It starts with this: a kiss at the edge of a mouth, fleeting and featherlight, off-centered in a direction reminiscent of the summertime when intimacy was still unfamiliar to them—days of awkward fumbling, exploring the uncharted territories of each other’s bodies, learning with love and laughter. By now, they’re no strangers to one another; they have months of experience mapping each other’s every curve and crevasse.
But when the rough of Itadori’s lips, chapped from the winter’s chill, scrape against Fushiguro’s, it’s warm and thrilling, even now. It’s exhilarating to explore and admire the other’s landscape, the terrain of the other’s flesh, however well-mapped and familiar it may be.
The dance of Itadori’s fingers across Fushiguro’s skin is stimulating as always, his fingers leaving dull sparks of electricity in their wake; and the melody of Fushiguro’s moans against Itadori’s neck is intoxicating as always, his breath humid and making Itadori’s brain hazy with heat and want.
With day-worn patience and desire for touch kindling deep in his gut, Fushiguro wastes no time beckoning Itadori to escalate his sweet affections into scorching gazes, searing touches. Their clothes shed without ceremony, falling into piles more haphazard than the sheets growing more and more knotted as they tangle into each other. Their bond runs thicker than blood, deeper than marrow; a single, heated glance—emeralds almost completely swallowed by black, scorched with desire—communicates everything Fushiguro wants.
There’s a liminality, a space decorated with a distraught whine as Itadori removes his hands from Fushiguro’s body, a crack of a bottle opening, a symphony of heavy breaths and even heavier heartbeats as Itadori warms a substance with his fingers. Fushiguro is squirming, restless with need by the time Itadori fits a reach between him.
Itadori relishes the hitch in Fushiguro’s breathing when his fingers make contact with where he craves his touch the most.
“Breathe,” he encourages, massaging the surrounding area before attempting to breach it.
An exhale, heavy and heady, pushes its way past Fushiguro’s lips when the muscle trembles, tightens reflexively, before acquiescing and eagerly accepting his ministrations.
“That’s it. Just like that. You’re doing so well. Always so good for me.”
Fushiguro keens, hands turning frantic and searching for purchase wherever it can be found: a white-knuckled grip on the sheets, a bruising clutch onto the sinewy plains of Itadori’s shoulders.
It’s not something they acknowledge outside the bedroom. Fushiguro is too private and Itadori, too concerned with ensuring he never pushes Fushiguro too far, that he never trivializes the unspoken trust Fushiguro places in him or jeopardizes the intimacy Fushiguro allows them to share. It’s something neither of them anticipated either—least of all, Fushiguro himself—until the praise first poured from Itadori’s mouth: how wholeheartedly, how viscerally he wants to be told that he is good.
And he responds so wonderfully, as always. The only thing Itadori loves more than the rapture that blossoms across Fushiguro’s features at the praise is giving the praise, materializing the adoration, manifesting the admiration and affection, he feels for Fushiguro in language.
They are perfect for each other, Itadori thinks. They are a set of perfect complements: someone so deserving, so desiring to be told that he is good, and someone so enthusiastic, so eager to tell them.
Soon, Itadori has two fingers buried to the hilt. Fushiguro is matching him thrust for thrust, grinding down onto his touch with heightening desperation. Itadori times his movements with Fushiguro’s moans, which are quickly boiling to a fever pitch. It drives Fushiguro mad, reduces him to a state of sweat and base desire. He almost wants to feel embarrassed, almost wants to feel ashamed; but he’s too pleased, mind too syrupy and buoyant, to feel anything other than good and hot and needy.
But obstinate and impatient, Fushiguro urges Itadori, unconcerned with—craving, even—the slight sting of stretch. Even after so many seasons of knowing each other, after months of being together by the most physical, intimate definition, his desire for Itadori has not ebbed. If anything, it burns more fervently everyday—a gasoline fire he has no inclination to smother, no interest in extinguishing.
They refrain from leaving marks, for propriety’s sake. So if Fushiguro cannot wear physical evidence of Itadori’s touch on his skin, he wants it ingrained as deeply, as inextricably inside of him as possible. He craves a space sculpted inside his body only Itadori can fit, a match for the chambers of his heart that, on his rainiest days, only Itadori can drive to beat.
With amplified urgency, he laces his legs around Itadori’s hips. The motion pushes Itadori’s fingers even further inside him, eliciting a sharp inhale that bleeds into a high-pitched whine. In reflex, Fushiguro’s back arches, head falling back to expose the milky expanse of his throat. Itadori takes advantage of it immediately, tracing the network of veins and arteries with his tongue, nibbling at the junction between his neck and jawline.
