi, you weren’t—”

“Then what?” Megumi’s eyes are bright now, wet. “What is it? Just tell me so I can—so I can fix it or—or leave or whatever you need me to—”

“Don’t.” Yuuji steps forward without thinking. Panic has an acrid taste.“Don’t say that. I don’t want you to leave.”

“Then what do you want?” Megumi’s voice breaks. “Because I don’t—I don’t know anymore. You were supposed to be the one thing I didn’t have to figure out, and I can’t—” He stops. Presses the heel of his hand against his eyes. “Forget it. Just forget it.”

He tries to leave. Yuuji catches his wrist on instinct. “Wait.”

Megumi goes very still. Looks down at Yuuji’s hand on his wrist. When he looks up again his eyes are empty. “Let go.”

“Megumi—”

“Let go of me, Yuuji.”

Yuuji drops his hand like he’s been burned. Megumi walks out. The bedroom door closes.

Yuuji stands in the bathroom, staring at his own hand, and can’t breathe through the guilt.

*

Eight weeks. Friday night. They haven’t had sex in over a month. Have barely touched in longer. The apartment feels too small and too empty at the same time, like the walls are closing in while the distance between them grows infinite.

Yuuji is making dinner—comfort food, katsudon, Megumi’s favorite. A peace offering he doesn’t know how to articulate. An apology for something he can’t name.

Megumi sits at the table, scrolling through his phone, pointedly not watching Yuuji cook.

“Food’s almost ready,” Yuuji says, trying for lightness. Trying for normal.

“Great.”

The single word drops between them, lifeless and heavy. Yuuji plates the food with careful precision. Sets Megumi’s bowl in front of him like an oblation. Sits down across from him.

They eat in silence. Megumi takes three bites, then puts his chopsticks down.

“Not hungry?” Yuuji asks.

“Not really.”

“You should eat something.”

“I’m fine.”

“You barely ate lunch either.”

“Since when do you care?” The words come out barbed, surgical. Megumi looks up, eyes flat and cold in a way they never are with Yuuji.

Heat flares in Yuuji’s chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Megumi looks back down at his phone. Dismissive. “Forget it.”

“No, say it.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“Clearly there is—”

“You want me to say it?” Megumi’s voice is ice, the tone he uses on strangers, on enemies. “Fine. You’re too spineless to even break up with me properly. Just going to keep avoiding me until I do it for you?”

“I don’t want to break up with you.”

“Yeah,” Megumi spits, “Because then you’d have to live alone with yourself.”

The implication lands like a slap. Yuuji’s jaw clenches. “Fuck you.”

“You won’t even do that.” Megumi’s mouth curves, sharp and cutting. “That’s the whole problem.”

“Watch it—”

“Or what?” Megumi stands, chair scraping. “You’ll avoid me harder? Sleep on the couch more? Maybe if you’re really committed you could just move out—”

“Maybe I should!” Yuuji’s on his feet now too, anger hot and immediate. “Since apparently I can’t do anything right—”

“You don’t do anything at all!” Megumi’s control shatters, voice rising. “That’s the point! You just sit there looking guilty and sad like I’m some fucking problem you need to solve—”

“You think this is easy for me?”

“I think you’re a coward.” Megumi says it again, deliberate and cruel. “I think you’d rather run away than actually deal with—”

Yuuji moves without thinking. Closes the distance between them in two strides, gets in Megumi’s space. “Say that again.”

“Coward.” Megumi doesn’t back down, tilts his chin up. “You’re a—”

Yuuji grabs him. Means to push him back, means to—he doesn’t know what he means to do. But the second his hands are on Megumi, the second he feels solid warmth under his palms, something shifts. The anger doesn’t disappear but it transmutes, becomes something else, something that’s been clawing under his skin for weeks.

Megumi makes a sound, grabs back. His fingers twist in Yuuji’s shirt, yanking him closer instead of pushing away. Their faces are inches apart, both breathing hard.

“I hate you,” Megumi says, but his grip is desperate, contradictory.

“Yeah?” Yuuji’s hands are on his hips, clutching too hard already. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Fuck you—”

Yuuji doesn’t know who kisses who first. Just knows one second they’re snarling at each other and the next they’re crashing together, all teeth and anger and two months of starvation. It’s not gentle. Megumi bites his lip hard enough to sting and Yuuji shoves him backward until his back hits the wall.

“This what you want?” Yuuji growls against his mouth.

“Shut up.” Megumi’s hands are everywhere, pulling at his clothes, his hair. “Shut up and fuck me.”

Something in Yuuji’s brain just whites out, nuclear blast. He gets his hands under Megumi’s thighs, lifts. Megumi’s legs wrap around his waist immediately, instinctive, and Yuuji staggers them toward the bedroom, kissing him the whole way. Graceless. Feverish. All this restraint, all this agonizing careful distance and now he can’t stand even an inch of space between them.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

They crash through the bedroom door, Yuuji’s shoulder hitting the frame hard. He doesn’t care. Can’t think about anything except getting Megumi horizontal, getting inside him. Megumi’s already pulling at Yuuji’s shirt, yanking it over his head. Yuuji does the same to him, hears fabric tear. Gets his hands on Megumi’s pants, shoves them down along with his boxers. Megumi kicks them off, reaches for Yuuji’s belt.

“Hurry up,” he says, and there’s still anger in his voice, frustration bleeding into something starved.

Yuuji gets his own pants open, shoves them down just enough. Megumi’s hands are on him immediately, wrapping around his cock, and the touch makes Yuuji’s knees weak.

“Bed,” he grits out. “Now.”

They fall onto it, haphazard. He pins Megumi under him, pushes his thighs apart. Megumi spreads for him, and he’s already hard, flushed dark and leaking against his stomach.

“You drive me crazy,” Yuuji says. The words just spill out. “Every fucking day—”

“Then do something about it,” Megumi snaps. He hooks his legs around Yuuji’s waist, pulls him closer. “Stop talking and get inside me.”

Yuuji reaches for the nightstand. Knocks something over, hears it clatter to the floor. Gets the drawer open, finds the lube. His hands are shaking as he slicks his fingers.

He reaches between Megumi’s legs. The first finger goes in with resistance, tight. Megumi tenses, hisses through his teeth.

“When’s the last time—” Yuuji starts.

“What do you think?” Megumi’s voice is sharp. “It’s been over a month, Yuuji.”

Right. Yuuji adds more lube, works his finger in deeper. Megumi’s breathing hard, body adjusting to the stretch.

“More,” Megumi demands. “Come on—”

Yuuji adds a second finger. It’s tight, probably too soon, but Megumi pushes back against his hand. When Yuuji scissors his fingers, Megumi makes this choked sound, back arching.

“Yeah?” Yuuji crooks his fingers, presses up. “Good?”

“Fuck—yes—more—”

Yuuji adds a third finger. The stretch looks like too much but Megumi takes it, hole opening pink around his fingers. His head tips back, throat exposed, and Yuuji leans down, sets his teeth there.

“You thought I didn’t want you?” The words come out rough. He fucks Megumi with his fingers, watches his face. “That’s insane. I want you all the time. I’d live inside you if I could.”

“You wouldn’t touch me,” Megumi pants. His hand comes up to Yuuji’s hair, fists in it. “Wouldn’t even—ah, fuck, right there—”

“Because I couldn’t stop thinking about this.” Yuuji presses deeper. Megumi is hot inside, clenching around his fingers. “Wanted to—”

He stops. Can’t say the rest. Sink my teeth into you. Watch blood bloom underneath your skin. Own you.

“What?” Megumi’s eyes open, lock on his, pupils blown wide. “Wanted to what?”

Yuuji shakes his head. Withdraws his fingers, tearing protest out of Megumi, and slicks himself up. His cock is already leaking, has been since the kitchen. He lines up, the head pressing against Megumi’s rim.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Yes,” Megumi says. “Fuck, yes, just—”

Yuuji pushes in. Too fast, means to go slow but Megumi’s heat is overwhelming. The slide is slick but tight, so tight, and Megumi’s breath punches out of him.

“Oh—” Megumi’s nails dig into Yuuji’s shoulders. “Fuck—”

Yuuji keeps pushing in, works himself deeper. Megumi clenches around him, body gripping him.

“Okay?” Yuuji manages. He’s braced, every muscle pulled taught with the effort to remain still.

“Move,” Megumi demands. His legs tighten around Yuuji’s waist. “Come on—”

Yuuji pulls back and thrusts in. Megumi’s mouth falls open, head lolling back. Yuuji does it again, harder, sets a reckless rhythm that lacks any grace.

“Harder,” Megumi moans. “I can take it—”

Yuuji grabs his wrists, pins them above his head with one hand. The other clutches Megumi’s hip, holds him in place. He fucks him harder, and the sound of it is indecent—flesh on flesh, the wet slide, Megumi’s broken gasps.

“Yeah?” Yuuji pants. “Like this?”

