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The dim desk lamp cast a soft, tired glow over Doctor Gojo’s office. The walls were lined with diplomas and certificates—testaments to years spent studying the human mind. Papers sprawled messily across the desk, a graveyard of secrets shared and forgotten. The air reeked of aged leather, sharp sweat, and something rawer. Primal.
A wet, rhythmic sound reverberated, subtle, yet persistent. Like a distant drumbeat. Skin on skin. Steady, obscene. Pulsing through the stale office air, twisting the quiet into something alive and corrupted.
Soft breaths layered over it, controlled, but urgent.
Gojo leaned back in his leather chair, pants puddled around his ankles, wearing decadence like a second skin. Across his lap, straddling him, was his young client, Megumi Fushiguro. The boy’s head lolled lazily to the side, hair more unruly than when he arrived.
Gojo’s gaze drifted, drugged, between the sight of his cock disappearing into Megumi’s clenching body and the way Megumi’s pink mouth hung open, panting from the effort. Megumi lifted himself slowly, letting only the tip remain, then plunged back down with a precision that made Gojo bite his lip hard and squeeze the boy’s ass roughly.
“Fuck that feels so good.”
Megumi’s pants and boxers lay in a crumpled heap beside the chair he had occupied for barely five minutes.
It was their third meeting. And by now, the ritual was almost routine. A ritual shaped by Megumi’s promiscuous need to outrun feelings and Gojo’s weakness for beautiful broken boys desperate for approval.
Gojo was only human after all.
He liked to think he was irresistible. That his charms gave him the upper hand. But Megumi’s piercing scrutiny told a different story. Those hawk-like eyes dissected him, stripping him bare, reading every dirty, desperate thought swirling in his mind, and answered each one with a perfectly timed thrust. Just enough to tear a strangled groan from Gojo’s throat.
If he had any decency left, maybe he would have felt guilt. Shame. Remorse. For his lack of control and morality. Instead, he felt a perverse thrill blooming in his chest.
The clock on the wall ticked mockingly, its steady beat a cruel echo of the obscene rhythm between their bodies. Only ten minutes left in the session. He should have paced himself. Fought back the urge to break. Dragged it out, milked every last aching second of it.
But Megumi had other plans.
With a practiced twist of his hips and a calculated clench, Megumi snapped Gojo’s restraint like a rotten string. Gojo sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers digging into soft flesh, hips jerking upward helplessly. A rush of dopamine exploded behind his eyelids like fireworks, blinding, searing, violent. He imagined it, his cum splattering inside, painting those bruised, perfect walls.
The thought alone made him tremble.
For a long suspended moment, Gojo stayed frozen, eyes squeezed shut, clutching at Megumi like a drowning man clings to driftwood. His heart pounded erratically in his ears. His mouth went dry. The air buzzed with charged silence, thick and unclean.
“Now tell them I’m getting better. Okay, doc?” Megumi’s voice was a hot whisper against his ear, breath tickling his sensitive neck.
Gojo’s head fell back against the chair with a soft sigh of satisfaction, body slackening. He felt Megumi’s warmth pull away, and Gojo’s dick flopped down gracelessly against his thigh, wet and spent.
Blinking, Gojo watched as Megumi staggered toward the tissue box beside his discarded clothes. His legs were shaky, stained, perfect.
“You are getting better.” Gojo managed between two breaths, voice hoarse. His gaze tracked the slender line of Megumi’s back, lingering shamelessly on the bruises he’d left behind. "You even got hard yourself this time."
He smirked, pointing lazily at Megumi’s erection.
Not having any other appointments for the day, Gojo didn’t bother to clean himself up. He’d pull his pants up and pretend to be human long enough to drive home, maybe jerk off again in the shower, thinking about this exact moment.
Meanwhile, Megumi ignored him, carefully wiping between his legs with a handful of tissues.
Gojo pouted dramatically. "But to answer your question," he drawled, "you were prescribed a minimum of twenty sessions before you can get off." He laughed at his own pun. "Get off therapy, I mean. Though if you want to get off right now, we technically still have a few minutes left."
They didn’t, but the risk was fun to entertain.
Megumi didn’t even glance at him. Cum slid lazily down his thigh as he grabbed another tissue, tracing the inside of his leg without rush.
"These aren’t dates, you weirdo," Megumi muttered.
Gojo’s mouth watered, watching the crumpled tissues soak up his sins. "If I bring candles next time," he teased, "will you change your mind?"
For the first time since Megumi had hopped off his cock, he looked at Gojo, really looked, and glared.
It hit Gojo like a punch to the ribs. Delicious.
Still silent, Megumi tugged on his pants and tossed the soiled tissues into the trash. Gojo watched them fall, one by one, gathering into a glorious pile of his hard work—like small trophies.
Noticing his stare fixed on the bin, Megumi spoke again, soft, venomous, and devastatingly seductive.
"Tell them I cried my heart out."
Gojo’s cock twitched weakly in his pants, half-dead, half-willing.
