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Itadori is, in a word, gorgeous.
Megumi knows this—as does, he suspects, anyone with a pair of functioning eyes. He’s got a handsome face, a winning smile, and a body ripped straight from the cover of a men’s fitness magazine. Bulging biceps, firm pecs, chiseled abs, and toned thighs—the whole nine yards, all wrapped neatly into one pretty pink package. He’s so perfect that it’s almost even offensive, really; so it only makes sense that he’d attract undue attention wherever he goes, from just about everyone he meets.
But that doesn’t mean that Megumi has to like it.
“That Itadori kid’s been making quite a name for himself, hasn’t he?” a nearby spectator remarks absently. “I’ve seen him in a lot of matches lately.”
Megumi frowns and surreptitiously studies the speaker from his vision’s periphery. It’s a rough-looking young man all dressed up in black, accompanied by an older man donning a blue security jacket. Probably Hakari’s lackeys, if Megumi had to guess. He pulls his hood down to better obscure his identity and edges nearer to them under the pretense of leaning in to examine the arena a little more closely. Neither man seems to notice.
“Oh yeah,” the second man pipes up. “Hakari’s taken quite a shine to him, apparently. Word is that Itadori’s brought a lot of new attention to the ring ever since he joined. He’s a real showstopper, that one. Been doing wonders for the boss’ business, too.”
As if on cue, the crowd before them erupts into appreciative, exuberant cheers—an absolutely deafening cacophony of chants and applause.
“Itadori, Itadori, Itadori!”
Megumi purses his lips and frowns even more severely, clenching his fists so tightly that his knuckles go white.
“See? Look at how much the crowd loves him!” the man continues. “He’s clearly the fan-favorite here. I heard that his matches sell out within minutes, and that’s not even mentioning all the profit Hakari makes from gambling off his victories! Nothing like a good underdog story to really stir up the masses, I suppose.”
“Is that so?” the other man says, his voice speculative and sickeningly sweet. “But surely you don’t think…that there could be other reasons for Itadori’s popularity, no?”
The two men break out into raucous laughter. Megumi wants to punch their faces in until they bleed.
“Well, I can’t deny that. He’s definitely easy on the eyes, that’s for sure.” Another sharp, grating burst of laughter peals through the air. “There’s already quite the demand for him, you know. Lots of old perverts with money to burn, all more than willing to spend it on a pretty young thing like him. Rumor has it that Hakari’s got plans for him.” The man trails off with a dark chuckle. “This isn’t the only kind of show that Itadori is good for, if you catch my drift.”
“Ha! Do you think we’d qualify for an employees’ discount? I’d sure love to see that.”
Megumi’s skin crawls, repulsion and anger simmering beneath the surface. The urge to call out his Divine Dog, to set it on these vermin and watch as it tears them to pieces, is near overwhelming. He needs to get away now, before he does something he’ll only regret later.
Megumi shoves his hands into his pockets as he makes his way towards the exit, shooting the two oblivious men one last scathing glare as he departs. He’d really only been lurking near the back to avoid the bustling crowd, but he’d gained some good intel out of it nonetheless. Certainly nothing he’d wanted to hear, but useful information all the same.
He needs to find Itadori. Now. Put an end to this farce once and for all, before things can spiral further out of their control.
So Hakari’s got plans for Itadori, does he? Plans to parade him around like a prize to be won? A lamb delivered before a den of hungry wolves, to be slaughtered and eaten?
No, fuck that. Not on Megumi’s watch.
And he’d sooner raze this place to the ground than ever let that happen.
This ugly jealousy is nothing new to Megumi. Far from it, in fact—it clings to him like a second skin, a persistent disease festering inside him. Lying dormant until the right conditions surface, whereupon it would flare back to life once again, poisoning his mind and rotting his body from the core.
He has no right to feel this way. His claim on Itadori is nominal, at best. What they have is a casual, no-strings-attached relationship. When Itadori feels lonely, when the malicious voice inside his head becomes too much for him to bear, he comes to Megumi seeking comfort. At first, it had been purely platonic. He’d come to Megumi’s door in the middle of the night, meek and ashamed, and Megumi would let him in. Let Itadori hold him close, and soak up in his warmth.
He can’t pinpoint the exact moment things changed between them—such a slow and gradual progression it had been, that to Megumi, it had felt nothing short of natural. To let his guard down, and allow Itadori to grow close. And then even closer and closer, until the lines between them blurred into nothingness.
Until Itadori started kissing him—chastely at first, and then hungry and open-mouthed, as if he sought to devour Megumi whole. Until his touches grew increasingly bolder, his hands leaving trails of blazing heat across Megumi’s skin. Until each night ended with Itadori inside him, carving a place for himself in the deepest recesses of Megumi’s body.
They’ve never talked about it. There had never really been a good time to. Their lives as sorcerers left little room for any kind of self-reflection, much less for discussions of such a delicate manner. There was always something looming over the horizon, a matter more pressing to deal with than the status of his relationship with Itadori. It was simply much easier to just leave things unsaid between them, with the comforting knowledge that—at the end of the day—there would always be someone waiting for him back home.
And then it was October, and everything changed.
Megumi’s entire life was upended. Gojo, sealed away by the living specter of his once best friend. Tsumiki, missing, forcibly compelled to compete in a ruthless game of life and death. And as for Kugisaki… Well, there were some things Megumi preferred not to think about at all.
And Itadori? He’d been nowhere to be found. Gone without a trace, leaving Megumi behind, desolate and alone.
And in his absence, Megumi came to a crushing revelation:
He needed Itadori, just as much as Itadori had needed him. Perhaps even more so, he was starting to realize. Relied on Itadori—as his crutch, his pillar of strength—and the pain of losing him again, after already having lost him once, was the most devastating blow of all.
Megumi doesn’t know if his heart would ever recover from losing Itadori for a third time.
He’s glad that he was able to recover Itadori again after convincing him to rejoin their cause. But it’s clear that things have changed between them. A heavy tension, a lingering sense of guilt and hesitation, laces every strained interaction they’ve shared. Itadori used to be so handsy, thriving on any form of physical contact, easily the most tactile person Megumi has ever met.
He hasn’t touched Megumi once, since Shibuya.
It’s perfectly understandable, of course. In all this chaos, sex is basically the last thing on anyone’s mind. But even so, Megumi can’t help but mourn the loss of such old comforts. It’s childish of him, he knows, to be so clingy, to constantly crave what was never rightfully his to begin with. And yet, the thought that he might be the only one to feel this way hurts more than any physical wound ever could.
But maybe that’s for the best, an insidious voice deep within the recesses of his mind whispers. After all, you’re really only holding Itadori back like this, aren’t you?
Megumi bites his lip and clenches his fists. His strides begin to slow, his righteous anger seeping out of him with every leaden step he takes.
Because it’s the truth, and he’s only all too aware of it. Has known, since the very beginning, that Itadori could have anyone he wanted. He’s gorgeous and genial, genuine in a way that’s all too rare these days. He deserves someone who can return his affections in kind, and not—not someone like Megumi. An unloving, broken mess of a human-being—too bitter, too spiteful for his own good—and the very reason Itadori has a death sentence hanging over his head to begin with.