“Yes—god, yes—”

Yuuji looks down at him. Wrists pinned, chest heaving, completely open. He kisses Megumi hard, licks into his mouth. Megumi kisses back fierce, bites at Yuuji’s lip hard enough to cut. When Yuuji pulls back to breathe, he tastes copper.

“Turn over,” Yuuji says, pulling out.

Megumi barely processes it before Yuuji’s hands are on him, flipping him, hauling his hips up. He scrambles onto his knees and Yuuji lines up and pushes back in without warning.

A raw noise wrenches out of Megumi. Yuuji groans, hands settling back on his hips. He can see everything from here—the curve of Megumi’s back, sweat already beading along his spine. How his shoulders shake. The way his hole stretches around Yuuji’s cock.

He starts moving. No rhythm to it, just need. The slap of skin is loud in the quiet apartment, obscene. Megumi’s arms are trembling, barely holding him up, and he’s moaning high and fractured every time Yuuji thrusts in. Yuuji’s hands slide up Megumi’s sides, feeling muscle move under slick skin. Up to his shoulders, his neck. He tangles his fingers in dark hair and pulls.

Megumi’s head jerks back, throat exposed. The sound that comes out of him is barely human.

“Yeah?” Yuuji pants. He uses his grip to pull Megumi back onto him, meeting his thrusts. “Like that?”

“Yes—” Megumi’s voice breaks. “Fuck, yes—”

Yuuji is out of his own body and also more inside it than he’s ever been. There is sweat running down his back, his thighs are burning. It’s hard to care. He keeps moving, hips snapping forward on frantic instinct. Watches Megumi take it like his eyes know hunger. 

He lets go of Megumi’s hair, plants his hand between his shoulder blades and pushes down. Megumi collapses forward, chest hitting the mattress, and the angle—god, Yuuji’s so deep like this he can barely pull out. Just grinds in, feels Megumi clench around him.

“Fuck,” he breathes. His hand slides to Megumi’s neck, presses down. Not choking, just holding him there. “So tight—can barely—”

Megumi lets out a strangled cry. His hips push back even with his face pressed into the sheets. There are tears, Yuuji can see them on his cheekbone, and his mouth is open, wordless, hazy.

Yuuji pulls back and slams in. Megumi’s whole body jolts with it, and he moans so loud it’s like it’s been shocked out of him.

“Again,” he begs, “again, please—”

Yuuji does it again. Harder. Megumi’s hands scrabble at the sheets, trying to find something to hold onto. His cock is leaking, smearing precome on the sheets beneath him.

“Look at you,” Yuuji growls, doesn’t mean to say it out loud. He does it again, feels Megumi clench around him. “Taking it so—fuck—like you were made for it—”

“Can feel you,” Megumi slurs against the mattress. “So deep, I can—in my stomach—”

The words do something to Yuuji. His hold on Megumi’s neck tightens, his other hand bruising on Megumi’s hipbone. He can feel it too, how deep he is, how Megumi’s body just—takes it. Opens for him.

“Yeah,” he pants. “Gonna feel me tomorrow, gonna—”

He presses Megumi’s face harder into the mattress, enough that Megumi’s sounds go muffled, desperate. Megumi’s incoherent underneath him, whole body shuddering.

“Touch yourself,” Yuuji grits out. He’s barely coherent anymore. “Need—wanna feel it when you—”

Megumi gets a hand under himself somehow. The motion makes everything tighter, Yuuji’s senses overloaded. He can see Megumi’s arm moving, feels Megumi start clenching around him rhythmically.

“Close,” Megumi hiccups. Muffled, shattered. “Yuuji, I’m—”

“Yeah, come on.” Yuuji’s pace is crumbling, getting frantic. The orgasm builds, inevitable. “Let me feel it—”

Megumi goes rigid all at once. Every muscle locks up, and the clench of him around Yuuji is almost painful. He’s making this continuous high sound that breaks off into nothing, and Yuuji can feel him pulsing, can feel him coming.

“Fuck—” Yuuji’s grip turns brutal. His hips stutter, losing rhythm entirely. “Megumi, I can’t—I’m gonna come inside—”

He tries to pull out. Can’t make his body do it. Megumi’s too tight around him, won’t let him go.

“In me,” he gasps. “In me, in me, want it—”

Yuuji slams in deep and the rubber band snaps. Tiny stars burst behind his eyelids, blinding him. He’s grinding into Megumi, as deep as he can possibly get without forcing something open, and feels himself emptying into him. Can’t stop moving, can’t let go, just rides it out until his whole body is throbbing and there’s nothing left.

When he comes back to himself he’s collapsed over Megumi’s back, both of them gasping. His hands are still vised on Megumi—one at his waist, one on his neck. He makes himself let go. His fingers leave indentations behind. He pulls out slowly. White trickles out of Megumi immediately, obscene.

Yuuji sits back on his heels, trying to catch his breath. Tries to process what he’s seeing.

Megumi is face-down on the mattress, trembling. There are clear finger-shaped bruises forming on his hips, angry red already purpling. Scratches on his shoulders where Yuuji grabbed him. An actual imprint of teeth on his neck that Yuuji doesn’t remember leaving. His hair is a mess, stuck to his nape with sweat. His hole is red, abused, Yuuji’s come still leaking out of him.

The reality of it settles over Yuuji like cold water.

“Oh god,” he whispers.

Megumi rolls over slowly, wincing. His face is flushed, tear-streaked. His lips are swollen. There’s a dazed look in his eyes that’s starting to clear, and what rises in its place is a well-worn softness that pulls at his features

“That was—” Megumi starts, voice completely wrecked. He reaches for Yuuji. “Come here—”

Yuuji stands up. Off the bed. Backs away. His heart is beating rabbitlike at the pit of his stomach.

“Yuuji?” The smile fades from Megumi’s face. “What—”

“I shouldn’t have—” Yuuji can’t finish the sentence. He tries to blink the evidence away.

“What?” Megumi sits up, winces again. “What are you talking about?”

“Look at you.” Yuuji gestures helplessly. The words knock on each other as they tumble out, his voice strangled. “You look like I mauled you.”

Megumi glances down at himself. When his gaze lifts again, it’s confused. “So?”

“So I—” Yuuji’s hands are shaking. “I hurt you.”

“No, you didn’t.” Megumi’s voice is firm. “Yuuji, I wanted it. I asked for it.”

“That doesn’t—” Yuuji stops. Starts again. “You don’t—”

“I don’t what?” There’s an edge creeping into Megumi’s voice now.

Yuuji can’t articulate it. The fear he’s been sprinting to escape for weeks catches up with him. It swirls around him like living vines, enters his body. It’s crawling up his throat. “Normal people don’t—”

“Normal people?” Megumi’s eyes go wide. “Do you fucking hear yourself?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes you did.” Megumi is off the bed now too, ignoring how unsteady his legs are. 

“I’m not saying—” Yuuji runs a nervous hand through his hair. “I don’t know! Just—just look at you—”

“I am looking at me!” Megumi’s voice rises. “And I like it! I asked for it! What part of that don’t you—” He stops. Something crosses his face. “Oh.”

“What?”

“You think there’s something wrong with me.” His voice has gone weird. “That’s what this is.”

“No,” Yuuji stammers. “No, baby—”

“Yes.” Megumi laughs, jagged and disbelieving. “You think I’m—what? Sick? Fucked up?”

“That’s not what I said—”

“You don’t have to say it.” Megumi is getting dressed now, movements jerky. Pulls on his boxers. He didn’t—Yuuji’s gut twists. He didn’t even clean himself. “It’s written all over your face.”

“No, it’s not you.” He doesn’t know how to make him understand. It is imperative that he understands, anything to wash the betrayal from his lovely face. “It’s what I did, Megumi, it’s what I—” 

“Right. Of course. Funny how that didn’t seem to matter five minutes ago when you were getting your dick wet.”

Yuuji recoils like he’s been hit. 

“That’s not—that’s not fair.” 

“It’s not?” Megumi’s eyes are blazing now, fury overtaking the hurt. “You just had me face-down in the mattress, Yuuji. You did all this shit you apparently think is abnormal.”

Yuuji can’t swallow, can’t inhale. Pressure grows against his orbital bone, burning. “I told you that is not  what I meant!”

“Then what?” Megumi spins on him. “Because after fucking days and days of making me feel like I am batshit crazy for wanting my fucking boyfriend to touch me it sure sounds like you’re making this about you. About how guilty you feel. How terrible you are.”

“I am terrible—”

“Stop it!” Megumi’s voice cracks. “Just—stop. You don’t get to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make me feel like shit because you can’t handle—” He stops. Swallows hard. “Because you can’t live with what you want.”

The words hang in the air.

Yuuji stares at him. “That’s not—”

“It is.” Megumi’s hands are shaking as he reaches for his pants. “You wanted it. You did it. And now you’re looking at me like I’m—like there’s something off with me for wanting it too.”