"Maybe you will," he whispered, half-promise, half-threat.
The idea alone could make him hard again. But time was running short, and Megumi's social worker would soon be coming to fetch him.
“So, Megumi Fushiguro, how are you doing today?” Gojo asked a little too cheerfully. Maybe a good therapist ought to be more restrained but something about this kid made him break character.
“Fine”, Megumi said. The word was clipped, polished. There was no defiance in his tone—only that dangerous kind of aloof confidence that needed no bluster. It was alluring. And it was a warning: the boy had no desire to elaborate.
Gojo allowed a few minutes to pass, waiting, offering Megumi the silence to fill. Instead, Megumi stared blankly at him, a monolith in adolescent form.
Gojo leaned back slightly, letting his eyes drift over the boy. Studying his client, like any good therapist would. His posture. His stillness. His body language.
The slope of Megumi’s neck. The shape of his pink lips. The way one boot tapped lazily against the leg of the chair, careless and cocky.
Something about the way Megumi sat, legs spread, casual but controlled, made Gojo’s mind drift. Unprofessional thoughts. Irresistible thoughts.
“This might be a long session if you don’t talk at least a little,” Gojo said lightly, glancing at his notepad before lifting his gaze again.
His fingers twitched against the paper. The room felt warmer.
When he looked back into Megumi’s eyes, there was a quiet shift, like he’d caught Gojo mid-thought and knew exactly what kind of thought it was. Used to that kind of attention. Maybe even looking for it.
Megumi leaned forward, his movements slow and fluid. He rubbed his palms together absently, almost thoughtful. His jade eyes locked onto Gojo’s, quiet and certain, with the intensity of a predator ready to pounce. Albeit the cutest predator imaginable.
And then, without even raising his voice, with only the tiniest wry twist of his mouth, he said: “I can always use my mouth for something else, doc,”
Gojo's brain short-circuited for half a second. He knew it was a bait, but the way Megumi said it, like a king offering alms…burned straight through his rationality.
His body heated up instantly, blood rushing to the surface like Megumi had cast a spell over him.
And when that mouth parted just slightly, when that pink tongue flicked out, wetting his bottom lip, Gojo was certain. Accepting the offer felt less like a crime and more like a mercy. A kindness, really.
And this was how it started.
Megumi Fushiguro, a juvenile delinquent, slid gracefully off the couch, moving without hesitation toward Gojo’s chair. His hands were steady. His expression unreadable. But there was a glint in his eye, almost playful, almost daring, that made Gojo’s heart pound in ways it hadn’t in years.
He settled down between Gojo’s long legs, like he belonged there, like this was inevitable. Gojo made a noise, half a protest, half a plea, but didn’t stop him. Couldn’t stop such perfection.
When Megumi's hands found the waistband of his pants, tugging them down with deft fingers, Gojo felt the sharp, electric thrill of surrender humming through his veins. He watched, dazed, as Megumi took him into his mouth with startling appetite, so eager, so certain, that refusing him felt almost cruel.
Megumi’s pink tongue traced every veins along his shaft, teased the sensitive underside, lapped eagerly at the drooling tip. His lips wrapped around Gojo’s girth with perfect, devasting pressure, sliding down slow, devouring him inch by inch.
Gojo’s hands fisted helplessly into the arms of his chair, fighting the insane urge to guide him, to thrust into that slick heat. He didn't have to. Megumi was already moving, setting a rhythm, fucking himself on Gojo’s cock like he had a point to prove.
Megumi’s jaw was so adaptable, so eager to take, and Gojo’s felt compelled to encourage such undeniable talent.
The first spasm of orgasm tore through him too fast, too brutal to stop. He came hard, hips jerking up, emptying himself deep inside Megumi’s waiting throat.
And Megumi, God, Megumi swallowed all of it without being asked. Without blinking.
And Gojo had been in love ever since.
Even as his papers and notes tumbled from the desk, creating a messy sprawl across the floor, Gojo couldn’t bring himself to slow his erratic thrusts. He was too enraptured, watching how his cock split between those perfect, trembling mounds of flesh,
too focused on keeping a controlled pace, on not cumming too fast, to care about order.
Megumi stretched an arm out, gripping the desk edge to keep himself upright. But without warning, Gojo felt it, the sudden, desperate clench of Megumi’s inner walls around him. It startled him.
In awe, Gojo watched as Megumi’s previously pliant and docile body spasmed, tense and shaking. A second later, Megumi came, spilling across the desk in thick, messy streaks, splattering the few papers that hadn’t yet fallen.
Gojo could have come just from the sight alone. And he did.
A low growl tore from his throat as he slammed deeper, burying himself to the hilt and filling Megumi up with everything he had left. He forced a few slow, deliberate thrusts, milking the moment, before collapsing heavily onto the boy’s back, their sweat-slicked skin sticking together.
But Gojo made no effort to pull out, he didn’t want to. The heat of Megumi’s body clamped around him was too perfect to leave.