“Yūji,” he wheezes. “I want you. Fuck, please. Yūji.”
Humming an assent, Itadori gives his fingers final thrust.
He chuckles with amusement but not entirely without sympathy when Fushiguro grieves the sudden, aching emptiness after he removes the digits completely, offering a consolation kiss as he fumbles blindly for the bottle. It takes a moment; his dexterity never fails to melt the second Fushiguro sets the warmth of his hands against his skin, across his body, but soon he’s slicked up, veins thrumming with anticipation and head swimming with desire.
Itadori positions, presses himself against Fushiguro’s entrance. A warm, choked groan bubbles from the depths of his chest when the muscle gives, tightens around him in an embrace that feels like home, like Fushiguro’s body was crafted for his and like his heart was sculpted for Fushiguro’s—a love as tender as flesh, as tough as bone—a union transcending body and soul.
He enters at a pace that is at once excruciating and exquisite, delighting in the way Fushiguro’s chest expands with breath that grows heavier, hotter, headier as he slides closer, grunting in harmony with Fushiguro’s gasp when their hips finally meet.
The sight beneath him is a masterpiece: Fushiguro, flushed and panting beneath him, emerald eyes dark, dangerous and dazed. He’s an artistic vision that eclipses anything Itadori could conjure using his imagination. Fushiguro, in all his forms and figures, is a dream—one that never fails to steal the oxygen straight from his lungs, never fails to leave him feeling a little lightheaded.
Itadori wants to love him, wants to fuck him, wants to give him everything he is certainly powerful enough to take for himself but, whether out of selflessness or self-consciousness, won’t.
With a whine, Fushiguro breaks Itadori out of his headspace, and immediately a blinding grin stretches across Itadori’s features. If there’s one thing more breathtaking, more beautiful than his romanticized notions of Fushiguro, it’s Fushiguro precisely as he is, always but especially in this moment: aching and demanding, tightening his thighs around Itadori’s hips and digging his fingernails into Itadori’s waist, back, shoulders—anywhere and everywhere within reach.
Itadori wants to love him, wants to fuck him, wants to give him everything. But first, he wants to ensure he’s comfortable, that their pleasure is mutual.
“Megumi,” he calls, voice cracking as his muscles quake.
He brings a reassuring palm up to caress Fushiguro’s cheek and sighs, drunk and delighted, at the warmth radiating off his skin. He traces the corner of his mouth, heartbeat stuttering when Fushiguro instinctively leans, nuzzles into the touch, before taking Itadori’s thumb between his swollen lips.
“Fuck. I wanna make you feel good. I'm gonna make you feel so fucking good. Are you okay though? Is it okay to move?”
Eyes fluttering shut, Fushiguro moans around Itadori’s finger, swirls his tongue and traces along its length, before removing it from his mouth. A thin bridge of saliva ties them together, even as he pulls away from Itadori’s touch and faces him directly.
The muscles in Itadori’s chest seize, his heart on the precipice of bursting, as he watches Fushiguro. Fushiguro untangles his fingers from their grip on the sheets, reaches and takes Itadori’s face between his own palms with a gentleness, a reverence that punches the air from Itadori’s lungs harder than any sultry expression, any sonorous moan. He runs a touch across his cheekbones before pulling him close, leaving but a single breath of air between their lips—an atmosphere of their own design, for them and them alone.
“Yes,” he murmurs. “Yūji.”
The punishing pace Itadori chooses for them is nothing short of divine. If Fushiguro were less embittered, if Fushiguro hadn’t been introduced to the world and all its unfairness at so tender an age, if Fushiguro still possessed any capacity or desire to believe—he might call it religious.
Itadori has an inordinate way of grounding Fushiguro so deeply inside his own body—in lighting his every nerve, every fiber, every muscle—while simultaneously breaking Fushiguro free of his corporeal form, making him feel transitory, like there is something bigger and better than the earth and physical form to which he is tethered.
The bruise of Itadori’s hold against his hips, the burn of Itadori’s fingers across his skin. The heat of Itadori’s tongue inside his mouth, the drag of Itadori’s cock inside his body.
He can barely breathe with Itadori bullying in and out of him. He can barely believe that anything exists outside Itadori’s cock, outside their mounting pleasure.
It’s too much. It’s not enough.
Fushiguro pulls his arms up to frame his head, hands fisted and wrists laying over one another. He flexes, coaxing Itadori to redirect his awed attention from watching his cock mold a home for itself inside the deepest, most intimate parts of Fushiguro’s body and to the desperation, the burning lust and blatant need painted across Fushiguro’s face.