Everything Megumi lobs at him lands wrong. The words are like sand and Yuuji cannot grasp them, cannot hold them long enough to produce a reply that covers the horrible, incomprehensible vastness of his terror.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he tells Megumi, because it is fundamental that Megumi knows that Yuuji doesn’t, that Yuuj would never—

“I thought we didn’t lie to each other,” Megumi says bitterly. Nausea climbs up Yuuji’s skeleton. He follows him into the living room, the entryway, watches him retrieve his keys. “I’m going to Nobara’s,” Megumi announces. Around Yuuji the world unmakes itself. 

“Please,” he hears himself beg. “Baby, please.”

“I’m going to Nobara’s,” Megumi repeats. 

The door clicks shut apocalyptically soft behind him. Yuuji walks back into their bedroom on autopilot, stands there. The sheets are destroyed, pushed into chaos. It smells like sex, like them. He sits on the edge of the bed. Puts his head in his hands. 

His phone buzzes maybe fifteen minutes later. Kugisaki has sent him a very loud row of question marks.

Yuuji stares at it until the screen goes dark.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

*

Yuuji doesn’t sleep.

He lies in bed staring at the ceiling until the skyscape goes from indigo to light blue. The apartment echoes his numbness. He can hear the refrigerator humming, the building settling, the little specks of daily life that usually get drowned out by Megumi’s breathing beside him.

At six he gives up. Gets out of bed, showers. The bathroom always smells like Megumi’s raspberry soap. His toothbrush is still in the holder.

Yuuji makes coffee. One cup. Stands at the counter drinking it, staring at nothing. Usually Megumi shuffles out around now, hair a mess, stealing sips from Yuuji’s mug before making his own. Usually Yuuji kisses his temple and Megumi makes mellow sounds, still half-asleep.

His phone stays silent.

He gets dressed for work. There’s a mission briefing at eight, some residual curse activity in Saitama that needs cleanup. Simple stuff. He can do it blindfolded.

Usually he’d drive Megumi to the station on his way. They’re rarely assigned to the same stuff, something about redundancy and not wasting resources. Usually Megumi would lean over to kiss him before getting out of the car, quick and casual, the routine of it paradoxically monumental to Yuuji.

Yuuji drives alone.

The mission is fine. The curse is weak, barely grade three. Yuuji exorcizes it efficiently, fills out the paperwork on the spot on a bench while chewing on a konbini onigiri that tastes like cardboard.

Usually Megumi texts him during the day. Stupid shit, mostly. This curse smells like wet dog or Found a good ramen place near the site or just a photo of anything weird or funny he sees. Nothing important. Just—contact. When he’s not there something in Yuuji goes restless, goes dog-whiny, and Megumi knows it.

His phone stays silent.

He gets home around six. The apartment is exactly as he left it. Bed still unmade. Kitchen still smelling faintly of the coffee he made that morning, dishes unwashed in the sink from their aborted dinner. 

He should eat something. Can’t bring himself to care.

He sits on the couch and stares at his phone. Megumi had a mission today too—Yuuji knows this because the assignments get posted. Grade two curse in Chiba. Megumi can handle that in his sleep. Yuuji knows this. Yuuji has never in his life doubted this.

His phone stays silent.

At seven thirty, Yuuji breaks.

He opens his messages. Types: can you please just tell me you’re okay. Sends it before he can second-guess.

The text shows as read almost immediately. Yuuji’s heart jumps. The typing indicator appears—then disappears. Then a thumbs up reaction appears on his message.

He stares at it until his eyes blur.

*

The next day is worse.

Yuuji goes through the motions. Another mission, this one in Kanagawa. He completes it. Comes home to an empty apartment. Files the report.

He should text Megumi again. Should call. Can’t make himself do it. What would he even say? Sorry I fucked you like an animal and then implied we were both sick for wanting it. Sorry I don’t know how to put my hands on you without seeing all the ways I could harm you. Sorry, sorry, sometimes this life with you is so good it feels like I got away with something, and I think this might be retribution. Sorry. I love you. I don’t deserve you. Come back to me anyway. 

At six thirty, his phone buzzes.

*

It’s Kugisaki. You really are a grade A moron. Then almost immediately on its heels: Come to my place. 7pm. Don’t be late.

Yuuji stares at it. Types: is he

Kugisaki’s next message pings before he can finish. He’s fine.

Yuuji is out the door in five minutes.

*

Kugisaki’s apartment is two stops away, fourth floor of a building that’s newer than theirs. Yuuji takes the stairs two at a time, arrives at her door at 6:57. He knocks.

Kugisaki opens it immediately, like she was waiting. Her hair is pinned back by two of those plastic clips she uses when it’s dirty but she can’t be assed to wash it yet—she wasn’t planning on being seen in public today. She looks at him—really looks at him—and her expression softens slightly before going stern again.

“Living room,” she says, stepping aside. “And you’re both going to actually talk this time, or so help me—” She doesn’t finish the threat. Just points down the hall.

Yuuji’s mouth is dry. “Kugisaki—”

“Go.” She grabs her bomber jacket from the hook by the door. “I’m giving you two hours. Figure it out.”

The door closes behind her with a decisive click.

Yuuji stands in the entryway. He can hear someone moving in the living room. His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his throat. He toes off his shoes. Walks down the hall.

Megumi is sitting on Kugisaki’s couch, wearing sweatpants and a hoodie that’s probably hers—too small in the shoulders, sleeves not quite long enough. His hair is spiking in all directions like it does when he hasn’t combed it in a while. He’s staring at his phone, but when Yuuji appears in the doorway he looks up.

They stare at each other.

Megumi looks tired. Shadowy crescents hang like moons under his eyes, and his face has that particular blankness he gets when he’s feeling too much and trying not to show it.

“Hi,” Yuuji says. His voice comes out rough.

“Hi,” Megumi says back.

The silence trickles, leaky sink.

“Kugisaki said—” Yuuji starts.

“I know what she said.” Megumi sets his phone down on the low table. “She’s been threatening to lock us in a room together since yesterday.”

“She’s—” Yuuji almost laughs. Can’t quite manage it. “Yeah. That sounds like her.”

Another beat of crushing silence. Yuuji doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Shoves them in his pockets.

“Can I—” He gestures at the couch. “Can I sit?”

Megumi nods.

Yuuji sits on the opposite end of the couch. Leaves space between them. Megumi’s jaw tightens slightly but he doesn’t comment. Wrong move, Yuuji berates himself. 

“You okay?” he asks. Stupid question. Obviously he’s not okay.

“Fine.” Megumi’s voice is flat. “Mission went fine. Nobara’s been—” He waves a hand vaguely. “She’s been good. Gave me her bed, slept on the couch herself.” He scoffs. “I must have looked like shit.”

“That’s—good. That she—yeah.”

God, this is painful. They’ve never been like this with each other. Even at their worst they could at least talk.

“Yuuji,” Megumi says. His voice is quieter now. “Why are you here?”

“Because—” Yuuji swallows. “Because I need to talk to you.”

“Okay.” Megumi studies him, pulled tight behind his defenses. “So talk.”

Yuuji’s mouth is dry. “I’m sorry.”

Megumi’s expression doesn’t change. “For what?”

“For—” Yuuji gestures helplessly. “For everything. For what I said, for—”

“Be specific.”

Yuuji flinches. “For making you feel like—like there was something wrong with you. For making it seem like I thought you were—” He can’t finish. “I’m sorry.”

Megumi nods slowly. “Okay.”

That’s it. Just okay. Not I forgive you or it’s fine. Just acknowledgment.

The pause between them calcifies. Yuuji stares at his hands, traces the lines in his palms like they might spell out what he’s supposed to say next.

“Is that all?” Megumi asks finally.

“What?”

“Is that all you came here to say?” There’s no anger in it, just exhaustion, the particular bone-deep kind that comes from crying in someone else’s apartment for two days.  “Because if it is—”

“No.” Yuuji looks up. “No, it’s not—there’s more, I just—”

“Then say it.” Megumi shifts on the couch, turns to face him more directly. “Because I can’t—Yuuji, I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep guessing.”

“I know—”

“Do you?” Megumi’s voice is steady but there’s something raw underneath. “Because for two months you pulled away and wouldn’t tell me why. Made me feel radioactive. And then the other night you—” He stops. Takes a breath. “You kept saying it wasn’t about me. So what was it about?”

Yuuji can’t look at him. Stares at Kugisaki’s coffee table instead—water rings overlapping on it like a Venn diagram of past conversations that probably went better than this one.

“Yuuji.” Megumi leans forward slightly. “You have to tell me what’s wrong. You have to tell me what’s been eating you alive.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” Megumi’s tone softens a fraction, loses some of its blade. “I’m your partner, remember? You promised. You said in everything.”

The words hit Yuuji square in the chest. He remembers saying it. Remembers the morning light and Megumi’s sleep-warm skin and meaning it with his whole being.

“Who else if not me?” Megumi continues quietly. “Who else is going to understand?”

Yuuji’s throat closes. He shakes his head like that’s an answer.