Megumi didn’t complain. Didn’t move. Gojo lay there, catching his breath, watching beads of sweat roll down Megumi’s spine, making his flushed skin gleam pink and ruined.
He wished he could have seen Megumi's face, wished he had witnessed the exact moment his orgasm tore through him, imagining flushed cheeks, wet lashes, gasping lips parted in a helpless cry.
The thought made Gojo throb weakly inside him.
It felt like unlocking a new level in a video game he'd been playing for hours, grueling, obsessive, addictive.
Probably sensing Gojo getting hard again, Megumi gave a faint squeeze—subtle, instinctive. As if trying to wring one more moan out of him. A kind of casual and endearing cruelty.
Gojo groaned low, indulgent, his hips twitching once before he caught himself. Reality seeped back in: Two bodies, still connected, sprawled across his wrecked desk, the clock overhead ticking down to the end of their session.
Reluctantly, Gojo pulled out, his cock hypersensitive leaving a slick mess between Megumi’s cheeks. He took a good, greedy look at the abused rim, the flushed, leaking evidence of everything they had done.
Megumi turned his head lazily, catching Gojo’s gaze, and with a slow, deliberate motion, reached back to spread himself wider. Cum spilled out, a thick, obscene drip sliding down, and Gojo bit back a moan.
"That’s gorgeous," he said, proud of himself.
Megumi’s eyes glittered, aware, challenging. He knew exactly what he was doing. Exactly what effect he had.
Gojo licked his lips.
“There’s no prostitution mentioned in your records,” he drawled. “How did you get this good at fucking older men?”
It wasn’t a question he expected an answer to, Megumi had been consistently quiet, using minimum words, barely making a sound even when Gojo was balls deep inside, railing him mercilessly. Always taking it. Always silent.
But the unexpected response came. “What if I told you I’ve been practicing with my dad since I was thirteen?” The words came out almost bored.
Some dads read their kids bedtime stories, others pounded them to sleep. Not all bonded the same way.
“So, daddy issues, that makes sense,” Gojo said, too easily, watching Megumi’s face for any crack. Waiting for a flicker. A tremble. “You can call me daddy next time if you want,” he added with a playful smirk, stirring the pot just to see what would rise.
Megumi’s eyes flashed, dangerous and raw, and Gojo felt a sick surge of satisfaction bloom in his gut.
Megumi turned fully, dragging slick cum across his stomach, across Gojo’s ruined desk, glowering at him with barely-contained fury. His patience stretched thin, like an elastic band pulled to its final snapping point. God, Gojo wanted to see what would happen when it broke.
“What if I punched you right now?” he almost growled, his voice laced with restrained anger.
“I might get hard again.” Gojo replied, a wide grin threatening to split his face in two, loving every second of the aftermath foreplay.
Ignoring him, Megumi shoved him away with a lazy hand and straightened up to gather his clothes. As he wiped his stomach with a handful of tissues, he muttered under his breath: “"You’re sick. How did you ever get licensed to practice?"
"I’m actually very good at my job," Gojo replied easily, leaning back on the wrecked desk, his flaccid dick dangling, satiated but ready to spring back to life if given the smallest excuse.
Megumi scoffed, irritation flaring. "Don’t get too cocky. I only have to tell them what happened, and you’ll lose your license and get locked up too."
Unfazed, Gojo quipped, "Are you asking me to move in with you?"
Megumi’s eyes narrowed. His gaze raking over Gojo’s exposed, relaxed posture with thinly veiled disgust. His brows furrowed, anger contorting his face, but this time, it lacked the usual erotic glint that Gojo loved so much.
To Gojo’s disappointment, the conservation was heading to a dead end and he concluded there would be no other round. With a resigned sigh, he yanked his pants back up, tucking himself away.
As he adjusted, his fingers brushed against something heavy in his pocket, and a crooked smile tugged at his lips as he remembered.
His dick tucked back in, his romantic heart took the lead. Gojo pulled out a small velvet box, and approached Megum, dangled it teasingly. “Maybe we could start with this?” He said, a twisted gleam lighting up his eyes.
Megumi paused mid-cleanup, shooting the box a look like it was a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
Seeing that Megumi wasn’t going to take it, Gojo popped the box open himself, revealing a thick, black, gleaming butt plug. "I’d like you to keep a part of me inside you when you go back to your cell," Gojo said, voice low and tender.
Megumi blinked once, unmoving. He didn’t punch Gojo. He didn’t run.
Gojo pushed his luck. Moving slowly, reverently, he ran his hand down Megumi’s naked hip, resting on the curve of his ass.
When Megumi didn’t resist, Gojo slid his fingers between his cheeks, dipping one inside the stretched, leaking hole to check. Still full of him.
He smiled to himself and lined up the plug.
A faint, unguarded breath caught in Megumi’s throat as Gojo pushed it in, burying it snugly inside. It fit perfectly. Gojo tugged at it lightly once, just to hear that delicious, choked sound again.
"You’re a lunatic," Megumi gritted out, his voice strained but even. Gojo beamed, taking it as the sweetest nickname he could imagine.