Itadori would be living a normal life, if not for him. And now, all he knows is pain and misery. By staying with Itadori, Megumi is only robbing him of a better future. And yet, he is far too selfish to let him go.
He is, in every sense, nothing but a parasite, leeching Itadori away from the life he so deserves.
It was less of an issue back then, when they’d all been living comfortably in the school dorms. But now, they’re fugitives on the run. Now, Itadori is little more than a contestant entered into a series of vicious dogfights, putting his life on the line for the mere spectacle of it all. For the entertainment of those with too much time and money on their hands, all far too willing to throw their riches away on a handsome, bright-eyed young thing like Itadori.
These people are like nothing that Itadori is used to. An orphaned country mouse born and raised in Sendai, suddenly thrown into a lifestyle of glitz and glamor—what if Itadori is unable to resist the allure?
Because, sleazy as they are, these people have the means of taking care of Itadori. Of providing for him and keeping him safe from harm. And loath as Megumi is to admit it, not all of Itadori’s admirers are terrible, creepy old perverts. Among them are also a few younger women closer to his age, and one, in particular, seems to be especially enamored with him.
A beautiful blonde bombshell with curves like an hourglass. Rich, if her branded clothing is anything to go by, and further reinforced by the fact that she’d been able to buy front-row seats to almost every single one of Itadori’s matches thus far. Charming too, as evidenced by how she always cheers for Itadori, blowing him kisses whenever he turns her way.
How, exactly, is Megumi supposed to compete against someone like that?
Itadori has a magnetic presence and a personality that’s larger-than-life, drawing people effortlessly to his cause. From their belligerent Kyoto rivals, to the hostile death paintings—be it friend or foe, no one can resist him for long. Megumi has seen it happen countless times before. He has no doubt that Itadori will have little difficulty in swaying Hakari to his side as well. And once that’s done—once Hakari’s and Angel’s cooperation is secured; once Gojo is released from his prison; once Tsumiki is returned safely back to him; once peace is restored to all of Japan again—what reason does Itadori have to stay with him any longer? What is there to stop him from leaving Megumi for someone else?
Someone sweet and beautiful, who falls more under Itadori’s preferred type. Someone with plenty of wealth to spare, who will care for him and treat him well.
Someone better. Someone…like her.
Lost in his thoughts, Megumi almost misses his intended target entirely. Though, in his defense, the locker rooms are far from conspicuous, buried deep within a veritable maze of corridors. Really, the only reason Megumi is so familiar with its location is because of all the times he’d followed Itadori there. The locker room area in particular tends to be more well-guarded than the rest, often teeming with security guards, and this time is of no exception.
But that matters little to Megumi. He has his own ways of bypassing Hakari’s goons.
Megumi darts behind a wall, out of their line of sight, and melts into the shadows. The dark hallways provide him with the perfect cover as he weaves silently from shadow to shadow. He arrives at the locker room door, then slips beneath it, until he reaches the other side. Carefully, he takes a moment to survey the room to gauge whether or not it’d be safe for him to resurface.
Empty. That’s strange. Itadori should be here, at the very least. Usually long before Megumi arrives, even—eager to refresh himself after a long day of grueling matches. Quite unlike most of his other older peers, whose interests lie more in the complimentary alcohol provided at the lounge.
Uncertainty bubbles up in Megumi’s chest. It’s not like Itadori to be late, so why isn’t he here yet? Was he held up for some reason or another? Had he been summoned by Hakari, perhaps? Or were the injuries he’d sustained in his last match worse than he’d let on?
Megumi hesitates and considers his options. Backtrack and search for Itadori, or wait for him here in the locker rooms? But before he can come to a decision, the sound of harried footsteps alerts him of someone else’s presence, and he sinks back into the shadows once more, quietly observing. And not a second too soon. The door slams open, and Itadori storms in with the force of a raging hurricane.
At first glance, nothing seems out of the ordinary. As far as Megumi can tell, Itadori appears to be in good health, with no glaring injuries to speak of whatsoever. No, what’s more concerning is the strangeness of his behavior: the shortness of his breath, the pink flush on his face, the way his gaze skitters about restlessly, as if something—or someone —had flustered him greatly. He turns back to lock the door, then paces back and forth for a few steps before stuttering to a stop. Takes a deep breath, and lifts his hand up to examine it. Or more precisely, what’s held in its grasp.
A crumpled pink envelope inlaid with a red wax seal. And just above seal, a brighter crimson hue—the unmistakable stain of a lipstick mark.
All breath leaves Megumi’s lungs in an instant.
No… No, it can’t be…
Numbly, almost unthinkingly, he tips forward, peeling himself away from the wall. The sudden movement startles Itadori. In a split second, he stuffs the envelope into his pocket before whirling around, fists raised defensively—a wild animal backed into a corner. But then he catches sight of Megumi, and all tension bleeds away from him at once. His entire demeanor softens, wariness melting into warm, undisguised affection.
“Oh, Fushiguro!” He grins disarmingly. “Just the person I wanted to see.”
Megumi’s heart lurches. No one has ever looked at him the way Itadori does—with such care, such fondness and adoration. Like just the sight of Megumi alone is enough cause for such wondrous delight.
He doesn’t want to give this up. Not ever, if he can help it. But he’s starting to realize that he may have less choice in the matter than he’d initially hoped.
“Itadori,” Megumi finally manages through the lump in his throat. Deflect, deflect, deflect. Don’t think about it. Don’t let Itadori know. “I was your match earlier,” he says, struggling to keep his voice level as he makes his way over. “You’re getting better at this.”
Itadori’s smile widens at the praise. “Yeah, it gets easier, once you know what to expect,” he chuckles. “It’s all about the performance, really. Give the crowd a good show, and all the money starts pouring in. Well, that’s what Hakari told me, anyway.”
Itadori had probably meant that in the most innocuous sense. But with what Megumi now knows, the context behind his words become far more sinister. Megumi scowls, his mood souring impossibly further.
Itadori’s brows furrow, concerned by Megumi’s foul temper despite not knowing the cause. He smiles placatingly, beckons Megumi closer, and pulls him into his lap once he comes within reach. Megumi follows the motion easily, settling himself over the other boy’s thighs.
“Hey, don’t be like that,” Itadori pouts. “It’s not like I haven’t been working hard, you know. I’ve won all my fights, scripted and unscripted! And Hakari’s never made me do anything I’m not comfortable with, or set me up against someone I can’t beat. He’s really not a bad guy, once you get to know him better.”
Megumi frowns. “It’s not the unscripted matches that are the issue here, and you know it.” His fingers trace a path over the sickly yellowish blemishes on Itadori’s skin—one over his right eye; one near his left jawline; and plenty yet more unseen, littered throughout his body, hidden beneath his baggy tracksuit—remnants of old bruises Itadori had gotten, letting himself take hit after hit from opponents who, by right, usually wouldn’t stand a chance against him.
And for what? A fleeting enjoyment? Someone else’s twisted pleasure?
Disgusting. The whole thing makes Megumi sick to his stomach.
“I know that you can handle yourself in a fight. You’re much stronger than everyone else here,” he whispers. “It’s just, I don’t like seeing you get hurt.”
Especially not when this was all his suggestion to begin with.