“Please.” Megumi doesn’t touch him but scoots closer, close enough that Yuuji can see specks of light in his irises. “Let me in.”

Something in Yuuji cracks down the center.

“I had a dream,” he says, barely above a whisper, like it’s being hooked out of him. “About a month ago. I—” He stops. Forces himself to continue. “I dreamt I was him.”

Megumi goes very still.

“I was—” Yuuji’s hands are shaking. He presses them together, hard. “God, Megumi, I was taking you against your will. Tearing into you. It was vivid. And it felt—” His voice fractures. “It felt good. And I couldn’t tell—in the dream I couldn’t tell if it was him or if it was me. If I was doing it or if he was—”

He stops. The words have run out.

“Yuuji,” Megumi says very softly.

“And then I woke up and I—” Yuuji presses his palms against his eyes, sees kaleidoscopic stars. “I’ve been terrified ever since. Because what if—what if having him in there for so long did something? To my brain, to the way I—” He drops his hands, looks at Megumi finally, and his vision is blurring at the edges. “What if it changed what I want?”

Megumi is watching him, unreadable. His mouth is pulled into a thin, tight pink line.

“I kept having these thoughts. About you. About—about holding you down and hurting you. And I didn’t know if they were my thoughts or his or if there’s even a difference anymore.” The confession is coming faster now, frenzied, like if he says it all at once it’ll sting less. “And then the other night I did exactly what I was afraid of. I lost control and I—” He stops. “I looked at you after and all I could see was the dream. The marks. Everything. It was like proof.”

“Proof of what?” Megumi’s voice is careful.

“That there’s something wrong with me.” Yuuji’s voice cracks. “That he’s still—that I can’t trust—”

He can’t finish. Megumi doesn’t fill the silence, just waits.

“Is that why you pulled away?” he asks when it’s become clear that the well of Yuuji’s words has run dry. “Why you wouldn’t touch me?”

“I was trying to protect you.” The words sound hollow and stupid even as Yuuji says them, a justification that doesn’t justify anything. “From me. From whatever I’d become.”

“And the other night? When you said we shouldn’t want it?”

Yuuji swallows. Stares at Kugisaki’s ugly beige wallpaper. “It would be easier if you didn’t—if you hadn’t—”

He stops because finishing the sentence would reveal how insane it sounds. If you didn’t want it. If you didn’t like it. But Megumi wants what Yuuji wants, and if what Yuuji wants is contaminated, corrupted by months of sharing skull space with a demon, then what does that mean? That Sukuna got to Megumi through him after all, left something inside him for Yuuji like a sick gift—

“If I didn’t want it,” Megumi finishes for him.

Yuuji nods miserably.

The silence that follows is thick enough to sink in, drown in. Megumi shifts, draws his knees up slightly, wraps his arms around them like he’s holding himself together. When he speaks his voice is quiet.

“Do you know what the worst part was?”

Yuuji looks at him.

“It wasn’t thinking you didn’t want me.” Megumi’s staring at his own hands now, fingers laced together white-knuckled. “It was thinking maybe you were right not to.”

“Megumi—”

“No, let me—” Megumi’s jaw is tight. “I kept trying to get you to touch me. And you kept pulling away. And after a while I started thinking—” He stops. Starts again. “That maybe there really was something wrong with me. Something disgusting. Not just wanting it but wanting it badly enough that I’d—”

He stops. Won’t finish the sentence. Won’t say get on my knees or beg or whatever specific memory is burning behind his eyes like a brand. Yuuji wants to die. He’s felt it before, this overwhelming, irrational need to enact violence in Megumi’s name, to reshape the world so that Megumi doesn’t bump on its corners—has had to temper it. Never against himself, until today. The horror of it, shameful, icy. I’m the thing that hurt him. The irony of it, too. All that in the name of care. 

“And then when you finally did—when we—” Megumi’s voice goes quieter, and Yuuji has to strain to hear it. “You looked at me after like I’d proved something terrible. About myself. About both of us.”

Yuuji’s chest aches like something’s cracked a rib. “That’s not—”

“Isn’t it?” Megumi glances up at him finally and his eyes are dry but there’s something wounded living in them. “You think you’re the only one who’s been scared? You think I haven’t been terrified that wanting it—that liking it—” He stops again. Won’t name it directly. “That it means there’s something in me that’s never going to heal right?”

The words sit between them like a third person.

“But you’re not broken,” Yuuji says.

“Neither are you.” Megumi’s voice is firm despite everything, despite the purpling under his eyes and the two days he’s spent haunting Kugisaki’s place. “Yuuji, you’re not him.”

“You don’t know—”

“Yes, I do.” Megumi edges closer, deliberate as a chess move. “I know you. Yuuji, you’re the boy who eats a cursed object to save a stranger. You’re the boy that gets back up even with the world on your shoulders because people are in danger, and doesn’t demand an ounce of glory for it.” He reaches out slowly, telegraphing the movement, giving Yuuji time to pull away if he needs to. When he doesn’t, Megumi’s hand settles on the back of his neck, thumb finding the tender spot where skull meets spine. “You’re the boy who saved my life.” 

There is a fist crushing Yuuji’s diaphragm. He exhales fractured, choppy. 

“You’re good,” Megumi whispers. “My Yuuji. You’re good. You’re the best person I know.” He touches their foreheads together, so gentle Yuuji’s bones start to ache. “And I trust you, even when you don’t trust yourself.”

“Sometimes,” Yuuji pushes out low and secret, “sometimes wanting you feels like—like I want to consume you. Like I can’t get close enough. Like I’d crawl inside you if I could.”

“Is that bad?” Megumi asks. When Yuuji doesn’t answer, he gives a faint, incredulous laugh. “You think my love doesn’t have teeth?” Yuuji inhales sharply. Megumi rubs small circles against his nape. “I think that’s just how it is. When you want someone this strongly, there has to be something about it that’s ugly.” He pulls away just enough to meet Yuuji’s gaze. “But it doesn’t make us monsters, Yuuji. I think if anything it makes us human.” 

Yuuji turns his face into Megumi’s palm. The prolonged contact, after two days of dread, lands like vapocoolant on a bruise. 

“I know I’m not him,” he mumbles there. “I know, most of the time. Rationally. But I—Megumi—it felt good to hold you down. It felt good when you stopped struggling, when you—when you couldn’t escape, and I—” The nausea creeps back. The black soot of guilt.

“Yuuji.” Implacable, his voice cuts through the noise. Yuuji’s port in the fog. “Do you really believe that if I needed to get you off me you’d be able to keep me there, especially when your dick is out?” 

Heat floods Yuuji’s face. “I, I didn’t mean to imply—”

Megumi chortles. “Forget the insult to my skills, I mean that practically.”

“Does it matter? Isn’t the fact it gets me hard already a problem?”

“Why?” Megumi shrugs. “People like all kinds of things. I like all kinds of things. It doesn’t have to mean anything about your character.” 

Yuuji opens his mouth. Closes it. The argument coagulates somewhere in his throat, sticky, unusable. We share blood, him and I. An affront to Megumi, maybe the only other person on this planet who understands what it’s like to bathe in Sukuna’s evil. Still, at the crux of it: that Yuuji knows Sukuna liked the chase, the taking. The triumph less than the conquering, the winning more than the eating. But as the adrenaline of two months living on the run from himself starts draining, clarity stings him for the first time: that he’s been treating his desire like borrowed violence with no evidence at all. That the fear was reflex, not prophecy, a ghost-movement of a past he no longer lives in. 

“It freaked me out,” he mutters finally. 

“I can understand that. You think I don’t—” Megumi flushes. “I’m obviously. Obviously I’m also not the most solid on this. I felt—gross, after.”

Yuuji winces. “You mean I made you feel gross.” 

Megumi shakes his head. “Not just you. And before we even did anything, when I was thinking about it.” He goes, extraordinarily, even redder. “It always felt really—weird, once I was done. Slimy.” He turns his head. Yuuji lets his eyes trail along the squareness of his jaw. “But it was good, during,” Megumi tells the couch cushions. “Really fucking good, Yuuji.” 

He lifts his hand back to Yuuji’s face, thumb brushing once over the scar tissue at the corner of his mouth, tentative in a way nothing else about him is. Moves closer, their knees bumping, leans in. His nose grazes Yuuji’s cheekbone, a featherlight nudge, testing whether the ground will hold. The fist in Yuuji’s chest loosens. Megumi’s breath ghosts over his lips. 

Yuuji closes the millimeter of distance. Kisses him tender, kisses him sorry. When they break apart Megumi speaks against his mouth like he’s afraid the loss of contact might harm them. 

“You don’t have to hide from me,” he murmurs. “The entire world, if you want. But not me.”

“Yes,” Yuuji exhales like a vow. 

“There isn’t a bone in you that isn’t good to me,” Megumi continues. “As long as you’re honest with me, there is nothing we cannot come back from.”

“Yes,” Yuuji says again. 

“There is nothing you can do that would repulse me, do you understand?”