“As you said,” he murmured, “you can easily get rid of me, but you’ll be assigned another professional, someone with ethics this time, and you would actually have to go through therapy. Sharing all your daddy issues-”
"Shut up," Megumi snapped, sharper than before. And God, Gojo loved how he could still act like that, still carry so much pride, even plugged and leaking and ruined.
Megumi really had a talent for making everything seem effortless. It only made Gojo love him more.
Reaching up, Gojo cradled Megumi’s face gently, lovingly. Like Megumi was some delicate gift he still had hours left to unwrap. "Now, now," Gojo said softly, smiling. "Why don’t we just see where this little relationship takes us, huh? Let it bloom naturally. And I’ll sign those papers at the end? Promise.”
Megumi didn’t say anything.
But after a long pause, he gave the slightest nod.
Ten minutes in, Megumi hadn’t moved from his seat, he looked more solemn than usual, not quite tense but not fully poised either. Tired, maybe.
Gojo would get excited when Megumi was on his schedule. Despite having fucked him on every surface of the office, touched every part of that stubborn body, he was still a gentleman enough not to instigate.
“You’re not even trying to pretend anymore, huh?” Megumi finally spoke.
Gojo cocked his head to the side, perplexed and followed Megumi's pointing finger toward his hand laying on an empty table, no pens and no pad.
The boy made a good point. “Honestly, with what you told me so far… and what I know.” A slow, crooked smile pulled at his lips. “You'd need more than the number or sessions they prescribed you.”
Something flickered across Megumi’s face. A shift so faint it might’ve been imagined, sadness? Shame? No, something duller. Quieter. Like resignation that had been growing roots for years.
Megumi didn’t move. Rigid. Locked tight in his body, as if any twitch might betray too much. So cold now. Nothing like the warmth of skin Gojo had bitten into before. He could press, ask, tease, prod, but Megumi was a feral thing. And with feral things, patience was always the key.
“I’m broken.” Megumi said.
It ghosted out between them. Barely a breath. But in the thick silence, it struck like a bell.
It wasn’t a lie though. A realization. A confession maybe.
Gojo’s twisted mind lit up. The itch to twist this into something interesting bloomed too fast. “Obviously yeah,” he paused, looking at the absence of reaction. He leaned back slightly, playing with the moment, greedy now. “I like broken things.”
A confession for a confession. That sounded fair enough.
Megumi’s eyes snapped up, sharp green catching the sterile light. And Gojo nearly groaned at the thought of those same eyes turning glassy with tears, wrecked and trembling as he choked on his dick.
“No shit,” Megumi scoffed, turning his head away, suddenly interested in Gojo’s book collection. “I bet you like fixing them too.”
“Not all broken things need fixing.” Gojo said, voice low and sure. Some were better left cracked open. Beautiful that way. Megumi was a rarity forged in pain and shadows. He was a masterpiece.
“You’ve heard about the art of kintsugi?” Gojo asked.
The tension in Megumi’s shoulders loosened slightly. His legs spread, opening lazily. This usually marked the end of the conversation, but that little twitch in his eyebrow told Gojo he wouldn’t mind hearing more. “It’s when you break pottery, like a vase, and instead of hiding the cracks, you fill them with gold.” Gojo’s voice smoothed out, gentle, coaxing. “The damage isn’t erased. It’s amplified. Those lines become golden veins. Beautiful. Undeniable.”
Megumi turned toward him, one leg stretching out, foot nudging at the invisible line between them. His fingers traced lazy shapes on the armrest, slow and silent.
Gojo had already stood. Couldn’t help it. Drawn to the boy like smoke to a slow-burning flame. He moved until he hovered inches away, close enough to feel the static coil between them.
Megumi tilted his head up. His throat moved, Adam’s apple jumping beneath pale skin. A pulse of want throbbed in the air.
The only rule: don’t touch him first.
Gojo’s crotch hovered at Megumi’s eye level, the bulge of his cock already straining against his pants. Megumi’s gaze traced the outline slowly, almost clinically, like he was studying something he planned to break.
After a few heartbeats, Megumi’s hands slid up to Gojo’s waistband, fingers playing idly with the belt before moving, slow, excruciatingly slow, to unbutton his pants. The moment the zipper lowered, Gojo’s angry cock sprang free, eager to nestle inside that stubborn mouth.
Megumi just stared for a moment, head tilted slightly, contemplating him with a deliberate, unreadable gaze. Then he darted his tongue out and licked along the underside of Gojo’s dick in one long, slow drag, down to the heavy weight of his balls, which he sucked lightly into his mouth.
Gojo let out a soft, wrecked exhale, his head tipping back slightly.
Gojo’s cock twitches impatiently.Megumi nestled his face into the base of Gojo’s cock, breathing him in, eyes locked upward, staring at him with a look that straddled the line between a plea and a dare. Like he was asking for permission he had no intention of waiting for. Like he was testing how far Gojo’s restraint could stretch before it snapped.