“I know,” Itadori murmurs, pulling him closer and looping sturdy arms around his waist. He leans forward, resting his forehead against Megumi’s sternum in such a tender gesture that it makes Megumi’s heart race. “Just…have a little more patience, alright? It won’t be much longer now, I promise.”
“It’s been over five days, Itadori. Our deadline is a week, at most. We need his cooperation now.”
“And you know why we can’t afford to rush things. It’s your sister and Gojo-sensei on the line here. And further beyond that, the fate of our country and possibly the whole world, even.” Itadori shakes his head, resigned but stern. “I can’t afford to risk it all by slipping up now, Fushiguro. Not when we have so much to lose.”
Megumi says nothing. Itadori is right. Of course he is. In the grand scheme of things, what does one boy’s sacrifice matter when so many more can be saved through it? It’s the only logical choice to make.
And yet, how can Megumi accept that when it’s Itadori’s life at stake here?
Sensing Megumi’s clear reluctance, Itadori hesitates. “You know, I have a meeting with Hakari later,” he admits, gripping Megumi’s hips tighter to rub soothing circles with his thumbs. “We’ve been getting along really well lately. I think this could be the perfect opportunity to bring up a potential alliance!”
Judging from the conversation he’d heard earlier, Megumi has a sinking feeling that the meeting isn’t going to go quite the way Itadori expects it to. But Itadori sounds so hopeful, so optimistic of his chances, that Megumi doesn’t have the heart to tell him of Hakari’s sleazy ulterior motives.
“Yeah… I’m sure it’ll go great.” Megumi swallows hard, forces himself to smile. Anything to assuage Itadori’s worries. “When is he expecting you, by the way? You’ll probably want to shower first. And grab something to eat while you’re at it.”
“Oh, right.” Itadori sucks in a breath between his teeth. “Well, he told me to see him in his office in about an hour. But that was right after my match and I got a little held up afterwards, so…just under forty-five minutes now, I guess?”
“…Held up?” Megumi doesn’t like where this is going one bit. “By what?”
“Oh, um.” His stomach sinks when Itadori flushes a delicate pink, eyes darting away sheepishly. “Well, after I got the message from Hakari, Ayane-san came to see me. And I didn’t want to be rude or anything, so I started talking to her and kiiinda lost track of time a little? Maybe?”
“Ayane-san?” Megumi hates how hollow his voice sounds, echoing pitifully throughout the room. “Who’s that?”
To Megumi’s horror, Itadori’s flush only darkens. By contrast, his eyes positively light up with joy, a radiant pair of twinkling amber stars.
“Oh, she’s a fan of mine, if you can believe that.” He laughs, a soft and shy sound. “She’s great, though. Really friendly. Been cheering me on since pretty much the beginning. I don’t know if you recognize her. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Half-foreign, probably American. She was wearing a red and black minidress today.”
Oh. Megumi does recognize her. Probably a little too well, in fact.
It’s that girl, Itadori’s most ardent admirer.
And now he has a name to go with her face.
“She’s the daughter of some western ambassador, I think. Oh, and—wait ‘til you hear this—” Itadori shuffles around, digging his hand into his pocket to fish out that dreadful pink envelope. “She asked me to come over for a dinner party!” He giggles again, giddy and disbelieving. “Isn’t that so exciting? Gosh, I can’t wait to go.”
He’s practically glowing with delight—eyes sparkling, nose crinkling, pink cheeks split into a wide grin. It’s an expression Megumi has missed dearly over the past few weeks, but to see it like this—because of someone else —is just…
Megumi had always known that their relationship was never meant to last, but he'd never expected it to end quite so soon either.
If only there was a way to make him stay…
“But you’re right,” Itadori continues on, oblivious. “I should probably shower before I go and meet anyone. God, I’m absolutely filthy right now. I wonder if I can—”
But Megumi doesn’t let him finish. He surges in for a kiss, pulling Itadori closer. For a moment, the other boy falters. He goes still in Megumi’s arms, caught completely off guard, but Megumi doesn’t let that deter him. If anything, Itadori’s unresponsiveness only fuels him further. He licks into Itadori’s mouth, prying his lips apart, and kisses him again. Itadori follows by instinct, almost as if in a daze, his tongue seeking Megumi’s out to draw him into another messy, open-mouthed kiss.
But Megumi only presses a hand to his chest and nips his tongue playfully to stop him.
Itadori pulls back with a wounded noise. “Fushiguro?” he slurs, dazed. “What’re you—”
“It’s been a while since we did anything like this, hasn’t it, Itadori?” Megumi murmurs coyly. “You looked so good out there today, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. How strong you were, overpowering all your opponents so effortlessly. How easy it would be for you to pick me up and throw me around.” He leans in close to nibble at Itadori’s earlobe; grinds down against his straining erection; and moans, high and breathy. “How good you’d feel inside me, splitting me open with your cock.”
Itadori’s eyes go wide, his irises swallowed by the black of his pupils. “Fushiguro, seriously, what—”
“Don’t you want it too, Itadori?” Megumi croons. “But if you’d rather not…” He trails off meaningfully, leaning back to pull away from Itadori entirely. Throws a heated, half-lidded glance over his shoulder as he makes to walk away. “Well, I suppose there’s always the option of taking a nice cold shower, hm?”
Megumi doesn’t make it more than two steps before a hand is shooting out to grab him by the wrist and drag him bodily back onto Itadori’s lap.
“Fuck, I can’t believe you,” Itadori growls. “Little cocktease, riling me up like that.”
He grinds into Megumi’s ass and smirks victoriously when Megumi moans, loud and unabashed. “Yeah, that’s right. Make some noise for me, baby. Let them all know who you belong to.”
“Yours, Itadori,” he says obediently. Knows it’s exactly what Itadori wants to hear. “I’m all yours.”
Itadori buries his face into the crook of Megumi’s neck with a muffled groan. “Fuck, Fushiguro, what is with you today? You’re so—”
“What’s wrong?” Megumi hums. “Weren’t you going to show everyone who I belonged to?” He turns in Itadori’s arms to press a kiss onto his crown of messy pink hair. It’s sticky and matted with sweat, ruffled beyond recognition, but that doesn’t bother Megumi in the least. He closes his eyes, breathes in the heady scent of Itadori’s musk, and whispers against his ear, “C’mon, Itadori. Make me scream.”
Itadori groans again. He doesn’t lift his head up, but his hands roam across the expanse of Megumi’s body, pulling at his clothes with ravenous greed. “You are such a menace, you know that? God, that fucking mouth on you.”
He quickly divests Megumi of his jacket and pants, until all that’s left is his shirt and boxers. Megumi trembles, impatient with need, as one of Itadori’s hands wrap around his cock while the other plays with his sensitive nipples. It feels amazing—incredibly so—but there’s only one thing that can truly satisfy him, and he wants it now.
“Itadori, please,” Megumi pants, breaking off into a whine when Itadori pinches his nipple and twists. “Stop teasing me.”
But Itadori only hushes him with a kiss. “Patience, sweetheart. You said it yourself, didn’t you? It’s been so long since we last did this.” The hand on Megumi’s cock slows to an agonizing pace, playing gently with its tip and smearing precome all over Itadori’s fingers. “Let me take my time with you, yeah?”