Yuuji kisses him again. Deeper, firmer. Like the carving of a promise. 

*

They gather Megumi’s things—not much, just his phone charger and the clothes he arrived in, folded neatly because even in crisis Megumi can’t help himself. The train ride back is quiet. They sit pressed together despite the empty seats around them, Megumi’s head on Yuuji’s shoulder, Yuuji’s arm around him like he’s worried he might evaporate if he lets go. 

The apartment is a time capsule. Bed undone, unwashed plates stacked in the sink, evidence of how Yuuji’s existence had creaked and halted the second Megumi had closed the door. It looks less like a crime scene now; it’s just a place two people live in. 

“I’ll get the bed,” Yuuji says.

“I’ll help.”

They change the sheets together in silence, and there’s something steadying about the mundanity of it—smoothing corners, tucking edges, the quiet choreography of a task they’ve done a hundred times before. When they’re done Megumi disappears into the bathroom and Yuuji hears the shower start. He sits on the edge of the newly made bed and tries to figure out what happens now. 

When Megumi emerges he’s wearing one of Yuuji’s old shirts, hair damp and curling at the ends. He looks younger like this, softer around the edges in a way he never lets himself be outside these four walls, in a way Yuuji realizes he hasn’t seen in a while.

“You should shower too,” Megumi says.

“Yeah.”

Yuuji takes his time under the spray, lets the hot water work the knots out of his shoulders, the tension he’s been carrying like an exoskeleton. When he comes out Megumi is already in bed, on his side facing Yuuji’s half of the mattress.

Yuuji climbs in beside him. They lie there in the dark, not touching.

“Yuuji?” Megumi says after a while.

Yuuji’s answer comes out hoarse. “Yeah?”

“I missed you,” Megumi admits. 

Fuck, Yuuji should be shot for this. Lined up against the wall and made to stare down the muzzle. 

“Come here,” he calls, arm extending. His fingertips find Megumi, and Megumi rolls into the curve at his elbow, slots himself against the shape of Yuuji’s torso, cheek resting on Yuuji’s bicep. Like that his cold nose digs into Yuuji pec right above his heart. Megumi kisses him there. 

“We’re going to have to talk more,” he mumbles into Yuuji’s skin.

“I know,” Yuuji says. 

“And do—research.”

“I know,” Yuuji repeats, grimacing.

“Okay,” Megumi says, sleepy, burying his face in Yuuji’s chest. 

He lies awake until Megumi’s breathing evens out, palm curled over his shoulder. 

*

The week that follows passes in careful increments, like they’re both learning to walk again after an old illness. Mornings are easy—coffee for two, toast that Megumi steals half of before Yuuji can protest, a real breakfast spread on days where they don’t have to hurry out for work. Yuuji goes to Saitama, exorcises a cluster of grade three curses that smell like mildew and poor life choices. Megumi handles something in Yokohama. They text throughout the day. Yuuji handles that peace like it’s glass. 

At night, after Megumi falls asleep, Yuuji opens his laptop and feels immediately ridiculous but does it anyway. The internet, apparently, has answers for everything. Forums and articles and personal testimonials from people talking openly about things Yuuji thought existed only in the nighttime architecture of his skull. He learns vocabulary, writes it down in a notebook he keeps hidden under a stack of paperwork. He reads an article about bondage complete with helpful pictures of red rope over a mannequin and has to strategically flee to the bathroom for a mortifying 2AM jerkoff session. He reads a blogpost about something called subspace and has to shut the laptop closed, press the heels of his hands against his orbital bones, because that’s what Megumi looked like. After. That glassy-eyed floating quality, like he’d been somewhere else entirely and was taking his time coming back. Not broken. Just—transported. There are frameworks for this, structures people have built to hold the weight of wanting. He reads about consent negotiation and feels something hard dislodge in his chest. 

During the day the research bleeds into his peripheral vision like watercolor. He’s making dinner Wednesday night—nothing fancy, just miso and rice and tamagoyaki the way Megumi likes it, rolled tight and sweet—and reaches for the wooden spatula. Freezes. Stares at it like it’s grown teeth. His face goes hot enough to cook on. Megumi, methodically chopping scallions across the counter, glances up. 

“What’s wrong with the spatula?” 

Yuuji clears his throat, grabs it with what he hopes looks like confidence, refuses eye contact. 

“Nothing. It’s fine. Spatula’s great.” 

Megumi gives him a look that suggests he’s been dropped on his head recently but goes back to the scallions. Yuuji focuses very hard on not thinking about impact and the velocity required to leave marks and whether Megumi would make sounds or go quiet. He’s losing his mind. 

The next morning he’s folding laundry—Megumi’s laundry, because Megumi does his with an efficiency that borders on pathological and Yuuji’s been trying to contribute—and gets stuck on the drawstrings of a hoodie. The cotton cord slides between his fingers, soft from a hundred washes, and his brain supplies approximately six different uses for it that have nothing to do with keeping a hood cinched. He shoves the hoodie in a drawer and goes to take a very cold shower. 

At work on one of the rare occasions where he finds himself sharing terrain with Megumi, a demonstration for the new kids at Jujutsu Tech, Megumi lobs a casual good job at him and Yuuji has to excuse himself to the men’s room to splash water on his face because apparently his brain has decided praise is a whole new category of experience now. He’s being ridiculous. He also feels more solid than he has in months, like someone gave him a map to a place he’s been wandering blind.

The small intimacies come back gradual as spring, the snow receding. Megumi leans against him on the couch, head finding Yuuji’s shoulder like it’s magnetic north. Yuuji’s hand settles on the back of his neck, thumb stroking the tender skin there, and Megumi makes this small sound—satisfied, animal—that goes straight to Yuuji’s spine. They’re not having sex. The conversation they haven’t had sits between them like a third presence. But the touches are back. Yuuji kisses his temple before work. Megumi’s hand finds his across the table at dinner, their ankles hooking together underneath. Thursday night Megumi is reaching for something on the high shelf, up on his toes, fingers just missing, and Yuuji comes up behind him, gets it easy. He’s got a delightful pair of centimeters over Megumi now, courtesy of a last minute growth spurt. Megumi turns in the parenthesis of his arms, looks up at him, and there’s something in his gaze. Warm. A little teasing.

“My hero,” he says, deadpan. 

Yuuji’s heart does something stupid in his chest. 

“Anytime,” he rasps out, and it comes out lower than he means it to, edged. Megumi’s mouth curves. 

By Friday night the notebook is a war zone of crossed-out lines and half-thoughts—wants, don’t-wants, questions he’s not sure how to phrase without sounding unhinged. He’s hunched over it in the kitchen when Megumi walks in, bare feet on tile, humming distractedly. He stops when he spots Yuuji burning a hole through paper with his stare. 

“You good?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that the list?”

“Yeah,” Yuuji repeats absently. “Wait, what?”

Megumi snorts. “Am I supposed to pretend I don’t know that you’ve been taking notes about this more seriously than you ever did in school?”

Yuuji hides his face in his hands. “I am very serious about you,” he whines, muffled. 

Megumi pads to him, presses his lips to the crown of Yuuji’s head. 

“You wanna discuss it now, maybe? Before you start needing a second notepad?”

Yuuji nods wordlessly, still hiding. Megumi laughs fully then, a fond crystalline sound. The love that unfurls in Yuuji’s ribcage is wider than the ocean, too big to breathe around. 

*

They sit across from each other at the kitchen table like they’re about to negotiate a hostage situation, the famous notebook open flat between them. Megumi has his hands wrapped around a mug of barley tea that’s slowly going lukewarm, something to hold onto.

“So,” Yuuji says.

“So,” Megumi echoes.

The moment drags. Outside someone’s car alarm goes off, cuts off, leaves the night anesthetized again.

“I don’t know how to start this,” Yuuji admits finally.

“With words, probably.” Megumi’s mouth twitches. “That’s usually how conversations work.”

Yuuji huffs something that might be a laugh. “Smartass.” Megumi winks. Yuuji chews on the inside of his mouth. “Okay, words. I can do words.”

“Notoriously,” Megumi snickers. 

This time Yuuji actually straight-up giggles. “Will you stop.” It works, though. He shakes his head like a wet dog, jumps in. “So I did some reading. About how people—how they do this safely. And there’s—there’s stuff we should talk about. Like safewords.”

“Okay.” Megumi sets his mug down, leans forward slightly. “What about them?”

“Just that we should have them. Like a—a system.” Yuuji’s finger traces down his notes. “Red for stop completely, yellow for slow down or check in, green for good. That’s, well, that seems to be what most people use.”

“That makes sense,” Megumi nods.

“Yeah.” Yuuji can tell his face is flushing from the slight prickling over his cheeks. This is so embarrassing. He’s not a goddamn virgin. “And, uh, we should use them. Like if anything feels wrong or—or too much—”

“I know what safewords are for, Yuuji.”

“Right. Yeah. Obviously.” Yuuji runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up in about six different directions. “Okay. So that’s—that’s the safety stuff. And then there’s—” He stops. Looks at his notebook like it might offer divine intervention.