Gojo twisted his hips slightly, the wet tip smearing against Megumi’s mouth, marking those sinful lips.
Technically, Gojo thought, Megumi started it.
With his eyes half-lidded and a glimmer of something darker sparking behind them, Megumi finally complied. His mouth opened, and Gojo slid inside the welcoming heat, the swollen tip bumping against the back of Megumi’s throat.
Gojo’s fingers threaded into Megumi’s hair, slow at first, testing, teasing, before curling into a firmer grip as he pushed deeper, shoving Megumi’s nose into his pubes.
“Fuck-” Gojo groaned, feeling the guttural noise Megumi made vibrate against him.
Adapting too easily, Megumi began to bob his head, slow and taunting, every drag of his mouth designed to antagonize him.
Little minx, Gojo thought, his hips twitching forward without permission.
Another grunt tore from Gojo’s throat as Megumi’s muscles spasmed around him, the boy trying to adjust, his throat flexing stubbornly against Gojo’s girth. Every thrust kissed the back of Megumi’s throat, over and over, obscene and slick.
Gojo barely held still, marveling at the view. Wondering how many men did it take for him to domesticate his gag reflex.
Drool spilled freely now, dribbling down Gojo’s balls, stringing lewd sounds into the charged air. He could come like this, could fuck Megumi’s throat until he poured himself down it without a second thought.
But that would be selfish, the boy deserved more. Gojo wanted to bury himself inside that tight, perfect body, wanted to fuck him slow until Megumi sobbed, eyes glassy and ruined.
A husky, eager laugh tore from Gojo’s chest as he yanked himself free, slick and aching. Megumi blinked up at him, eyes already blurry with need. Gojo’s hand slid from his hair to cradle his cheek, deceptively gentle. “Let’s move this to the couch,” he said, voice low and rough.
Slowly, Megumi wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, climbing to his feet with deliberate provocation. He walked toward the couch, peeling off his clothes as he went, leaving a careless, tempting trail as if Gojo might lose his way if not for the breadcrumbs.
Megumi put a knee on the couch and turned to make sure Gojo’s eyes had stayed on him before leaning on the armrest and presenting himself on all fours. His pale skin gleamed against the dark brown leather, every line of his body sculpted and offered like a decadent feast.
Gojo had meant to take him on his back, meant to see his face crack open under him, but the sight of that ass, high and ready, was convincing enough.
He stepped closer, letting his palm sweep lazily down the curve of Megumi’s back, a caress turning greedy the lower it went. His hands cupped the boy’s ass, squeezing firm and rough, spreading him wide enough to admire the twitching, perfect pink of his hole. Fucking adorable.
Without warning, like it was begging for it, Gojo slapped it. A sharp, satisfying crack. Megumi barely flinched, but Gojo felt the tightness ripple through his body. Smirking, Gojo trailed his hand gently up the trembling thigh before slapping him again, harder. This time, Megumi keened, a low, guttural noise slipping free.
It resonated like a starting signal.
Gojo grabbed at his cheeks roughly, kneading and spreading. He felt Megumi about to speak, but cut him off with another sharp strike, grinning as Megumi’s cute, hard cock swung helplessly between his thighs.
Megumi gritted his teeth. "Are you d—" He didn’t get to finish.
Gojo silenced him by flattening his tongue against the bruised skin, tasting the heat of it, the sharp tang of skin just beginning to welt. Megumi's protest melted into a desperate whine as Gojo's tongue slid lower, lapping at his sensitive rim, circling, teasing, then pressing inside.
Megumi trembled under him, body dissolving into helpless, shuddering pleasure with every slick, obscene stroke of Gojo’s tongue.
Gojo tasted the musk, the tacky salt of him, and wondered darkly how much of it was Megumi, and how much was the ghost of other men. The idea twisted something in his gut, stoking his hunger higher.
He spread Megumi’s cheeks wider, teasing the twitching rim with the scrape of his teeth, before pressing his tongue deeper, prying him open, praising him with every filthy lick. A delicious, ruinous treat.
Then he pulled back, just slightly, straightening up, his breath hot against exposed skin. Megumi tensed at the sudden loss, hips twitching subtly, as if chasing the intrusion.
Gojo smiled, watching the little flutter of that sensitive pucker, still wet, still needy. He pressed his thumb against it, slow and deliberate, feeling it quiver and give beneath the pressure. Gojo opened his eyes, and froze, savoring the sight.
Megumi’s hand was gripping the couch leather, knuckles white with strain. His mouth hung open, soundless, a silent cry locked behind his teeth. His cock dripped helplessly onto the dark leather.
But Gojo couldn’t see his face properly. Couldn’t see the cracks .
And that wouldn’t do. Not at all.
He stopped abruptly, his hands clamping around Megumi’s hips. In a single, brutal motion, Gojo flipped him onto his back, pinning him to the cushions. His palms pressed down on either side of Megumi’s head, boxing him in.
Megumi’s eyes were wide, blown-dark, a glint of something wild flickering inside. Not teary yet. But close.
