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"Hey, Megumi, let me give you a massage," Satoru says, too close to Megumi's ear.
Megumi, sprawled on the couch and fresh off the mission that got him promoted to first rank at last, eases the ice pack over his eyes to the side, just enough to squint at Satoru. Even the dim light of their apartment hurts his eyes, and the less said about his muscles and bones the better; getting thrown through buildings has never been his favorite pastime.
Satoru's kneeling by the edge of the couch, hair glittering silver in the low backlighting from outside, and he's, even through Megumi's blinding headache, heartbreakingly handsome in his black sweats, loose hair, the imprint of Megumi's teeth scarred into his neck.
Megumi grunts something approaching a question, and Satoru's face creases with his smile. How he can smile at Megumi - his hair sweat-damp, his eyes blurred with exhaustion, his scent sour with simultaneous overtiredness and rancid adrenaline without an outlet - is beyond Megumi.
"I want to." Because Satoru has seen Megumi in all his guises - blood-soaked, silent, enraged, hollowed-out with grief - and still wants him, this cranky atypical omega with weak heats, wants him despite the endless frustrated letters from the other Gojo and Megumi's stubborn refusal to accept any traditional alpha-omega bond. "And because I'm proud of you, making my teaching look good out there."
"That was absolutely my goal," Megumi says, dry both in tone and voice. His throat scrapes with dust. Still, Satoru's scent spikes with pleasure at his words, the long-fingered hand spread on the couch cushion between them twitching, and yeah, okay. He can deserve Satoru's kindness. Can have this for himself, especially if Satoru's offering it. "I'll take a massage."
Another spike in Satoru's scent, sunlight-greed-affection, and then another when Megumi turns his head enough to kiss his fingertips. Warm skin, Infinity dropping without thought, and Satoru inhales at the threat of Megumi's teeth against his skin. His eyes darken.
"C'mon, massage time!" Satoru scoops Megumi up off the couch into a bridal carry, dodging his half-for-show protesting and flailing limbs, then carries him right off to the bedroom. He maneuvers them inside, the door clicking shut behind them with a gentle nudge of his heel, and then swings Megumi from side to side in a slow arc to show off his preparations.
It's... a lot. The bed's turned down, one of the obscenely expensive fluffy towels Satoru insists on buying spread across the sheets; scentless candles flicker on the nightstands and dresser top, casting a beautiful glow; the stupidly costly French body oil Satoru gets imported stands sentry on one of the nightstands; some instrumental track that Megumi has not a hope in hell of identifying plays from the speakers.
Still, Satoru's vibrating with impatience, all nervous desire to protect and comfort and provide, and so Megumi says,
"Looks nice."
Satoru drops his mouth to Megumi's shoulder, brushing his lips over the mark he bit there, and Megumi can imagine the sly grin on his face when Megumi shudders at the touch. "Only the best for my Megumi," he says, straightforward as he never is. "Now come on, get your clothes off!"
"And they say romance is dead." Megumi bounces slightly on the bed when Satoru drops him onto it, then shoves his scraped-up and work-numb fingers beneath the waistband of his trousers and underwear to work them down over his hips. He stuffs down his noise of pain as he bends forward, the cramped and knotted muscles in his back protesting the movement, but his scent must tell Satoru enough.
Satoru pushes him back upright with one hand spanning his shoulder, the other hand curling beneath Megumi’s waistband to urge the offending clothing down and off. He tosses them over his shoulder - forever messy, much to Megumi’s annoyance - and then cocks his head, sharp gaze tracing the various bruises and scrapes decorating Megumi’s body.
Satoru’s skin is flawless, pearlescent, Infinity warding off anything the world could throw at him. Well, almost flawless; Megumi’s claiming mark spreads pink and ragged at the join of shoulder and neck, the only visible flaw in his perfection Satoru’s ever allowed.
Satoru grins, tilts his head just so to show off the mark, and Megumi decides he can forgive the tossed pants.
He can’t forgive the curses that made it near impossible for him to take off his own damn shirt, though. Good thing they’re dead.
“Help me with my shirt.” A moment, before he adds, begrudging, “Please.”
Satoru leans in, kisses the sullen pout from his lips even as he pulls the shirt up, biting Megumi’s lip as a parting gift when he has to pull away to get the shirt off fully. Megumi’s sight goes black, static crackling over his skin and in his hair, and then clears to reveal Satoru close again, his lips touched with a smile as he ruffles a fond hand through Megumi’s spiked-urchin hair.
“I’ll shock you if you don’t give me my massage,” Megumi says, and Satoru laughs.
“Megumi’s so mean!” He gives Megumi’s hair a friendly tug, gaze dropping to where Megumi’s lips part in a gasp, and his cock - right in front of Megumi’s eyes - jumps in his joggers, damp head brushing so near Megumi’s lips-
“Oh no, you don’t,” Satoru says, faintly chiding but mostly smug, and then he explodes into motion. In what seems like no time at all he’s got Megumi face-down on the spread towel, his broad hand fondling Megumi’s soft cock and balls as he tugs them down to safety between Megumi’s thighs.
“You can keep going,” Megumi mumbles into the pillows, trying to arch his back to press back into Satoru’s hand. But no, Satoru only makes a considering sound, a smile in his voice, and then lets go, thumb sliding sweetly over Megumi’s damp slit in a fond caress. “No, wait, come back-”
He breathes out a sigh when Satoru’s hand curls down over the back of his neck, the side of his palm rasping over the ragged edge of the undercut on his nape. His body goes heavy, liquid, and his eyelids fall shut without his command, without even a thought. Satoru rarely uses this on him - the instinctual urge to surrender brought about by a bonded alpha’s gentling grip on such a vulnerable part of the body - knowing Megumi’s bared-teeth independence, but now, it’s okay.