“What we actually want to do,” Megumi finishes. 

“Yeah,” Yuuji says for what is probably the fifteenth time of the evening, tone pulling high. He’d like to blink for comfort, but if he makes the mistake of shutting his eyes he knows he’ll be assaulted by visions. It’s a strategic mistake. “You want to go first?”

“Well,” Megumi chuckles. “You’re the one with the list.” 

Yuuji glares at him, which only seems to amuse him further. “Right.” He takes a breath. “Okay, so, I.” Why is it so excruciating to say this stuff out loud. In the back of his brain a voice that sounds worryingly like Gojo-sensei singsongs if you can’t talk about it you shouldn’t be having it! 

“You don’t actually have to start if you feel this bad about it,” Megumi says, voice sober again. 

Yuuji doesn’t tell him that it’s a question of pride now because he’s aware that he’s already not winning maturity contests in his boyfriend’s eyes, but he does think it very strongly. 

“No, just gimme a second.” Megumi slides his mug across. Yuuji takes a grateful sip of tea. “Okay, so. I want to be rough with you.”

“Okay,” Megumi says. 

“Like, hold you down. Pin your wrists. That kind of thing.”

Megumi’s throat works as he swallows. “Okay.”

“And I—” Yuuji’s voice drops lower. “I want to mark you. Bite you, leave bruises. I want—” He stops, looks up at Megumi. “I want you to feel it the next day. Want you to know I was there.”

Megumi exhales very sharply, audible. He’s a bit flushed. “Okay.” 

“Okay?”

“Yes. I—I want that too.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” Megumi’s fingers start tracing patterns on the wood, restless. “I want—I like when you’re in control. When you tell me what to do. When you—” He stops, face going redder. “When you make me take it.”

The words land between them like a match dropped in kindling. Yuuji’s hand tightens around the mug.

“Make you take it,” Yuuji repeats, and his voice has gone rough around the edges.

“Yeah.” Megumi won’t quite meet his eyes. “I like when—when you don’t stop. Even when I—” He can’t finish. Lets it peter out, gestures vaguely. Yuuji is suddenly dizzy. 

“Megumi,” he says with difficulty. 

“I know,” Megumi replies. He cracks his knuckles, a nervous tick. 

Yuuji has to force saliva down, mouth dry. His brain is supplying images he’s not ready for. His stomach clenches. 

“Okay. Noted.” 

The silence hums. 

“What else?” Megumi asks. 

Yuuji passes him the tea back, flips through his notes. “Uhm. Pain. That came up a lot in—in what I was reading. Like impact play and—stuff.”

“What about it?”

“Do you—” Yuuji’s grip on his notebook is white-knuckled. “Do you want that? Like me—hitting you or—”

“Yes,” Megumi says immediately. Then, quieter: “I think so. I want to try it at least.”

“Okay.” Yuuji’s voice comes out thin, strained. When you make me take it is still floating in his mind. “I’m not—I don’t know if I want to hurt you.”

Megumi looks at him properly then, catches his eye. “But you want to make me feel good.”

“Obviously.”

“And it would make me feel good.” Megumi’s tone is careful, feeling his way through it. “So—you’d be doing it for me. To make me feel good. Not to—not because you want me to hurt.”

“I still don’t know if I can. Spanking, maybe. Definitely, if it’s light. But not—your face, or—”

“And that’s fine. Yuuji, look at me, that’s fine, you also get to say no to stuff.” 

“Okay,” Yuuji nods. It trickles out hoarse, a weight beneath his Adam’s apple. “Wow, sorry, this is so dumb.”

Megumi hooks their ankles together under the table. “It’s not dumb. Do you want to stop talking about it?”

Yuuji immediately shakes his head. “No, that would make me feel worse. Tell me about what you want. Other than pain. Like, specifically.” 

Megumi sucks on the inside of his mouth, his cheek denting inwards. “I want you to—to overwhelm me. I want it to be too much. Not in a bad way, just—” He stops, searching for words. “I want to not have to think. Want you to—to take over. Make the decisions. I just—” He stops again. “I want to let go.”

Yuuji’s gut constricts. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Megumi’s face does something complicated, the hybrid of a frown and a wince Yuuji has learned to decipher as warring embarrassment and will to push through anything. “And I—I like when you praise me. When you tell me I’m—that I’m doing good or that you—” He can’t finish that sentence either.

“That I want you,” Yuuji says quietly. “That you’re beautiful. That kind of thing.”

“That I’m yours,” Megumi adds, holding his gaze. 

“You are mine,” Yuuji replies reflexively, easy. He watches Megumi’s eyes go half-lidded. “Yeah. My baby.” 

“Yuuji,” Megumi warns. Yuuji knocks their knees together, shins two burning parallel lines. 

“Tell me what you don’t want,” he says, and only registers he’s phrased it as a command after it’s left his mouth. Megumi’s pupils are blown wide, just thin rings of green left. Yuuji can see his chest rising and falling faster.

“I don’t like when you go distant after.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know, but that’s what I don’t want the most. The past couple of times, when we did have sex and you’d pull away after like you couldn’t stand to touch me—that made it worse. Made me feel—”

“Like I thought you were disgusting,” Yuuji finishes. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

Megumi rolls his eyes. “I decide if it’s fine.” His foot slides up Yuuji’s calf, slow and deliberate. Yuuji’s breath catches. Under the table Megumi’s toes press into the back of his knee, and Yuuji has to grip the edge.

“You’re distracting me.”

“Am I?”

Yuuji’s mouth tugs to one side, fidgety. “You do have to tell me about your actual hard limits.”

He takes a second to mull it over. “No humiliation. Like don’t call me names or make me feel small. I don’t—I don’t want that.”

“I don’t want that either,” Yuuji agrees. “What else?”

“No choking. Like, not for real. You can put your hand there but don’t—”

“Don’t actually restrict your breathing,” Yuuji completes. “Got it.”

They go through a few more things. Aftercare, for real. The mechanics of checking in. 

“What about restraints?” Yuuji asks. “Like actual rope, or handcuffs, or whatever.”

“Yeah,” Megumi shifts in his chair. “I want that.”

“Just your wrists or—” Yuuji pauses. “Can I tie your legs too?”

Megumi’s throat works. “Yes.”

“Ankles together or spread apart?”

“Spread.” The word comes out barely audible.

Yuuji writes it down, hand not quite steady. Under the table Megumi’s foot is still pressed against his leg. “Okay. What about—” He flips a page. “Overstimulation. Like making you come more than once. Or edging, holding you right there and not letting you finish.”

“Both,” Megumi says. “Either. I don’t—yeah.”

“Yeah?” Yuuji’s voice drops lower. He’s stopped pretending to just be taking notes. “You want me to make you come until you can’t anymore? Or hold you there, right on the edge, begging for it?”

Megumi’s breath hitches. “Yuuji.”

“Just checking. Want to know what gets you off.”

“You know what gets me off.”

“I’m learning specifics.” Yuuji taps his pen against the notebook. “Like—do you want me to use my hand or my mouth when I’m edging you? Want me to stop completely or just—” He makes a gesture. “Keep you right there?”

“I don’t—” Megumi appears almost distressed. Yuuji’s cock fills in his pants. “I don’t know. Both. Whatever you want.”

“What I want,” Yuuji repeats. He likes the way that sounds. “Okay.”

The silence that follows is thick, syrupy. Megumi takes a sip of tea that’s gone completely cold, grimaces.

“You said no degradation,” Yuuji says after a moment. “No names that make you feel small. But what can I call you?”

“What?”

“Like—baby, obviously. That one works.” Yuuji is watching him carefully. “But what about, I don’t know. Darling? Sweetheart?”

Megumi makes a strangled sound.

“Oh,” Yuuji says, interested. “Sweetheart?”

“Don’t—” Megumi's hands are gripping his mug tight enough that his knuckles are white. “That’s not—”

“That’s not what?” Yuuji leans forward slightly. “That’s not going to make you come in your pants right here at the kitchen table?”

“Yuuji—”

“Because you look like it might.” Yuuji is watching himself say words from outside his own body, awe coloring everything. “I say sweetheart and you—look at you.”

Megumi won’t meet his eyes. His face is crimson, breathing uneven.

“Can I—” Yuuji starts, then stops. Starts again. “Are you—do you want—”

Megumi looks up at him finally. His irises are being swallowed by a solar eclipse. “Yes.”

Yuuji stands. His chair scrapes against the floor, too loud. He comes around the table and Megumi’s eyes track him, head tilting back as Yuuji gets close.

He reaches out, cups Megumi’s face with one hand. Runs his thumb across his cheekbone, feeling the heat there. Megumi’s eyes flutter closed for a second before opening again, fixed on Yuuji’s face.

“You’re so pretty,” Yuuji says. Not planned, just true. “Do you know that?”