There might have been a sharp intake of breath, a gasp maybe. But Gojo’s heart was pounding too loudly in his ears to be sure.
He wanted to wreck him.
“There’s definitely something wrong with you,” Gojo said, whether to Megumi or to himself, he didn’t know, didn’t care.
His hand wandered down Megumi’s body, trailing a burning line along trembling muscles, until he gripped one sharp hipbone. His thumb dug into the jut of bone, pinning him down like a prize.
And then, slowly, greedily, Gojo pushed his cock inside. Megumi’s body resisted, tight and slick only with spit. The first inch was agony, a fight of flesh against flesh. But Megumi didn’t falter. He closed his eyes, face twisting, accepting the brutal stretch without a word, bearing the price to be molded into Gojo’s shape.
Megumi’s mouth fell open in a silent gasp as Gojo finally seated himself fully inside. Hovering over him, Gojo could feel Megumi’s shaky breath brushing his ear, perfectly synced with the pulsing of his stretched, clenching hole. Pain or pleasure, Gojo couldn’t tell. Didn’t want to wait to find out.
He started moving, steady and slow, then rougher.
Gojo grabbed under Megumi’s knees, folding him harshly toward his chest, sinking even deeper, forcing all the air out of his lungs. For a moment, Gojo savored the image, Megumi folded up, small under him, completely at his mercy.
And then he started pounding him.
Megumi took it like a good boy. Because despite the attitude, despite the pretty glares and cocky tilt of his chin, Gojo could see through him. Eager to please. Hungry for validation. Desperate for someone to take him apart.
That glint in his eyes, it wasn’t rebellion. It was a challenge, begging Gojo to unravel him.
When Megumi’s hand slid down to touch himself, Gojo growled, "No," his voice sharp enough to cut. He was pleased to see Megumi obeyed.
Sweat dribbled down Gojo’s back as he thrust harder, the couch creaking in rhythm with each brutal slap of flesh. Megumi’s muscles had relaxed enough to allow more fluid movement, letting Gojo find a brutal, satisfying pace.
Megumi’s legs fell open wider, like puppet strings cut loose. The wet, filthy sound of their bodies colliding filled the room.
In the broken noises slipping from Megumi's lips, Gojo heard it—A plea for attention. A plea to be ruined.
Gracious as ever, Gojo dove deeper, carving himself into Megumi’s stubborn body, pushing him to the edge of a small death and dragging him back again, an orgasmic creature gasping for breath. Megumi was insanely divine, designed to be devoured.
Tears welled up in Megumi’s eyes. He fluttered them shut, turned his head away, biting down on his lip until it went bloodless. The sight should have disappointed Gojo—should have felt like a shield slamming down. But the rosy flush creeping up Megumi’s cheeks said enough.
He was breaking beautifully.
"Who are you thinking about right now?" Gojo murmured into his ear, grinding his hips cruelly deep.
Megumi bit down harder, ignoring him.
Gojo paused, hips pressed flush, his balls snug against the cleft of Megumi's ass. Megumi's eyes cracked open, but stubbornly refused to meet his. Wriggling underneath, desperate for friction, for more.
Gojo smiled, slow and evil.
"I'm not the jealous type, you know," he whispered, pushing just enough to make Megumi squirm. "I like seeing you get into it."
He leaned closer, voice threading through the sweat and gasping heat. "Tell me," he coaxed, tone almost sing-song sweet, "and I'll fuck you so good."
Megumi glanced at him from the corner of his eye, lips parting, only for a soft, broken whine to spill out. It was fun, seeing him like this. A trapped mouse, caught and cornered. And really, Gojo had no complaints, all snugged up tight around him, clenching, trembling.
Gojo reeled his hips back, moving slowly, teasingly, until only the swollen head of his cock remained. Megumi's insides fluttered, desperate, clutching at him. A beautiful, helpless instinct.
Gojo smirked, knowing it wouldn’t take much more.
"Come on," he murmured, hips twitching forward just a hair, just enough to tease. "Tell me who I’m fucking out of you."
Megumi sputtered, face crumbling. "T—" The sound cracked out of him, raw and painful. “My dad,” he finally gasped—barely a word, more a garbled quack, pathetic and broken.
The grin that split Gojo's face was wicked and amused. “Should have guessed,” he said, voice low and dark. He ground back into him, rewarding the broken confession with pure, brutal force, feeling the desperate suction of Megumi's clenching walls. "You miss him," Gojo purred, slamming back inside hard enough to shake the frame of the couch.
"It’s okay to miss him," he continued, voice turning almost gentle, like his mantra, without slowing his pace. "To think about him while I’m inside you. To pretend it’s his cock making you feel this way.”
Gojo pulled back to the tip, waiting a single cruel heartbeat, then rammed in again, harder. A brutal punctuation.
" And it’s okay to hate him too," Gojo added, almost tenderly, thumb brushing Megumi’s flushed, tear-streaked cheek. "It’s true that Daddy did things he wasn’t supposed to. But they felt good, didn’t they? It’s okay to admit it."
