Chapter Text
Megumi wakes to fingers combing through his hair. Chasing consciousness, he blinks his eyes open to the muted glow of daybreak peeking through his curtains. He’s in bed, but he’s not alone; his face is pressed against a strong, naked chest.
He gradually becomes aware of the now familiar scent of Yuuji, warm like embers, sweet but not cloying, relaxing. Fighting the urge to sink into his tender embrace—when did he take his top off?—Megumi forces the cogs of his brain to turn. Memory clicking into place, he realises with a jolt he fell asleep watching the movie. Fully awake, his nerves amp up.
Shit.
Megumi never lets people stay over. He hates the awkwardness of kicking someone out, dislikes prolonged invasions of his personal space, and resents being seen at his ugliest. He looks like a washed up sea urchin in the morning.
Above all, however, he finds it impossible to sleep with company. For this very reason, he also usually refuses to spend the night elsewhere. He made an exception for Yuuji once because of his wrecked shirt.
Megumi frowns in disbelief as the arms around him tighten. He didn’t wake up at all; that never happens. He slept soundly in the frat house, too. It must be a fluke, he reasons. He was probably shattered from the sex, lulled to sleep by Yuuji’s steady breathing and unreasonably cuddly body.
Despite being well rested, Megumi’s distress builds. How’s he going to get Yuuji to leave without making things weird?
Tensing up, he feels lips brush the crown of his head. “Morning, Gumi,” Yuuji’s voice is clear and soft as he cuddles closer. “I’ve got to go. ‘M sorry for sneaking off.”
That slams the breaks on Megumi’s train of thought. He’s suddenly conflicted, different emotions warring inside his head. He’d been hell bent on kicking Yuuji out, but now that it isn’t his idea, he’s somehow less keen on it.
He grumbles wordlessly, smushing his face into the other man’s chest to latch on to a nipple. Yuuji shudders, clenching his fist in Megumi’s hair. Megumi sucks sharply, scraping the pert bud with his teeth, flicking it with his tongue. Yuuji groans, rolling them over to brace himself above him. His pink hair is mussed, there are fabric creases on his cheek, and his eyes are the golden brown of toast. Megumi should find his morning breath more disgusting than he does.
He’s going to kiss me, he thinks as the room becomes charged with static. As if hearing his thoughts, Yuuji leans down to join their lips, pressing him into the pillows. He cradles Megumi’s face, kissing him like he’s trying to memorise the shape of his lips. Spreading his legs, Megumi feels Yuuji’s erection rub against his own through their sleepwear. Grinding slowly upwards, he decides that letting Yuuji stay over isn’t so bad if it means waking up like this.
All too soon, Yuuji pulls back. Megumi growls, bringing a hand up to tug him down, but Yuuji captures it in his own.
“As much as I’d love to continue this,” he murmurs, kissing Megumi’s wrist and bringing their crotches closer together, “I really do have to go.”
Megumi doesn’t reply, ripping his hand back with a frown.
He shouldn’t be disappointed. He wanted him to leave, after all.
“Don’t pout at me,” Yuuji chides.
Megumi sticks his bottom lip out further. “I’m not pouting,” he argues, morning voice husky.
Yuuji’s eyes flick to Megumi’s pursed lips before he leans down for a frankly mind-blowing kiss, connecting their mouths like he doesn’t know when he’ll kiss him again. Jesus—why is he always so intense? Megumi worries he’ll become addicted.
Yuuji chuckles when he pulls back. “Okay,” he says, half out of breath. “I’m actually leaving this time.” He runs a hand through Megumi’s hair, kissing his forehead.
Megumi doesn’t know what to say. Part of him, the part that’s achingly hard, wants Yuuji to stay, but he’s also relieved he’s leaving. Torn, he remains silent, pulling the blanket up to his chin to watch the other man dress.
When he’s finished, Yuuji pecks him once more, saying, “Let’s continue this another time.”
Megumi rolls over, listening to his front door open and close. It’s early, but he couldn’t fall back asleep if he tried. Sighing, he shoves his hand down his pants. Fuck Yuuji.
If only he had.
...
Later, he gets a long-winded text from Yuuji explaining why he rushed off (unsurprisingly, it was for class), alongside a series of apologies Megumi thinks are wholly unwarranted. He doesn’t bother replying. A few hours after that, his phone pings with an attached image—it’s a dog Yuuji saw. Megumi replies to that one. How could he not?
That afternoon, he receives another dog photo, some memes, and more texts.
It’s as if a switch has been flicked. Yuuji messages him all the time: on his way to the gym, to class, to see friends. He asks him about his day, his degree, his opinions on every topic under the sun. He litters their chat with dog pictures, as if he wants to show him every canine on Earth, or at least every single one he comes across.
But even more than the dogs, Yuuji sends images of himself. Mirror selfies: sweaty after a workout, damp clothes clinging to every dip and curve of his muscular body. Shirtless pictures: a towel slung low on his hips, dripping wet from the shower, cocky grin on his face, heavenly form on full, tantalising display. Pictures of him drinking a strawberry frappuccino, lips puckered around a straw; pictures of him in bed, hair dishevelled, sweetly exhausted; pictures of him watching movies, face lit horrendously by his laptop, comic and undeniably adorable.
Megumi may or may not have a hidden album saved.
He always replies to the dog photos (it’s free serotonin, after all); he sometimes replies to the texts; he never replies to the selfies. Yet, Yuuji doesn’t seem remotely put off, sending them ceaselessly.
A few weeks pass. Megumi has in-lab assessments and coursework to submit. He’s too busy to visit the dog shelter or meet Nobara for coffee; he definitely doesn’t have time to see the other man.