Megumi chokes down a protest, knowing that doing so will only encourage Itadori more. One of the things he loves and hates most about sex with Itadori is just how unpredictable the other boy is. There are days when he delights in hearing Megumi beg for him, fueled by his breathy pleas, eager to sink his cock into Megumi’s tight heat as soon as possible. And other times, he loves to draw it all out, and nothing Megumi says or does will be enough to coax him into speeding up his pace.
Most infuriatingly, he seems to be in the mood for the latter today. Taking his sweet time to tease Megumi’s sensitive spots, but never touching where Megumi wants him most.
It’s nothing short of pure agony, allowing Itadori the freedom to go as leisurely as he pleases. All the more so when his hand finally leaves Megumi’s cock to trail further down, thick fingers brushing tantalizingly against his rim. Megumi rocks down against them with a muffled sob, desperate to finally be filled at last.
He hears the click of something opening and realizes only belatedly that it’s probably the tube of skin cream he’d given Itadori some time ago for his scars. A far cry from what they’re intending to use it for at present, but Megumi can’t care less about any of that right now.
He waits, breathless with need, until he can feel Itadori’s fingers against his entrance once more. Megumi feels Itadori nuzzle into him, his breath hot against the shell of Megumi’s ear. A silent request, a wordless question of consent:
Are you ready for me, Fushiguro?
Megumi tilts his head back. Slants his hips downwards, until the tip of Itadori’s finger breaches just past his rim.
Yes, always.
Despite the anticipation, nothing can truly ever prepare him for the exact moment when Itadori’s fingers finally plunge inside him. Megumi arches back with a loud cry, inadvertently causing them to sink even deeper within.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Itadori hisses. He scissors his fingers open experimentally, testing the waters; and Megumi chokes on an inhale, breath stuttering to a halt as he feels his hole clenching around them, always hungry for more.
He can’t get enough. Itadori’s fingers feel fantastic, moving purposefully inside him, teasing all his sweet spots with practiced ease. And it really has been too long, Megumi can’t help but think, if he’s already this overwhelmed just by having Itadori’s fingers inside him. But the thought of slowing down, of allowing his body to properly adjust, never once crosses Megumi’s mind.
“Itadori,” he pants, bucking and whining as thick, calloused fingers rub insistently against his prostate. “Itadori, stop. That’s enough. I— I can take it already, so please—”
Itadori curses under his breath, faring seemingly no better than Megumi is. He withdraws his fingers, and Megumi instantly whines at the loss. But he doesn’t have long to wait. He hears—just barely, through the dizzying roar of blood rushing through his ears—the click of the tube opening once again; the sound of Itadori’s muffled grunt as he slicks himself up. The seconds pass by, agonizingly slow. And then, the sensation Megumi had been craving most for: the blunt head of Itadori’s cock against his entrance.
But still, something doesn’t feel quite right.
“Wait,” Megumi demands, turning over. “I want to see you.”
This could be their last time, after all. There’s no guarantee that Yuuji will choose to stay with him when all has been said and done, so why not make the most out of this while he can? One last waltz before the final curtains close.
And Itadori welcomes him with open arms, holding him loosely by the waist. His expression is gentle, his smile so wonderfully sweet and affectionate. Megumi cups his face tenderly in his hands, hoping to ingrain this sight within him forevermore. A cherished memory to keep him warm, should he ever find himself alone in the future.
He sinks down onto Itadori’s cock, never once taking his eyes off him. The stretch is exquisite, a feeling he’d long been craving for. It’s too soon, too much—his body too stiff after weeks of abstinence—but Megumi can’t find it in himself to care. This pain is a welcome one, as is the soreness he’ll surely feel later—a reminder of the physical intimacy he shares with Itadori.
Large hands run up and down Megumi’s sides reassuringly. Itadori says nothing, but his silence speaks volumes all the same.
Go slow. Take your time.
Megumi takes a deep breath, steels himself, and starts to move. Letting go of all his reservations, he bounces up and down on Itadori’s lap to a frantic cadence. Itadori yelps, caught off guard, hands clamping down hard on Megumi’s waist.
“F-Fushiguro, wait—”
Megumi cuts him off with a heated kiss and rakes his nails down Itadori’s back. Long, angry red lines that mar the other boy’s skin like welts from a whip, drawing blood. Itadori groans into the kiss as he struggles to keep up with Megumi’s pace, to little avail. It’s a fruitless endeavor, trying to coax Megumi into slowing down. Like a man possessed, Megumi bucks and thrashes, fucking himself furiously on Itadori’s cock.
But still it’s not enough.
More, more, more.
He needs this to last. Be it bites or bruises or scratches, he needs to leave his mark on Itadori. Brand him with something permanent—something that he’ll carry with him forever, ‘til the end of his days.
It’s only fair, isn’t it? After he’d left such a lasting imprint of his own, one that Megumi can never even hope to erase, no matter how hard he tries.
He belongs to Itadori, wholly and irreversibly. Would give up everything, just to be with him. To keep him as his and his only.
…So why is it that Itadori doesn’t seem to feel the same?
Bitter frustration wells up within him. Distantly, Megumi realizes that any pleasure he’d once felt—the happiness and warmth he’d always experienced, being one with Itadori—has long soured. It doesn’t feel good anymore. None of it does. He hurts everywhere—his chest aching, his thighs straining, his eyes stinging with unshed tears.
But he can’t stop. Because to stop now would mean admitting defeat. Would mean allowing Itadori to slip through his fingers once again.
And he can’t afford to let that happen.
“—shiguro? Fushiguro, stop!”
A familiar voice cuts through the dense fog clouding Megumi’s mind. Two strong hands grip him by his hips and steady him, anchoring him in place. Try as he might, there is simply no escaping Itadori’s hold.
“What?” Megumi snarls, panting as he strains to break free. “Why are we stopping?”
“Why are we—Are you seriously asking me that right now?” Itadori balks, disbelieving. “Fushiguro, you’re crying.”
…Is he? Megumi raises a hand to his cheek and finds it wet with tears. Shit.
“So? It’s not a big deal. I cry all the time when we fuck.”
Normally, an admission like this would make Megumi shrivel up with shame, embarrassed by how easily Itadori can bring him to tears, utterly overwhelmed into pleasured submission. But now, it’s an easy excuse to hide behind. A consequence of his physical limitations rather than the fragility of his own heart.
But Itadori doesn’t buy that for even one second. “Yeah, but not like this. Never like this.”
It’s so easy to forget, given Itadori’s innocence and general lack of tact, just how perceptive he can truly be, should the situation call for it. And while this isn’t always a bad thing, Megumi is hardly in the mood to play therapist with him right now.
“Just let it go, Itadori. I’m fine.”
“No. No, you’re not. Something’s wrong. You’ve been acting off this whole time. First, there was the way you teased me—when you’ve never done it like that before—and now this? You’re not usually this forward, this… aggressive.” Itadori bites his lip and shakes his head, concern plainly evident in the furrow of his brows. “Something’s bothering you, I can tell. But you were totally fine until…”
Itadori’s eyes go wide in apparent revelation as understanding dawns upon him.
“This is about Ayane-san, isn’t it?”
There’s no point in denying it. His behavior more than speaks for itself. Megumi hangs his head and turns his gaze away, abashed, and doesn’t say a word.