Another well aimed brutal thrust, and Megumi’s head hit the armrest. Megumi came with a strangled cry, body spasming violently around Gojo’s cock. Cum painted his stomach and chest in messy streaks, leaking down onto the couch. Beautiful.
Gojo hissed, feeling the unbearable tightness coil around him, but he didn't come yet. Instead, he laughed, a soft, delighted sound, and shoved Megumi’s knees even higher, even wider, forcing him open.
"That’s it," he praised, voice wrecked and bright. "Let it all out."
He didn't slow down. He fucked Megumi through the orgasm, relentless.
Megumi gasps for air, his fingers digging inside Gojo’s skin for balance. He tried to push him away, “too much”, his voice cracked.
Gojo only smiled, feeling lightheaded, and slid a hand between them, stroking Megumi’s oversensitive cock. Megumi jolted like he'd been electrocuted, a ragged sob tearing from his throat.
Gojo kept going, abusing his prostate with every punishing stroke. "I said let it all out," Gojo panted, his body pounding Megumi’s open, ruined body without mercy.
Megumi shook his head, tears streaking his face, mouth falling open in silent screams.
And then—
He broke completely.
Megumi hiccupped, body convulsing, and came again—squirting violently over his already ruined stomach, soaking both of them.
The sound he made was high and raw, like an animal being ripped open. Like he’s about to fall and forgot that Gojo was there, holding him in place.
Megumi threw an arm over his face, trying to hide, but Gojo wasn’t going to let him. Gojo kept fucking him through it, chasing his own release now, riding Megumi's shuddering body like it was a sinking ship.
“Good boy.” He repeated, humming approvingly.
"Stop," Megumi begged, voice so small Gojo almost missed it.
Gojo didn't stop.
“Is that what you wanted to tell daddy?” he panted, driving into him with erratic, thrusts. “Instead of letting him fuck you raw?”
“Please… I can’t…” Megumi shook his head harder. Other syllables slipped out, soft, shattered noises that didn’t even form words.
Gojo grabbed Megumi’s wrists easily and pinned them above his head, pressing him down, trapping him.
He stared. Megumi’s once controlled face was gone, now ruined, sobbing, dripping. Tears streaked down flushed cheeks. Drool slicked his open mouth. Gojo thought he had never seen anything so transcendent.
"You look exquisite like that," Gojo said, breathless. "You look more honest, more real." Vulnerable. Raw. Pure.
With his walls down, all that was left was a shaking young teen, scared and needy.
The final sight of Megumi, spread open, crying, utterly undone, sent Gojo over the edge.
He pulled out and came hard, painting Megumi’s trembling body in thick, messy streaks. It splattered across his chest, stomach, even up to his throat. A chaotic masterpiece.
Megumi flinched under the hot mess, his wrists twitching in Gojo’s grip, but he didn’t pull away. Couldn’t.
Gojo's heart pounded wildly in his chest, drunk on the moment, like he’d been honored by Heaven and Earth, and Megumi was the blessing made flesh.
The boy lay there, trembling, too spent to move, drool still glistening on parted lips. Broken into something too precious to ever give back.
Gojo slumped down beside him, high on adrenaline, pulling him close with greedy hands.
"You did so good," Gojo whispered into sweat-damp hair. "Don't you feel better now?"
Megumi didn’t answer, too far gone, staring blankly at the ceiling, limbs limp. Fucked into oblivion. A lifeless doll, cradled in loving arms.
Gojo brushed the tears from his cheeks, tracing them down to the open, gasping mouth.
"You're so beautifully broken," he whispered, voice thick with awe.
His fingers slid lower, gathering the mess, the tears, the spit, the cum, and smeared it lazily across Megumi’s stomach, dragging it into slow, thoughtless patterns.
He watched the streaks glisten under the low light.
Gojo looked at the art he made, and only wished his cum was gold.
Morning light crept through the blinds, thin and weak against the heavy air of Gojo’s bedroom. The room still held the residue of the night before, sweat and heat, something feral that clung to the walls and sheets like memory. A scent Gojo had come to crave. A scent that felt like home.
From the bathroom, Gojo emerged barefoot, the cold tile still biting at his soles. He ran a damp hand through his tangled hair, tugging a clean shirt over his head and buttoning it with lazy precision, his mind already drifting back to the bed and the body curled in the wreckage of blankets and sheets.
Megumi lay naked, splayed, draped in the careless aftermath of worship. Black hair spread like spilled ink across the pillow, a dark crown against the crumpled white. The covers clung only to his long legs, revealing skin pale as snow, and the soft curves of flesh made to be bitten.
He looked like a blank canvas, already painted in blues and reds. It wouldn’t take much for Gojo’s hands to coax out purple. His body was a map of bruised constellations, stars charting the way back to every gasp, every tremor, down to the place where they fit, where Gojo made him whole.
Gojo stopped in the doorway, heart thudding low and deliberate. A greedy, reverent ache.