When he bothers messaging Yuuji, he complains about how busy he is. Then, when his workload calms down, Yuuji asks him to a party.
Megumi declines. He didn’t like frat parties before, nothing’s happened to change that. If anything, his unease has enhanced now he’s slept with the president. The idea of being in Yuuji’s domain, surrounded by his friends, not knowing what they think of him nor what he and Yuuji are to each other, is anxiety inducing.
So, Yuuji invites him to the new campus café, but that also fills Megumi with irrational dread. Nobara is a coffee connoisseur. She has eyes everywhere. If he goes there with Yuuji, she’ll hear about it, and he really doesn’t want to unleash that can of worms.
Yuuji asks him to various things that he finds various reasons to decline. Megumi aches to see him again, but can’t stop himself from saying no. He feels stuck, like hands are encasing his throat and ankles, closing his airways and rooting him to the earth.
Then, one morning, Yuuji sends a particularly mouth-watering selfie. He’s in his en suite, torso glistening with water droplets. Megumi wants to drink them from his chest.
In the picture, he’s got one leg raised. The stance makes his thigh bulge obscenely, causing the indecently tiny towel he’s wearing to bunch near his crotch. Scrutinising the image, Megumi zooms in—is that the tip of his penis? The colours merge too much for him to be certain. Guiltily, he downloads it to his hidden album.
Just then, his phone vibrates:
Do u keep my photos?
Megumi blushes, caught red handed.
You can, fyi
Noted.
Will u ever send me a pic?
I never asked you to send me pictures.
Yuuji replies with another selfie. He’s in bed, hand behind his head, lips forming a dramatic pout. His pecs take up the entire bottom half of the screen, perfect nipples rendered in glorious high definition.
Megumi huffs. Rolling out of bed, he plods to his mirror. His hair is untamed, and he looks horribly sleepy. He’s topless, but it’s nothing Yuuji hasn’t seen before. Snapping a quick picture, he sends it before he can decide against it.
So i kno sexting isnt a morning thing
But i fr popped a boner looking at that
Megumi blushes with vigour.
Saying you ‘popped a boner’ isn’t sexting.
Oh? That so?
What is?
Can you show me 😛
I’m not falling for that.
As he sends the text, his phone dings with another image. It’s of Yuuji’s hand, gripping the outline of his erection through his towel. Megumi zooms in again. Fuck, his cock is so fat.
I wanna make a would u fall on my dick joke
But i got nothing
Anyway
R u saying you DONT want this?
I didn’t say that
Right
So can i send u a dirty pic?
Megumi’s heart races, pumping blood to his rapidly hardening member.
Do what you want
I want to do you, but all ive got is my hand :(
I’m imagining its urs
U have rlly sexy hands
The words shouldn’t have such an effect on him, but Megumi feels turned on beyond belief. He tries to keep a level head, grip tightening on his phone, eyes glued to his screen as he replies:
Are we unlocking a fetish
I want your fingers in my mouth
Megumi can’t resist any longer, slipping a palm under the waistband of his pyjamas to rub himself, releasing a pent-up groan as he does so.
Another photo comes through. It’s of Yuuji’s face, eyes lidded, fingers lewdly crowding his gaping mouth. His tongue squeezes between the digits, which are slick with excess saliva.
Jesus fucking christ. Megumi is done for.
Show me your cock
Yuuji sends him a goddamn video. It’s only five seconds long, but that’s more than enough. He watches Yuuji’s spit covered fist pump his thick, veiny dick with aching slowness, listens to his laboured breathing, wishes he was with him.
When it’s over, Megumi scrambles for his lube, knocking a book off his bedside table in his haste. Uncapping the bottle, he gracelessly removes his pants to drizzle some over his cock. His balls tighten in shock as the cold liquid drips over them, but he doesn’t care, grabbing his shaft to frantically jerk himself off, watching that fucking video on loop.
Show me urs
Megumi grunts. It takes him three attempts to click on the camera app and two more to snap a blurry pic of his hand wrapped around himself. He sends it, immediately going back to the clip of Yuuji masturbating, touching himself as he watches it.
A minute passes with no reply. Just as his nerves start to eclipse his horniness, another video comes through, which he clicks on in a frenzied panic.
It’s about thirty seconds long. Megumi’s hand speeds up as he watches it, enraptured. Yuuji’s pace has quickened, hand working himself with near aggressive force. It’s desperate, animalistic, and outrageously hot. The slippery sounds of his palm beating himself mingle with his groans of pleasure and incoherent mumbling.
Megumi matches his noises as he twists his own hand, moaning at the sight of Yuuji’s abs contracting as his orgasm hits. Megumi watches in carnal awe as Yuuji’s dick pulses, ridiculous amounts of cum erupting from the tip of his cock, video becoming shaky as he decorates himself in white.
A broken “Gumi” cracks through the audio, pushing Megumi over the edge. His balls contract as he comes with such force that he drops his phone on his throat, shocking him but doing nothing to diminish the burst of pleasure that he feels.
When it’s over, he exhales. He feels a little weird, a little dirty, but mostly good.
Retrieving his phone, he sees another text.
Sooooo
When can I pick up my hoodie?
Alright, so they’re not going to talk about it. That at least saves him from replying to the video.
He’s got Yuuji’s hoodie, tacky wolf tee, and denim jacket in his apartment. Now Yuuji wants to collect them. That sneaky bastard.
Well, he thinks, two can play at that game.
Tonight.
Yuuji has no idea what’s in store for him.