But the reprimand he’d expected to hear never comes.
A warm palm caresses his cheek and brushes away his tears. Its companion joins soon after, gently cupping Megumi’s face between them.
“Hey Fushiguro, look at me?”
Megumi hesitates, steadfastly holding onto the shattered remnants of his pride, knowing that his resolution would all but crumble the moment his eyes meet Itadori’s.
Another featherlight stroke of his cheek, brushing his bangs aside. “Please… Megumi?”
Like snow thawing under the first light of spring, Megumi melts into the touch, all resistance fading away into nothingness. He shivers, helpless to deny such an earnest request. Slowly, shyly, he raises his head once again. And the sight that greets him makes the effort more than worth it.
Itadori smiles, soft and warm and fond. “There you are.” He pulls Megumi down to kiss him sweetly on the tip of his nose. “Hi.”
It’s so embarrassing, how such a small gesture can steal his breath away so easily. Megumi ducks his head down once again, flustered, and is rewarded by the twinkling sound of Itadori’s laughter. He curls his fingers into Itadori’s broad shoulders and feels large hands squeezing his waist in kind.
“What’s on your mind, Fushiguro?” Itadori hums, the cadence of his voice so kind and soothing. “Tell me what’s troubling you.”
For a moment, the world seems to stand still around them. Time slows to a crawl, and then to a complete halt. Megumi can keenly feel the warmth of Itadori’s skin against his, the fullness of the cock sitting snugly inside him. Can feel how Itadori’s muscles contract with every breath he takes, the steady thrum of his heartbeat underneath his fingertips. A flood of memories surface in the depths of his mind—all the times they’d spent in bed together, intimately tied, holding on to each other like they never wanted to let go.
How had he lost sight of that? And let petty jealousy consume him, and blind him to what’s most important?
Megumi swallows thickly. Knows, deep down, that he can’t afford to keep the truth from Itadori any longer.
“I was…jealous, and upset,” he starts, grateful for the other boy’s patience. “It’s just—You looked so happy talking about her, and I kept thinking: there’s no way that I could ever hope to compete against someone like that.”
“Compete?” Itadori frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t make me say it,” Megumi pleads. “I know I’m…not your type. That I’m probably the last person you’d choose, under normal circumstances.”
A tall, busty woman with a large ass. Someone striking—a beautiful blonde actress. Jennifer Lawrence.
Megumi can’t think of anyone less fitting of that description than he is.
“I know that you only came to me out of loneliness, or convenience, or hell, maybe even pity. And that—someday, after this is all over—you’ll be much better off being with someone else.”
It’s beyond painful, acknowledging the truth like this; but with it, comes a sense of catharsis as well.
“I’m not the kind of person you’d find attractive. I can’t provide you with a home or a family. And I’ll never be able to give you the peaceful, comfortable life you deserve. But even so…” Megumi bites his lip and rests his forehead over Itadori’s collar, fearful of his reaction. “I’m sorry,” he says, “for taking advantage of your trust. For being selfish enough to take that all away from you, even though I had no right to.”
And then, quietly, little more than a whisper, “I’m sorry, Itadori. Please forgive me.”
A suffocating silence blankets the room in stillness. Neither boy so much as speaks or moves, seemingly frozen in time.
It’s over, Megumi thinks. Itadori finally knows the truth.
Dread settles in the pit of his stomach like molten concrete. But on the contrary, his heart has never felt lighter before. Buoyed by elation, no longer weighted by the heavy secret he used to carry with him.
A few more seconds tick by without any reaction from Itadori. Megumi had expected some form of rebuke, but this—this cold and silent treatment—is arguably far worse. His mind goes blank with sick apprehension, and he shifts to move away, mortified.
But in that very moment, Itadori finally speaks.
“Is that…really how you feel?” There is a strange hollowness to Itadori’s voice. “Because I think that there’s been a very big misunderstanding here.”
The unnatural wooden timbre of his voice startles Megumi into looking up and meeting his gaze. But he’s met with a sight that chills him to the bone. Because, for the first time that Megumi has ever seen him, Itadori’s face is entirely blank, devoid of any emotion. A shiver runs down Megumi’s spine; he doesn’t recognize the man before him at all.
“A family? A peaceful and comfortable life? Don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing like that in my future.” Itadori sneers, his voice dripping with scornful disdain. “I’m just a dead man walking, and the only reason I’m even alive in the first place,” he says, peering meaningfully into Megumi’s eyes, “is you.”
Itadori’s callous words cut into Megumi like shards of broken glass. “Don’t say that,” he snarls. “Don’t you dare even think that—”
But Itadori only shakes his head in resignation. “I’ve hurt and killed countless people—done far too many things that can never be forgiven—and I’ve made my peace with that. Even if, by some miracle, they decide not to execute me. Even if they let me get away with all that I’ve done, completely scot-free, I don’t deserve any of it.”
He smiles, a small and fragile thing that doesn’t reach his haunted eyes. “And I especially don’t deserve to have you.”
Megumi can feel his heart shattering at the quiet admission, the sincerity with which Itadori speaks, so earnest in his conviction that what he says is true.
“Itadori…”
“And you thought that you were the one taking advantage of me? When I’m the spineless one here?” Itadori laughs, but the sound is bitter. Derisive and filled with so much self-loathing, it makes Megumi’s skin crawl. “I was the one who started everything. I took advantage of your kindness, and when you never pushed me away, I kept taking more and more from you, waiting for the day you’d finally say no.”
Itadori goes quiet then, overcome by remorse.
“But you never did,” he says softly, burying his face into the crook of Megumi’s neck. “You’re far too nice to me, Fushiguro. You always let me get away with too much.”
Instinctively, Megumi curls his arms around Itadori’s shoulders, holding him close. In all honesty, the thought that Itadori had been imposing on him had never once occurred to Megumi. He strokes Itadori’s hair in slow, soothing gestures, and is instantly gratified when he feels the tense line of Itadori’s back relax under his touch.
“You never took more than I could give,” Megumi reassures him. “And you never pressured me into anything either. I wanted to do this for you. I would’ve given you everything, if you’d just asked.”
This gives Itadori pause. He pulls back to look Megumi in the eye, his gaze searching. “Then why’d you think that I didn’t want you too? What made you think I don’t find you attractive?”
“I—” Megumi doesn’t know where to start. How can he possibly even begin to answer a question quite so loaded? He opts to go for the safest route: deflection. “But whenever anyone asked—and even when they didn’t, sometimes—you always said—”
“That I liked tall women with big butts?”
“Well, yes.” Megumi nods, his voice small. “Wouldn’t you prefer that?”
Itadori goes quiet again, but this time his silence is contemplative. Reflective rather than self-reproaching.
“When I was young, all I really had was my grandpa. And when he fell sick, I used to read a lot of manga to pass the time—to pretend that he wasn’t, y’know, wasting away in front of me when there was nothing I could do to change that.”
The way Itadori spoke—it was fraught with grief, but also with acceptance. His grandfather’s passing, it seemed, was something he’d come to terms with long ago.