It’s okay to let himself breathe, trust that Satoru’s got this. Got him.
“I’m going to get undressed,” Satoru says, voice low and firm, the way it almost never is, “and then I’ll be right back.” His hand lifts away, and Megumi drifts.
Soft towel beneath him, prickling deliciously against his nipples, drawn taut in the cool air of the room, and the sensitive head of his half-hard cock. The faint breeze of Satoru’s movements as he undresses nearby, and then the sudden nearness of his scent, warm-satisfied-wanting. The faint rattle of metal as Satoru unscrews the body oil, and then its fragrance, a heady animalic smell tinged with amber sweetness, and Megumi’s cock stirs, drips warm and wet against the towel. The red-tinged darkness before his eyes, shifting with the flickering candlelight, and the slow thud of blood in his ears underlying the low throb of the music.
“I’m back,” Satoru announces, all cheer again, and the bed dips at Megumi’s side, Satoru’s knee nudging at the dip of his waist. “Missed me?”
“Always,” Megumi mutters, and there’s a sudden silence above him. He can imagine Satoru’s expression: lips parted, eyes wide, utterly disarmed. He loves that expression, maybe more than anything in the world.
Satoru clears his throat, and as if to cover up his momentary vulnerability, draws his oil-slick fingertips down Megumi’s spine. “Those guys did more of a number on you than I thought.”
“Mm.” Megumi sinks into the bed, all his attention fixed on that single point of contact: that anchoring pressure of Satoru’s fingertip like magnetic north, pinning him here. The aches in his bones, the cramps in his muscles, they all fade beneath that touch. “More.”
Satoru answers with two hands cupping his thigh, thumbs rolling deep and sure over his hamstring, the glide of skin on skin completely frictionless with oil. He finds the knotted tension with unerring accuracy, rolls it slow until it loosens into softness, and Megumi groans, rocks back into the touch. Down, over the vulnerable skin of his knee, onto his calf, the heels of his palms rocking deep into soreness, overcoming it.
Megumi sighs, lets even the tension in his lips go, and surrenders. Melts. Lets himself be lulled into quiet submission, his muscles persuaded into utter limpness by Satoru’s skilled hands. They don’t speak, Satoru’s knowledge of Megumi intimate beyond all bearing, and the only sounds are the slow music, the slick hiss of oil on skin, Satoru’s breathing - heavy now with arousal - and Megumi’s soft moans.
Satoru’s worked over both legs, avoiding Megumi’s stiff cock where it slowly drips precome onto the towel, straddled his thighs to run thumbs up the deep valleys of muscle on either side of Megumi’s spine, fanned his fingers over Megumi’s ribs, circled his thumbs deep into the sore knots in his neck. The gentle weight of him on Megumi’s thighs; the soft rocking of his motions pressing Megumi against the towel, sensation flickering against his nipples and cock; the knowledge that Megumi’s safer here than he has ever been-
His thoughts circle and dwindle into serenity, a placid still blackness like a moonlit pond. His nerves brim with sensation, the awareness of Satoru’s touch, of Satoru’s love. Satoru’s unstinting devotion, poured out on him.
Satoru sweeps his palms down Megumi’s back, up over the soft rise of his ass, and cups him, oil-slick thumbs pressing into his crease. They pet gently over his rim, furled taut, and Satoru moans, low in his throat, when Megumi tries to tense against the touch but can’t, slick welling from him like some holy fountain, blood-warm.
Another silence, a burst of pride-possession-love, and Megumi realizes, dim through the clouded pleasure in his mind, that he’s wet, that slick’s dripping down between his thighs. He never gets slick, hardly produces any even in the throes of his weak heats, and Satoru’s always been kind about it, never minded having to buy lube, to spend hours licking Megumi open, persuading his resistant body to unclench with tongue and fingers and toys, and yet now he’s-
He’s empty , his body aware of Satoru’s cock between his thighs, aware that it’s not where it should be, where he’s soft and open and wanting, where he wants Satoru. He lifts his hips as much as he can in hopeful invitation, and Satoru inhales.
“Megumi,” Satoru whispers, like a prayer, like something awed. He draws an exploratory fingertip over Megumi’s entrance, curses low as his finger slips in with hardly any pressure, Megumi accepting him without flinch or sigh, rolling his hips back against the touch as much as he can. Even just the one finger’s good, a firm weight for Megumi to rock against.
He sighs out his pleasure against the breath-damp pillow. Everything’s delicious, pleasure-hazed and heavy and dark: Satoru’s scent, his weight, the honeyed ache of his claiming bite, the endless pulse of slick and heat and pressure between his thighs as Satoru rocks his finger deeper, curls it slow and hard against his prostate.
He comes with a whimper and a sigh, utterly relaxed, the orgasm rolling through him in slow endless waves as Satoru moans and presses another finger within him. More sensation. More width. Yes. He moans, open-mouthed, when Satoru spreads his fingers, feels the scorched awe of Satoru’s gaze locked onto him where he’s pink and shining and open, where he wants.
The mattress creaks as Satoru moves, and then his hand cups the front of Megumi’s throat, his weight comes down over Megumi’s back, and his cock nudges at Megumi’s entrance.
“Beloved,” he murmurs, breath hot against Megumi’s ear, and rocks home.