“Yūji, please—” He flexes his arms again, exaggeratedly, punctuated with a whimper he might consider pitiful under any other circumstance but cannot summon the care, the dignity to pay heed toward right now.
Itadori knows Fushiguro.
Itadori knows Fushiguro’s sensitivity to bell peppers, how his nose scrunches with displeasure when he tastes even a trace of flavor; Itadori knows Fushiguro’s nervous tics, how he obsessively manicures his fingernails in anticipation of something and compulsively picks at the cuticles in the heat of anxiety; Itadori knows Fushiguro’s body, how beautifully it shivers with the whisper of a kiss at the inside junction of his elbow and how brilliantly it burns beneath his fingertips.
But this Itadori knows best of all: Fushiguro has seldom known comfort, security and kindness.
Fushiguro has tasted these things, of course, in one form or another—the feather-down warmth and softness of Tsumiki’s goodwill; the luxury of always having somewhere to rest and something to eat—but beneath the barbwire lacing his heart is a fragility, the glass preserve of a young boy intimately familiar with loss, thrust onto a precariously high pedestal he neither wanted nor asked for.
He stands firm against life’s incessant push and pull, but Fushiguro struggles to step outside onto softer ground, to articulate his desires and ask for what Itadori is so eager to give: love, care, affection.
“What do you want, baby? Anything you ask—you know I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you anything you want. You just need to tell me.”
Embarrassment blocks the words from forming.
Out of necessity, Fushiguro became self-sufficient at much too young at age. This independence developed into a crutch on which he stabilized himself, kept himself standing upright when life threatened to disorient him; he needed something to feel in control of, in a world he otherwise felt at the complete mercy of.
But for all the self-assured comfort in having the confidence and capacity to take care of himself, it makes for a wearisome existence, and sometimes he craves for all decisions to be taken from his hands, for someone to absolve him of agency’s burden, if for just a moment.
“Can you—please, just—” he grunts, raising his arms off the bed, still crossed at the wrists, and letting them fall back with a thump. “I want you to—hold—can you—”
Taking pity, Itadori indulges him by gathering both wrists in a confident but loose grip. Fushiguro tests his hold, Itadori immediately catching on and answering to the challenge, bearing down with slightly more pressure. There’s a harsh swallow, then a choked sob; Fushiguro’s expression is wild. Itadori feels lightheaded at the sound, at the desire so blatantly etched into features Fushiguro normally keeps controlled, neutral, outside the bedroom.
“Okay? Is this what you want?”
Verbal affirmation is a necessity. Fushiguro is sometimes prone to becoming overwhelmed, growing shy, and turning quiet. This tendency has never made an appearance beneath the sheets, but it would be too easy to mistake his reticence, the absence of volunteered response, for consent—and although Itadori trusts Fushiguro, he is uncompromising here, demands to hear the words spoken, if for just his own peace of mind.
“Use your words. You gotta talk to me,” Itadori encourages, gentle. “Am I giving you what you want? Is this good?”
There’s a hitch in Fushiguro’s breath, a missed beat in the rhythm of his chest.
“Yes—” he chokes, groan lodged in his throat.
Good is an understatement.
Good has no place in his vocabulary; good is a futile word to describe how weightless he feels, how free he feels from the burden of choice, the strain of agency.
Too much of Fushiguro’s life has been lost to premature adulthood, chained to unfair demands and unfortunate decisions. For Itadori to unshackle him from it—to give him even a moment of reprieve—even though good doesn’t touch how it feels, it’s the only word he can think of: “It’s good. You’re good. Now move, do something—”
Itadori kisses him, a reward and expression of gratitude for Fushiguro’s honesty.
It doesn’t take Itadori long to resume their earlier rhythm, to dry Fushiguro’s tears of frustration and elicit new tears of delight. He pours his heart into fucking Fushiguro, channels every ounce of love he feels into the thrust of hips, the press of his lips, the grip of his hands arounds Fushiguro’s wrists.
“Fuck, you’re pretty,” Itadori curses, thrusts harshening and stuttering, momentarily. “So goddamn pretty. You look so good like this. Ah, Megumi, shit—you look so fucking good on my cock.”
Fushiguro lets out a broken moan, a tremble running up his legs, the praise leaving tingles across the expanse of his flesh.
“Yeah?” Itadori exhales. “You like when I call you pretty, don’t you? You like that I’m strong enough to do this for you? That you can trust me to give you what you want, what you need—that I can take care of you?”