“And you know how it is: the hero would always end up with some pretty chick with a great rack. And I wanted that too—my own happy ending, I mean. But it was all just a joke, really. Or a stupid little pipe dream. Shit dumb kids like me would say to leave an impression on the people I’d meet. But I’d never actually expected to find anyone like that. It just…wasn’t realistic. It was never going to happen, not to some nobody living out there in the boonies like me.
“But you…” Itadori continues, his gaze soft with unbridled awe and affection. “You’re really something else, you know that? You’re strong and you’re smart. Brave and kind and loyal, too. And you’re just—You’re so beautiful. The most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. And I just couldn’t believe that someone as amazing as you are would even want to be with me, let alone stay by my side for all this time.”
A pause, long and level. It’s so hard to breathe, whenever Itadori looks at him like this—like he holds the answers to everything, like he’s the single greatest dream in all of existence.
“You’re my lifeline, Fushiguro. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Never before has Megumi felt so small, so exposed. And yet, so seen and adored. Worshiped with a reverence rightly reserved for deities alone.
“Maybe you’re not the kind of person my younger self was searching for, but you’re the only one I want now. And, as far as I’m concerned, I will always choose you. Over Ayane-san; over anyone I’ve met, and will ever meet.”
The words are a promise, spoken with the utmost gravitas. And Megumi knows, simply by looking into Itadori’s eyes, that it will never be broken.
For a moment, Megumi is rendered speechless. Filled with a happiness so overwhelming that it’s hard to describe. He can’t remember how long he’d wanted this, to hear those words falling from Itadori’s lips. In many ways, it almost sounds too good to be true.
“You still don’t believe me,” Itadori observes plaintively. His expression is troubled, but it soon hardens with resolve. “Hey, I know. Let me show you something.”
Just as he says that, the world seems to spin around Megumi. He yelps, disoriented, closing his eyes as Itadori lifts him into the air. And when he settles, opening his eyes to regain his bearings, he sees—
Tousled black hair, slick with sweat. Glassy green eyes glazed over with unshed tears. A rose flush coloring pale skin like a layering of rouge.
—His own reflection, staring back at him.
Megumi flinches as Itadori’s arms settle around him, realizing only now what he must’ve done just moments prior. Itadori had moved them both somehow—until they’re situated further down the locker room benches, sitting directly across a wide mirror spanning a portion of the wall. He’s seated on Itadori’s lap, in front of the other boy. Not face-to-face with him, but looking in the same direction.
…Granting him an unobstructed view of his own debauched visage.
Megumi cries out when Itadori spears him on his cock once more, filling him up in one smooth motion. He watches with wide eyes how his body reacts to the sudden intrusion, his entrance gaping wide around Itadori’s cock before swallowing it up with ease and clenching down tight, as if to keep it inside him forever. His own dick stands erect, leaking profusely from its tip.
Is this…what Itadori sees, every time he fucks me?
A total wreck, his usual stoicism contorting into pure, wanton desire.
How mortifying.
Megumi’s hands fly up to grip at Itadori’s arms and pull them apart, but it’s no use. Though they are of a similar height, in terms of build, Itadori has him completely beat, dwarfing him with his bulk. There is nothing he can do to stop Itadori while he manhandles him as he pleases, a dainty little puppet to position to his liking.
“N-No, Itadori, wait,” he pleads, turning away in shame. He bites back a moan as Itadori thrusts deep inside him, trying desperately to hold onto reason and not succumb to the overwhelming pleasure as Itadori picks up his pace once again. “I-I don’t—ah! I don’t want this—”
“Really? But how can you say that when you’re clinging on to me so tightly?” Itadori croons, the devil’s insidious whisper. He licks the shell of Megumi’s ear, then bites down on it. “Don’t lie to me: You love it when I fuck you like this.” His smile widens into a razor-edged grin when Megumi groans, arching back into him. “Your body is always so honest, Fushiguro; you could really learn a thing or two from it, you know? Look at you, sweetheart,” he coos, “you’re doing so well. Always so, so pretty around my cock.”
Megumi shakes his head and redoubles his efforts to escape, hands scrabbling at Itadori’s arms as he struggles to push himself free.
But it’s all in vain. Itadori restrains him with laughable ease. He brings his arm around Megumi, binding slim wrists with one large hand and gathering them to his chest. Then, he hooks his knees beneath Megumi’s and spreads them, forcing his legs wider apart and further immobilizing him. Megumi’s eyes fly open as he sinks even deeper down onto Itadori’s cock, all breath leaving him in one shuddering gasp.
And lastly, his other hand reaches up to grip Megumi’s chin, coaxing him to look forwards once again.
“No. Look at me when I fuck you,” Itadori demands, a command Megumi is helpless to obey. He shivers, melting into Itadori’s arms with a whine. “I need you to see this, and maybe then you’ll finally understand.”
Megumi bites his lip as his blurry vision adjusts to the image before him.
Oh, what a lewd sight he makes: the entire length of his torso draped over Itadori’s, trapped by the strong arms holding him in place; his tiny pink hole stretched obscenely over the girth of Itadori’s thick cock as it disappears inside him, over and over and over again; his own weeping cock, standing proudly tall against his flat stomach as he bounces in time to the beat of Itadori’s thrusts.
He’s leaking everywhere, a mess of sweat and drool, tears and precome. Two calloused fingers slip inside his mouth, pressing his tongue down as Itadori holds his jaws firmly apart. Weak cries, hiccuping little moans punch out of him—unbidden, with each gasping breath he takes, every time Itadori fills him to the brim—echoing in the vast, empty hollowness of the locker rooms.
It should be disgusting, humiliating, but somehow, Megumi just can’t turn his eyes away. He’s utterly spellbound—light-headed with a heady mixture of shame and arousal and morbid fascination. And the thought that it’s Itadori who is doing this to him—ruining him, debasing him like this, as if he were nothing more than a little sex doll to be used solely for Itadori’s own pleasure—only makes his blood burn even hotter.
The contrast between their bodies is striking too—cream and bronze skin coming together in a breathtaking dichotomy; wispy strands spilling over fuzzy pink spikes like streaks of black ink; his slender frame swallowed by the broadness of Itadori’s prominent musculature.
It’s beautiful, Megumi thinks. They are beautiful together.
“Do you see now, Fushiguro? What you do to me,” Itadori murmurs, nuzzling into him. “Why would I ever want anyone else when I already have you?”
Heart beating hard enough to burst out of his chest, Megumi jerks back with one last loud wail, his voice tapering to a warbling moan as he finally finds his release. He hears Itadori hissing out a curse behind him, finally letting go of Megumi’s chin and wrists to grab him by the waist and fuck him down in time with his thrusts.
Megumi cries out, arms instinctively flying up to loop around Itadori’s neck in one desperate bid to ground himself as Itadori continues his relentless assault. There’s no stopping him when he’s this close to finding release, and it’s all Megumi can do to hang on for the ride.
He can feel the exact moment when Itadori comes inside him—detached to everything save for the sensation of Itadori crushing him to his breast, the rumble of his animalistic growl vibrating through his chest; the liquid warmth coating his insides. And then, a vicious bite on the back of his neck, a marking of Itadori’s own choosing to match all the ones that Megumi had bestowed upon him prior. Megumi lurches forward with a weak cry, but otherwise doesn’t protest at the rough treatment. Relishes, even, in the fact that Itadori’s desire to claim him runs as deeply as his own.