Megumi can’t stand it. “Yuuji—”

“I mean it.” Yuuji’s other hand comes up, frames his face between his palms. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Stop,” Megumi says, but there’s no heat in it, only embarrassment. The good kind, the kind that makes him squirm and press into Yuuji’s touch at the same time.

“Can’t.” Yuuji bends, kisses him soft and slow. Megumi makes a small sound, reaches up to grab Yuuji’s wrists like he needs something to hold onto. When Yuuji pulls back Megumi’s lips are flushed, slightly parted. “Let me touch you.”

“Okay,” Megumi whispers.

Yuuji’s hands slide down—throat, collarbones, chest. Megumi’s wearing an old workout top, thin with age, and his heartbeat pulses through it. Fast. Yuuji keeps going lower, over Megumi’s stomach, to the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Yeah?” Yuuji asks.

“Yes.” Megumi’s breathing has gone jerky already. “Please.”

Yuuji loosens the drawstrings, works the pants down along with his boxers just enough. Megumi’s already half-hard, and when Yuuji wraps a hand around him he makes this broken little whimper.

“Look at you,” Yuuji murmurs. He strokes slow, easy, no rush. “So responsive. I barely touched you.”

“Been thinking about it,” Megumi admits, voice strained. “All through—talking about it—”

“Yeah?” Yuuji’s grip tightens slightly. He watches Megumi’s hips jerk. “What were you thinking about?”

“You.” Megumi’s hands are clutching the arms of the chair now. “Your hands. Your—fuck—”

Yuuji twists his wrist on the upstroke and Megumi’s head falls back, throat exposed. He’s going pink all over—face, throat, the tops of his ears. Yuuji can’t stop looking at him, cataloging every reaction. The way his breathing hitches when Yuuji thumbs over the head. The way his thighs are shaking, trying to stay still. The little aborted movements upwards, like he wants to fuck up into Yuuji’s hand but won’t let himself.

“You can move,” Yuuji tells him. “I want to see it.”

Megumi’s hips roll up immediately, desperate. “God—Yuuji—”

“That’s it.” Yuuji keeps his strokes slow, steady, even as Megumi starts to lose his rhythm. “You’re doing so good. Look so gorgeous like this, all spread out for me.”

Megumi makes a wounded sound. His face is burning now, the praise doing exactly what Yuuji knew it would. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” Yuuji leans down, presses a kiss to his temple. “Don’t tell you how perfect you are? Can’t help it, baby. It’s true.”

“I’m gonna—” Megumi’s voice breaks. “I’m close—”

“Yeah, I can tell.” Yuuji speeds up his strokes, just slightly. The fondness is a drop of sugar underneath his tongue. “Let me see it. Want to watch you come.”

Megumi does, pretty and undone, spilling over Yuuji’s hand with Yuuji’s name on his lips. His whole body goes taut for a moment before relaxing all at once, boneless in the chair. Yuuji keeps stroking him through it, gentle now, until Megumi makes a too-sensitive sound and pushes at his wrist.

They stay like that for a beat. Megumi panting, Yuuji unable to unglue his gaze from him. When Megumi’s eyes finally open there’s a satisfied, dazed slackness to them, and he reaches for Yuuji immediately.

“Your turn,” Megumi says, tugging at Yuuji’s shirt.

“Nah.” Yuuji catches his hands, brings them to his mouth, kisses his knuckles. “Just sit there and look pretty for me, baby.”

“What?” Megumi blinks at him, still dazed. “But you—”

“I only need the view.” Yuuji is already getting his own pants open, wrapping a hand around himself, his palm slick with Megumi’s come. He’s so hard it’s almost painful. “Just like this. You watching.”

“Oh,” Megumi breathes. His eyes go dark again, tracking the movement of Yuuji’s hand. “Yeah. Okay.”

Yuuji strokes himself slowly at first, but he’s so worked up it doesn’t take long. Megumi sitting there flushed and perfect, still catching his breath, looking up through his lashes at Yuuji like he’s the center of the universe—it does a lot for him. 

“You’re so—” Yuuji can’t finish the thought. “Megumi—”

“Do it,” Megumi demands. “Come on. Want to see.”

Yuuji’s rhythm speeds up. His free hand braces against the back of Megumi’s chair, keeping him steady. He’s close, so close—

“Lift your shirt,” he grunts. 

Megumi slides it up, shoves the hem between his teeth. 

Yuuji comes with a sound that’s almost a sob. Spends across Megumi’s abs, marking him up. The intimacy of it hits him sideways—the way Megumi just sits there and takes it like it’s precious.

When Yuuji can think again he’s braced over Megumi, both hands on the chair now, breathing hard. Megumi’s expression is an unguarded, exposed nerve. He tugs Yuuji into a kiss, languid, not a drop of urgency left in either of them. Ιn Yuuji’s veins affection is like molasses. When they finally pull apart Megumi wrinkles his nose. “I’m a mess.”

“Yeah you are.” Yuuji grins. “It’s a good look on you.”

In the bathroom Yuuji kneels to clean him. Scrubs the flat plane of his stomach with a washcloth, licks over the ridges of his abdominal muscles afterwards. Megumi pushes his head away, giggling, ticklish. Yuuji dips to kiss his navel one last time and then lets himself get hauled up and pressed against the sink for his trouble, the ceramic rim digging into his lower back. Megumi kisses him deep and serious. Yuuji’s hands fly to his waist. The curve of it slots puzzlelike into the space between Yuuji’s thumb and forefinger. 

***

The first time after the negotiation Megumi says yellow halfway through and Yuuji pulls back so fast he nearly falls off the bed. 

His “Too much?” comes out strangled, his cock still hard and aching. Megumi is face-down in the sheets. 

“No,” he pants, “just need a second.” Yuuji can see the sweat tracking down his spine, the way his frame is shaking. He waits—counts his own heartbeat, feels it in his carotid, his wrists, his dick. After what feels like an hour but was probably a minute Megumi looks back over his shoulder. His face is a mess, lips bitten red, eyes wet. “Green,” he says. Yuuji has never wanted anyone more in his life. 

When they finish Yuuji’s hands hurt from gripping the sheets instead of Megumi’s hips, half-moon marks in his palms from his own nails. Megumi can barely lift his limbs. He curls up against Yuuji’s side after Yuuji has cleaned him and fed him water, content like a purring cat. 

*

Two weeks later Yuuji slaps Megumi’s ass in the kitchen—not gentle, a real crack of sound—and watches Megumi go statue-still. The wooden spoon is still in his hand. He turns slow, pupils already blown, and says again like it’s a dare. Yuuji complies, does it harder. Megumi hiccups in shock. They don’t make it to the bedroom. Yuuji bends him over the counter right there, shoves his pants down and spanks him until his ass is pink-red and hot under Yuuji’s palm and Megumi grinds against the counter edge trying to get friction. Please, he keeps saying. Please, please, shattered and needy and unclear on if he wants more or if he’s trying to get away, and Yuuji finally gives in, rails him right there with the stove still on. Their dinner burns. They order ramen at midnight and Megumi sits gingerly on the couch, shifting his weight, and every time he winces it shoots through Yuuji like a live wire. 

*

He restrains Megumi with a silk tie because they still haven’t ordered proper rope; winds it around his wrists and ties it to the headboard. Megumi shakes his head when he asks if it’s too tight, pulls against it testing, and Yuuji watches the fabric bite into his skin. He maps Megumi’s body with his mouth after that. Takes his time, traces ribs and hip bones and the tender inside of his thighs—and Megumi can’t pull him closer, can’t push him away, can only take it. By the time Yuuji fucks him he’s incoherent, words fragmenting. When he comes his whole body goes rigid, straining against the twirled tie like he’s trying to tear it. For a second his hips twist hard to the side like he’s attempting to escape the intensity of it—then he stops himself, goes deliberately still, deliberately pliant. The moment Megumi chooses to surrender hits him sharp in the chest. He unties him immediately after, rubs feeling back into his wrists, watches the white marks from the silk fade pink.

*

He learns the extent of the praise thing by accident. Fucks Megumi hard one night—headboard slamming, graceless and desperate—and looks down at his face and can’t help it. You’re so beautiful spills out of him, and Megumi keens, clenches so tight around him it almost hurts. Fucking perfect, Yuuji continues, doesn’t slow down, look how well you take my cock, fuck, you were made for this, and Megumi comes untouched from being split open and worshipped. After that Yuuji weaponizes it. Learns he can nail Megumi within an inch of his life and say so proud of you, baby, you’re doing so good and watch him shake apart. One night he edges Megumi for over an hour, brings him to the brink again and again while his mouth runs. So wet for me, fuck, you’re dripping. When he finally wraps a hand around Megumi’s neglected erection and says gonna fill you up, sweetheart, want you so full of me Megumi sobs with it. Goes somewhere deep and glassy-eyed, comes so hard he can’t breathe through it.

*

Megumi ties him up one night instead. Gets Yuuji wrists crossed above his head and bound with a pair of leggings that work surprisingly well for that purpose, and his expression is pure sin. 