He drank in the sight of his precious Megumi.
His little doll. Custom-made for him. A body balanced between docility and defiance, taut and obedient, always so eager to feel, to split open, to be remade.
After his release from detention, Megumi had shown up on Gojo’s doorstep without warning. Late one evening. Soaking wet from the rain, silent, stubborn, and shaking, but eager. Eager to share body heat. To reconnect. To remind Gojo just how good he felt.
He made a nest in Gojo’s penthouse, carving out space like it had always been meant for him. Slipping into Gojo’s life with a quiet rhythm, knowing when to relieve him of tension, and when to disappear without a word.
Sometimes he’d vanish for days. No note. No explanation.
Gojo never asked. Because Megumi always came back.
Always right when the silence started to sting. Always with that look in his eyes, not guilt, not apology. Just need. Raw and hollow.
Like he had drifted too far from the one celestial body that understood him. Like he could only be defined and shaped to life under Gojo’s hands. Like he could only feel safe when he was being wrecked. Stretched. Whole only when he was being fucked back together.
And Gojo always obliged. Merciful and patient.
He would take Megumi apart again and again, opening him, pouring his light through the night, until he was too tired to leave. Until the trembling stopped. Until the boy came undone so completely he forgot how to run.
A soft rustle of sheets pulled Gojo from his thoughts.
Megumi stirred, blinking awake, those sharp green eyes finding him across the room. He shifted, stretching like a cat, the bruises across his skin pulled taut, each one a stroke in a quiet masterpiece of wreckage.
His gaze flicked to the clock, 5:48 AM blinking quietly in red numbers, then back to Gojo.
"I have an early appointment," Gojo said casually, tucking his shirt into his slacks. "Another troubled youth."
Megumi didn’t answer at first. He just stared, too long, too quiet. Something simmering low behind his eyes.
And then, voice flat and dangerous: "Are you going to fuck them?"
Gojo couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his mouth. God, he was cute when he was feral. He crossed the room, slow and indulgent, and braced a knee on the mattress, the bed dipping under his weight. He leaned in, pressing a lazy kiss to Megumi’s mouth, still tasting faintly of sleep and old sin.
"I don't fix everything with my dick, you know," Gojo said crudely, smiling against his lips.
But Megumi didn’t look satisfied.
Instead, he moved suddenly, shoving Gojo back onto the bed with a surprising force.
Gojo laughed as he let himself fall, sprawling across the mattress. Megumi climbed over him like a challenge, fingers tugging at his half-buttoned shirt, wrinkling it beyond salvation.
"I don’t have t-" The protest barely formed before Megumi's hands silenced him, practiced, impatient, and already working. With precise, mechanical ease, he yanked down the zipper of Gojo’s slacks like he’d done it a hundred times before. Which he might have.
So much for being on time. Gojo thought, feeling blood rush down to his dick and his hand finding their place on Megumi’s ass.
Megumi was still loose, still wet from the night before, slick, greedy and ready.
He didn’t hesitate. He sank down on Gojo’s cock in one smooth motion, his body swallowing him whole. Like they were one single mythical creature, divine and cursed, meant to be carved into eternity just like this.
Gojo groaned, head tipping back against the pillows as Megumi moved, relentless, focused. No teasing, no indulgence. Just a deliberate, punishing rhythm, like he was trying to grind every last doubt out of Gojo’s bones.
The flush deepened on Megumi’s cheeks, his jaw tightening with effort. Gojo’s appointment was now long forgotten.
When release finally hit, sudden and hard, Gojo caught it : that tiny, smug smile tugging at Megumi’s lips. Proud and endearing. He wanted to bite it off and taste its sweetness.
"There," Megumi said, voice hoarse but triumphant. He stayed perched atop him for a moment longer, victorious, panting. "At your age," Megumi added slyly, breathless, "I doubt you'll be able to get it up again for anyone else today." He said while his hips kept moving, slow, hypnotic circles, dragging Gojo deeper into that syrupy, sun-drenched high.
Shortly after, Megumi spilled all over Gojo’s shirt, ruining it for good. Gojo laughed, a deep, satiated sound rumbling from his chest. The hint of a smile still on his face, Megumi collapsed boneless against him, sinking into the warmth of Gojo’s damp skin with a quiet, unceremonious squelch.
Trusting Gojo' arms to hold him, Megumi went still. Gojo’s hand moved gently through his hair, cradling him. Megumi half-dozed, still impaled on him, leaking, vulnerable but comfortable. Home.
Gojo cupped Megumi’s face, thumbs tracing circles on his soft skin, feeling something dark and sick and impossibly sweet swell inside him.
"My golden boy," Gojo murmured, the words thick with adoration.
And in the soft, bleeding morning light, with Megumi warmth still wrapped around him, marked and claimed and stubbornly his. Gojo watched the slow, heavy rise and fall of Megumi’s chest as sleep took him again.
He wouldn’t let him leave again.
Megumi was broken in all the right places now, shaped perfectly to fit him.
And this could only be true love.