The noise that rips through Fushiguro is not wholly unlike a sob.
Fushiguro’s skin glistens, a vicious blush coloring his body. His lips are parted just enough to give his frantic breath room to escape; his eyes are clouded with desire, heavy-lidded; his hair is mussed, sweat-damp tangles of ink stark against the white pillow.
He’s beautiful. One of Itadori’s greatest sources of pride is his privilege to see someone as stoic, as composed as Fushiguro devolve into a sweaty, sniveling mess.
Impulsively, Itadori rearranges his grasp on Fushiguro’s wrists to hold them inside one hand. He immediately busies the free hand with running through Fushiguro’s hair, tracing his jawline and down his throat—over his sprinting pulse and across his chest, his ribs, his hips—before reaching their union and beginning to stoke, in tandem with his thrusts, Fushiguro’s weeping erection.
“Yūji—fuck—I’m close,” he cries. “So close—ah, there, right there—I’m—”
Fushiguro is breathtaking clothed and wearing a neutral expression, but nothing in the world compares to the sight of him with his eyes rolled back, mouth parted with a prolonged, syrupy moan.
Nothing compares to the sensation of Fushiguro tightening around him, legs quivering and voice quaking—Yūji, Yūji, Yūji—as he paints his stomach white. He looks so beautiful, Itadori almost laments reaching his own peak, almost bemoans the incandescent white that flashes across his field of vision and burns out the image of Fushiguro. His orgasm wracks through him—hitting him like a tidal wave, crashing through his body and washing him out to sea—as he shouts, spills everything in him, every drop of spend and every ounce of pleasure, inside Fushiguro.
In the hazy aftermath, it’s all Itadori can manage to collapse atop Fushiguro, heave out uneven breaths into his damp, inky hair. If his mind were any clearer, any less drunk on post-coital bliss, he may feel insecure, may worry about suffocating Fushiguro with the weight of his body. But as it is, he can only manage thoughts of how good, how sated, how in love he feels.
Lazy, muscles still heavy from the weight of his orgasm, Itadori waits until he’s softened almost completely before extricating himself. Vaguely, he wonders whether the hiss that seeps through Fushiguro’s teeth is enough to coax him back to hardness.
But he’s tired, content, and instead chooses to fall beside Fushiguro, to bask in the afterglow, relishing in the occasional tremor he can feel running through Fushiguro’s arm, pressed against his.
“I love you.”
Fushiguro stiffens. It’s not the sentiment that startles him; the extent of his feelings toward Itadori run deeper than shadows, constitute as implicit and integral a design in the fabric of his existence, after all.
But throughout his life, he has oftentimes felt suffocated by the enormity of his feelings. His love for Tsumiki is weighted with shame and remorse; the affection he feels toward Gojō shackled by feelings of debt and obligation. Since knowing Itadori, though—knowing his genuine smile, his generous laughter, his golden heart—love has come as easy, as natural to Fushiguro as breathing.
So it’s not the declaration of love that surprises Fushiguro but how thick and foreign the phrase feels inside his mouth, how strange it sounds spoken in his own voice.
He doesn’t remember the last time he’s said the words aloud—if he’s said them at all, actually.
“I...” He makes a second attempt, curious to again feel the words on his tongue, to burn them into spacetime, speak them into existence. He wants to take the intangibility of his emotions and etch it into the atmosphere. “Yūji. I love you.”
He turns to find Itadori staring at him with something akin to wonder. His eyes are glistening wet, growing glassy.
“Megumi,” Itadori whispers, voice raw and syllables broken by emotion. “Megumi, I love you. I love you so much.”
An endearing shade of pink heats Fushiguro’s face, blooming over his cheeks and bleeding down his throat, across his chest.
He feels vulnerable, stripped bare to the bone, under the intensity of Itadori’s gaze. The words—I love you. I love you more than I know what to do with—catch, unable to work themselves past the emotion that’s spilled out his heart and thickened inside his throat.
So in lieu of responding, Fushiguro presses a kiss to the edge of Itadori’s mouth, chaste but concentrated with the feelings he suddenly finds himself unable to vocalize. It’s off-centered in a direction reminiscent of days they hadn’t traveled each other’s every curve and crevasse; of nights they spent unraveling one another in places no one else before had ever touched; of mornings they found themselves tangled inside unfamiliar sheets but feeling safer, more at home than beneath their own.
They’ll feel the same, come tomorrow morning.
And the next morning, and the next morning.