“You’re a bad dog,” he smiles, palm sliding up Yuuji’s chest. “Can never keep your hands to yourself.” Yuuji is already so hard he can’t think straight, has been since Megumi pushed him flat on his back with that look in his eyes. Megumi sinks down on him slow, takes him in inch by devastating inch, and Yuuji’s hips punch up involuntary. “Uh-uh,” Megumi presses him back down. “This is for me. You don’t get to move.” 

He rides Yuuji like that, unhurried and deliberate, head tipped back and throat exposed. One hand on his own cock, the other braced on Yuuji’s chest, using him. He looks untouchable like this, lethal, and Yuuji is losing his mind. His hips cant up again, can’t help it, and his voice comes out rougher than he means. 

“That’s it, baby. Take what you need.” Megumi’s eyes open, lock on his. “Yeah, just like that,” Yuuji continues. “Use me. Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” 

Megumi’s rhythm falters, speeds up. He comes with his hand still working himself, body clenching rhythmic around Yuuji. He unties Yuuji after and gets flipped over for his trouble, gets fucked into the mattress until he’s coming again dry and shaking. He leaves scratches deep on Yuuji’s back, red parallel lines that sting under Yuuji’s shirt for days every time his trapezius shifts. 

*

Three months in and Yuuji knows Megumi’s wants like scripture—where to press, where to murmur, the exact angle that turns Megumi’s breath into a plea. He can take him apart with a surgeon’s precision. He can put him back together just as easily.

And still there’s a fault-line running under it, thin but unmistakable. Megumi climbs right to the lip of that cliff where he’s gone, truly gone, and then something in him wrenches back. A recoil, tiny but violent. A refusal shaped like restraint.

It comes out most when Yuuji has him pinned. Megumi’s body will surge once—hips twisting, muscles tightening like he’s trying to tear free, real resistance—and then he’ll freeze himself. Deliberate. Obedient. A man holding his own instinct by the throat.

One night, after Megumi goes slack and quiet beside him, breath still catching in the aftermath, Yuuji sees it in the looseness of his mouth, the tension hoarded behind his eyes: the hunger that hasn’t found its place yet, that edge he isn’t letting himself fall over.

“What are you thinking?” Yuuji asks.

Megumi stares at the ceiling a while before answering. “I want to try something else.”

***

Megumi’s on the floor before he fully registers what is happening. Yuuji’s hand is fisted in his hair, holding him down, the carpet abrasive against his cheek. He tries to twist away; Yuuji drops his weight, a knee between his shoulder blades, pinning him clean.

“Don’t,” Megumi gasps, high and thin. 

Yuuji doesn’t answer. Gets his pants open, shoves them down with his boxers. Megumi’s legs draw together on instinct; Yuuji forces them apart with the shove of his knee, settles into the space he made. Cold air hits hot skin. Megumi trembles under him.

“Wait—” Megumi’s hands scrabble at the floor. “Yuuji, wait—”

“No.” The zipper on his own pants sounds obscenely loud. “Been waiting all day.”

“I don’t want—” Megumi tries to push up and Yuuji’s hand finds the back of his neck, presses him down harder. His face mashes into the rug, fibers catching at his mouth.

“Don’t care.”

He doesn’t bother slicking up. Just lines up and shoves forward without warning, bracing for the drag and burn of forcing his way through tight muscle—

—except there’s none.

Megumi opens around him in one smooth, impossible slide, heat swallowing Yuuji down to the hilt before he’s even finished the thrust.

“Jesus, you’re soaked.” Yuuji grinds deeper. “Stretched this pussy open for me already.”

“No,” Megumi hiccups, “I’m not—” 

Yuuji bottoms out. Megumi jolts beneath him, muscles locking tight. When Yuuji pulls back and drives in again, he lets out a sound that punches through Yuuji’s skull. His heartbeat thrums in his throat, his forearms, his cock. The world shrinks to the point of contact—Megumi pinned, taking him, the wet slap of their bodies.

“You’re so tight,” Yuuji hears himself say, voice unfamiliar. “Fuck, you feel like heaven.”

Megumi’s crying now, tears catching on the carpet. His hands drag uselessly against the floor, searching for leverage. Yuuji catches both wrists, pins them above Megumi’s head in one grip. His other hand locks hard on Megumi’s hip. The new angle lets him drive deeper; Megumi keens, spine bowing.

“Stop, please stop—”

Yuuji leans down and bites his shoulder, hard. Not breaking skin, but close. Megumi gasps, goes rigid. When Yuuji lifts his head, the mark stands out dark and mean against his skin.

He fucks him harder. Can’t think past it—Megumi’s body clenching around him, the tremor in his limbs, the drag of sweat down Yuuji’s spine. His fingers are numb from how tight he’s holding Megumi’s wrists, but he can’t loosen his grip, can’t give him any room to pull away.

Megumi tries anyway. Gets his knees under him, tries to crawl forward. Yuuji hauls him back by the hips, pulls out almost entirely and slams back in. Megumi collapses, arms buckling.

“Stay still,” Yuuji snarls. “Just—fuck—take it—”

“I can’t—” Megumi’s voice cracks apart. “Too much, I can’t—”

Yuuji’s rhythm stutters. Too much. The words slice through the haze. Suddenly he knows exactly how hard he’s holding Megumi, the marks he’s leaving, the way Megumi’s whole body shudders.

“Color?” Yuuji forces out.

“Green,” Megumi gasps instantly. “Green, I’m—fuck—I’m green—”

Relief slams into Yuuji train to brick wall. 

He keeps going. Hard, fast, chasing something sharp in his blood. Megumi stops fighting entirely—just holds there under him, pliant, wrecked—and the sight of that obedience is somehow worse, wine in Yuuji’s veins. His brain is waterlogged, thoughts wading slow through honey while his body moves on instinct.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Just—yeah—just like that, good boy—”

The words dissolve. He can feel the orgasm building too quick. He tries to push it back. Changes angle. Drives deeper. Megumi moans like he’s being opened from the inside, his hole clamping so tight around Yuuji it borders on pain.

“Please—please, I can’t—”

“You can,” Yuuji grits. Gets a hand under Megumi’s hips, finds his cock. He’s hard. Leaking. The first stroke makes Megumi sob.

“Don’t—don’t touch—gonna come—”

“Good.” Yuuji strokes him again, thumb catching precome. “I want you to.” 

He can’t help it; it trickles too kind from his mouth. Megumi shatters—comes hard, spilling into Yuuji’s palm, body locking around him with brutal force. The clench drags Yuuji under; his vision goes white as he spills deep inside.

When he comes back to himself, he’s slumped over Megumi’s back, breath ragged. His hand still wrapped around Megumi’s softening cock, sticky with release. He can feel his own leaking out, warm between them.

He pulls out slow. Megumi whimpers. Yuuji turns him over, has to see him. Megumi blinks up at him, there only in the loosest sense. Tear tracks down his cheeks. His mouth bitten raw. Red welts on his wrists, bruises forming at his hips, the imprint of teeth on his shoulder deepening by the second. 

“Hey,” Yuuji murmurs, but Megumi doesn’t answer. His chest rises too fast, falls too shallow. His legs twitch once, useless, like his body is trying to remember itself. Yuuji’s stomach flips.

He gets a warm cloth. Cleans Megumi gently, careful around the marks. Megumi doesn’t flinch, doesn’t help, doesn’t resist. Just inhales and exhales. A tremor runs through him, delicate as a wire humming.

Yuuji wipes his own groin, his thighs. Throws the cloth aside. Comes back.

“Megumi.” A hand on his cheek. “Sweetheart. You with me?”

Megumi swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, but no sound comes out.

Yuuji gathers him up, carries him to the bed because Megumi can’t walk, can barely lift his head. Lays him down, pulls the blanket over him even though he’s still too warm.

Megumi’s eyes track, finally—slow, dragging back toward focus. He touches Yuuji’s wrist with weak fingers, more reflex than intention.

Yuuji exhales through his nose. “Color?”

Nothing. Then Megumi blinks, lashes clumped, and his lips shape a breath more than a word. “Yuuji.”

A huff gets shocked out of Yuuji. “That’s not a color.” A beat. “Can I touch you?”

Megumi nods, a tiny movement. Yuuji sits on the edge of the bed, hands on Megumi’s shoulders, rubbing small circles like he’s soothing a frightened animal. Repetitive, grounding. Megumi leans into it without even seeming to realize he’s doing it. Yuuji bends to kiss the scars above his eye. 

***

Filtered morning light cuts across the bed, catching Megumi mid-stretch, his spine a pulled bow. His grey threadbare shorts ride high on his hips, a ring of teeth printed purple where fabric fails to hide the tender place high on the inside of his thigh. On both sides of his ribcage Yuuji has left mirrored full handprints like tattooed wings. 

He glances up at Yuuji, hair mussed, face rested. Yuuji leans against their bedroom wall with his coffee, takes a sip, lets his gaze drag over him without apology. In his stomach, the knot comes loose.