Itadori presses a soft kiss to his wound, then laves it gently with his tongue to allay the bleeding. Dazed and exhausted, Megumi simply hums, content to let Itadori do as he pleases as they both come down from their respective highs. Lets Itadori lift his worn body up before settling him back down onto his lap, firm but careful, to cradle him close.
He doesn’t know how much time passes this way, always a little loopy after Itadori fucks an orgasm out of him, but it’s not a bad feeling by any means. Oh, how he’d missed this—the closeness, the tender intimacy they’d share in the afterglow, perhaps more so than even the sex itself. The sensation of Itadori’s warm skin against his as they breathe as one, hearts beating in synchrony.
Such a shame, Megumi thinks, that this moment can’t last forever.
As if in reaction to his thoughts, he feels Itadori shuffling distractedly beneath him. Megumi forces his bleary eyes open and tilts his head up in silent inquiry. It doesn’t take him long to notice, however, that Itadori’s attention is divided. He’s running his fingers absently along Megumi’s arm, but his eyes are trained elsewhere and his face is set into a pensive frown.
Curious, Megumi follows the other boy’s gaze and sees…
A crumpled pink envelope, tossed aside into a small, careless heap.
How strange. Not even an hour ago, just the sight of it alone had been enough to send him spiraling into a panic. But now, Megumi feels nothing of the sort—only calm acceptance, and a pang of regret.
“You can still go, if you want.”
The suddenness of his statement seems to catch Itadori off guard, who whirls back around to face him, amber eyes wide with shock.
“It’s alright if you do; I wouldn’t mind,” Megumi continues, hoping that Itadori will see the offer for what it truly is: an olive branch and a token of his apology. “It’ll be a nice reprieve for you—a good chance to unwind after everything you’ve been through.”
But Itadori only smiles wanly and shakes his head. “Nah, it’s alright. I think I’ll give this a pass after all.”
“…Are you sure?” Megumi presses on, insistent. “I know that you were really looking forward to it.”
“Yeah. It’s fine, Fushiguro. Really.” Itadori laughs, but it’s clear that his heart isn’t in it. The sound rings hollow to Megumi’s ears. “I’ll admit, I was looking forward to it at first. Guess I got a little too carried away and let all the attention get to my head,” he admits ruefully. “I’ve never been invited to a fancy dinner party before. It sounded fun and exciting, and I didn’t want to miss out on that.”
Itadori chuckles again, this time more genuinely. “But then, the more I thought about it, the less the whole idea appealed to me. I mean, I don’t even have anything nice to wear! I’d stick out like a total sore thumb. And what exactly am I supposed to do once I get there, anyway? Talk to a bunch of bigwigs and play nice with them? Not exactly my idea of a good time, if you ask me.” Itadori shrugs. “Honestly, I think I was mostly looking forward to the food itself. I kept hoping that they’d serve up like, a whole rack of lamb. Or a ribeye steak. Or something equally posh like that.”
Megumi can’t help but smile at this, amused by Itadori’s single-mindedness when it came to anything food-related. “Well, that does sound a lot more appetizing than all the convenience store bentos we’ve been having these past few days,” he agrees in an attempt to further lighten the mood.
To his surprise, however, Itadori’s doesn’t play along. His smile turns sad; a little wistful, perhaps.
“Maybe,” he acknowledges. “But still, I don’t think I’d ever be able to forgive myself if I actually went through with it in the end.”
“…Why not?” Megumi asks.
“Because it wouldn’t be fair. Not to you, or to anyone else,” Itadori says somberly, holding him closer to his chest. Megumi curls into the gesture, eyes fluttering shut as he basks in the other boy’s warmth. “I haven’t forgotten, you know. About why we’re here, why I’m even doing all this to begin with.”
The hard tone of Itadori’s voice has Megumi opening his eyes again in concern. But it seems that his worries are unfounded. Itadori’s expression burns brightly with determination, and it’s then that Megumi sees it: the old brilliance he’d missed so dearly, rekindled from the flames of dying embers into a blazing inferno once again. No longer the ashen-faced boy cowering in the aftermath of Shibuya’s horrors, but a righteous defender justly seeking for vengeance.
Megumi smiles. What a magnificent sight Itadori is to behold, whenever he shines so radiantly like this.
“I’m doing this for you, Fushiguro,” Itadori says, a reminder and a vow. “I’m doing this to save everyone, and I’m not going to let anything sway me away from that.”
Yes, Itadori will be just fine. Of this, Megumi is absolutely certain.
Itadori walks into Hakari’s office with exactly three minutes to spare, freshly rejuvenated.
And Megumi, as always, trails in behind him—his faithful shadow, his ever-present observer. He’s done this countless times before already. Listened in on their private engagements from the safe harbor of Itadori’s shadow, unseen and undetected.
Usually, it’s just Itadori and Hakari in the room. Sometimes, Kirara is there as well, a welcome distraction.
Today, however, is different.
Megumi can hear it, even before they enter—a myriad of sounds: hushed whispers, cordial conversation, and a smattering of bright laughter. Quite the audience awaits them inside, it seems.
But they all fall silent the moment Itadori steps in.
An expectant hush ripples across the room as the enthralled crowd parts before him in his wake. Amidst them, Hakari reclines against his loveseat like a king upon his throne. The table before him is littered haphazardly with cigarette butts, stacks of bills, and half-empty wine glasses—evidence of all the afternoon’s earlier transgressions.
“Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour,” he drawls, spreading his arms wide to welcome his newest arrival. “Itadori Yuuji, everyone. Reigning star and champion of our honored fighting ring.”
The crowd breaks out into scattered applause, some polite and others more enthusiastic. Megumi takes the opportunity to break away from Itadori’s shadow to slink into a quieter corner of the room, away from Hakari’s line of sight. Once settled, he takes a moment to survey the space before him.
Hakari and Kirara, seated on the loveseat. Two security guards on standby, posted near the door. Four older gentlemen and two middle-aged women standing by the surveillance monitors, and then, a little further back, near glass cabinets:
Blonde hair, blue eyes—a petite young lady in a red and black minidress.
Ayane. So she’s here, too.
Itadori scans the crowd before him with growing unrest. Clearly, he had not been expecting any kind of audience at all. “Hakari? What’s all this about? Weren’t we supposed to be discussing something important?”
“Oh, but we are,” Hakari says, before cutting straight to the chase. “See, here’s the thing: You’re in high demand, Itadori. Lots of interested parties willing to offer up their patronage for a…different kind of cause, shall we say.”
“And what…exactly do you mean by that?”
“We’re thinking of making you the star of your very own show—The Itadori Special: exposed, and in the flesh. Limited availability, not for public viewing.” Hakari grins, shark-like, as he takes in Itadori’s wide-eyed bewilderment. “It’ll be a smash hit, I’m sure. And of course, I’ll take care that you are very handsomely paid for your generous contributions.”
The sheer brazenness of Hakari’s sudden demand is enough to leave Itadori momentarily speechless. He gapes in open dismay, shock and disbelief painted starkly across his features. But it doesn’t take him long to recover, and soon his expression is set into a hard—if not somewhat embarrassed—scowl.
“No, I refuse. I am not doing this.”
“Aww, why the hesitation, Yuu-chan?” Kirara cuts in with a giggle. They jump lightly to their feet and flitter across the room to where Itadori is standing, still as a statue. “What’s wrong with showing off a little bit of skin from time to time?” they cajole, tapping Itadori playfully on his shoulder. “It’s not like we’ll be asking you to do any more than that!”
“One showing a day, for an exclusive private audience,” Hakari continues to reason. “You won’t have to participate in as many matches, and your pay will be better.” He sighs and waves a hand impatiently. “It’s not a bad deal. You really don’t have anything to lose by doing this, you know.”
“C’mon, don’t be shy!” Kirara croons, clapping their hands in delight. ”Oh, I know! Why don't we do a small test run now to help ease your nerves? How about it, Yuu-chan? Just once, for your adoring fans!”
“Wha—? N-No!” Itadori splutters as he backs away slowly. “I’m telling you, that’s not—”
But his words fall sadly on deaf ears. Kirara dances away with a flourish, out of reach. And just like magic, Itadori’s clothes follow, his jacket flying off his shoulders to land neatly in Kirara’s arms. Megumi perks up with curiosity, intrigued despite himself. He’s heard about Kirara’s cursed technique from Panda in passing before, but to actually see it being put into action is…interesting, to say the least.
Itadori rears back in a full-bodied flinch, arms flying up to cover himself. But it’s all too little, too late.
Dark, mottling bruises; vicious bite marks; and angry red lines scour the entirety of Itadori’s back in a grotesque imitation of an abstract painting. Every inch of his skin streaked in various shades of red, blue, and purple.
Wreathed within the shadows, Megumi smiles. Like a vindictive specter, vicious and victorious, silently marveling at his handiwork from afar.
Oh, what a stunning masterpiece he’d created, crafted so lovingly with his own two hands.
Surely now, there can be no doubt. Surely now, not a single soul here can lay their eyes on Itadori and still deny:
Itadori Yuuji is taken.
Itadori Yuuji is mine, mine, mine.
And then, chaos. Pure, unadulterated chaos.
The entire room erupts into a chorus of horrified gasps and murmurs as Megumi watches passively on with disinterest. It’s only after he sees Ayane, however—observes her gaping mouth; her quivering eyes; dainty hands clasped tightly to her breast—that he allows a self-satisfied smile to grace his lips once again.
Message delivered, loud and clear.
She won’t be coming back for Itadori again. Megumi has made quite sure of that.
“Oh my, Yuu-chan!” a loud voice exclaims, cutting through the cacophony of sounds. It’s Kirara, of course, laughing without a care in the world. “How scandalous! You never told me that you had a girlfriend.”
Itadori only groans and buries his face into his hands. Another wave of unhappy protests ripples through the crowd. It’s clear that Itadori’s prospective patrons have long lost interest in whatever he has to offer and are now turning to Hakari for their due compensation. It’s probably only a matter of time now, Megumi thinks, before Hakari will finally snap into action and quell them all into submission.
But, much to everyone’s abject surprise, he never does.
Instead, he throws his head back and bursts into an uproarious fit of laughter so deep and booming, it resounds throughout the whole room and into the corridor beyond.
“Never a dull moment with you around, huh? Well-played, Itadori. Well-played,” Hakari concedes, sounding manic, yet deeply pleased. He leans back against his seat with a thump, and concludes the whole spectacle off with one last loud clap of his hands. “Alright, you win,” he chuckles. “Whatever it is you wanted to talk to me about, I’m all ears.”
And as he takes in the sea of dissatisfied faces before him, Hakari only leers in contempt. “And to the rest of you, I have nothing more to say,” he declares, the final decree of a lackadaisical king dismissing his court. “Show’s over, folks. Now get lost and scram.”
The ensuing conversation would go over well.
Itadori would speak his piece, Hakari would listen, and the rest would fall into place—Hakari’s and Kirara’s cooperation, secured. The fighting ring, to be discontinued. And now all that’s left to contend with, is simply the long journey ahead.
Megumi cannot find any fault with how it all went down. Sadly, however, Itadori does not seem to be of the same opinion.
“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” he accuses. “You planned for this, set me up for it. You knew that this was going to happen!”
But Megumi only scoffs. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. I just saved you from having to play stripper for a bunch of creepy old perverts.” And then he adds, purely out of spite, “If anything, you should be thanking me for sparing you the trouble of refusing them all in the first place.”
Itadori flails and nearly chokes on his next breath. He puffs up in righteous indignation, a scathing remark on the tip of his tongue. But Megumi doesn’t give in—returns the glare with a blank-faced stare of his own, entirely unrepentant.
“I still can’t believe you’d do that to me,” Itadori finally relents with a pout. “That was pretty brutal, you know. Bordering on public humiliation, even.”
“Stop being so dramatic,” Megumi chides. “That was completely unplanned, and you know it. No one could’ve foreseen Kirara’s intervention.”
A few paces ahead, Kirara perks up at the mention of their name. They stop to shoot both boys an inquisitive glance, but Megumi waves off their concerns with a dismissive hand. Kirara returns the gesture amicably, but it’s not long before their attention is turned back to Hakari and Panda, who seem to be in the middle of a rather heated discussion at the moment.
Megumi sighs and swats the other boy’s arm in warning. “Just drop it already. Everything worked out fine, and that’s all that matters.”
“Yeah, but still…” Itadori grimaces. He rolls his shoulders back in a stretch, and Megumi tracks the motion with hungry eyes. Admires the sinuous flex of Itadori’s muscles, visible even through his loose clothing. “You didn’t have to be this excessive about it,” he grumbles, wincing as he seems to hit a particularly sore spot. “God, it’s going to take ages for all this to go away.”
And again, Megumi cannot see any issue with that. On the contrary, the knowledge that it is his markings emblazoned all across Itadori’s skin—a canvas of his own creation—only fills Megumi with a pride and satisfaction like no other. But it’s clear that Itadori still has his reservations on the matter; and Megumi is nothing if not a loving partner, as well as a voracious opportunist.
“You know,” Megumi says, tilting his head coyly, pitching his voice into a low, husky whisper, “if you’re still so upset about it, then you’re always more than welcome—”
He smiles, slow and salacious. Trails his hand over the bare skin of Itadori’s arm.
“—to return the favor—”
Traces his fingers over the delicate underside of Itadori’s wrist. Feels how his pulse jumps in time with the sound of Megumi’s voice.
“—later, when we’re all alone.”
He straightens up once more; backs away, ever so slightly, and holds Itadori’s gaze steady. Purposeful, meaningful.
“…How does that sound?”
For a moment, neither boy moves—Itadori standing, completely still; and Megumi watching, waiting.
And then—
Megumi will watch in rapt fascination as Itadori’s expression blooms—not into a shy smile, or one of his usual boyish grins, but into something else. Something wild and dark and dangerous. Something savage, something possessive. Something that bares two neat rows of sharp, sharp teeth.
He will feel a heavy palm settle over the back of his neck—over the fresh imprints made by those very same canines. Like a collar, its weight all but testimony of Itadori’s ownership.
And Megumi will not fight that claim. Will simply close his eyes, lean into the touch. And surrender.
Yours, yours, yours.