pairing: megumi fushiguro x f!reader
content: highschool au, dad!gojo, megumi is adopted, emo!megumi.
gojo’s been gone for three days.
some regional curriculum restructuring summit, something about new county-wide testing guidelines and cross-district math standards that sounded important enough to merit a hotel and a suitcase and a “don’t burn the house down” text sent with four emojis and a blurry selfie from a waffle bar.
megumi didn’t ask when he’d be back. he never does.
and the thing is, he loves gojo, he really does. in his own closed-lipped, tired-eyed way, megumi knows he lucked out.
because the other kids from where he came from; group homes with mildew in the vents, families that never quite made it to court dates, kids who folded themselves small just to survive—they didn’t get adopted by someone who remembered their birthday or left dumb sticky notes on the fridge that said “you’re not allowed to have a favorite parent if i’m the only one. love, gojo.”
and even when he’s loud and ridiculous and entirely too invested in whatever music megumi’s into this week—singing along to bands he doesn’t know the lyrics to, nodding like he gets it when he absolutely doesn’t—gojo tries. and megumi notices.
like how he never complains about the playlists in the car, even when it’s heavy or screaming or sad in that way megumi won’t say out loud. how he still listens all the way through, eyes soft behind his sunglasses, and sometimes glances sideways like he’s trying to see past the static.
what’s this one called again?
megumi always shrugs. sometimes he mumbles the band name. other times he turns it up instead of answering.
because he’s not like the other kids. not really. he’s not crazy or anything—not a psychopath or a burnout or someone school security keeps tabs on—but he’s quieter, moodier.
the kind of person who doesn't raise his hand in class even when he knows the answer, who walks the long way home just to avoid crowds, who listens to music no one else plays out loud and wears black hoodies even in the summer.
and gojo knows that. he doesn’t push. never has, really.
but megumi also knows—if gojo ever found out who you were, if he ever found out you were the reason he’s been smiling like an idiot when he thinks no one’s looking—
not because gojo would be mad, of course. megumi’s only seen him truly mad once—some woman at a grocery store had the nerve to insist megumi couldn’t possibly be his son because he didn’t look anything like him, and gojo’s smile hadn’t reached his eyes for the rest of the week.
hell, even when megumi snuck out sophomore year to catch an underground show across the city and ended up stranded after the cops broke it up—gojo still wasn’t mad. just showed up at 3:17 a.m. in pajama pants and a parka, hair a disaster, sunglasses still on, grumbling about how he had a trig quiz to proctor in five hours.
so no, gojo wouldn’t be mad, which made it worse.
he’d just never shut up about it.
you, who used to sit in the front row of gojo’s ninth period algebra II class, raising your hand before he even finished the question, always two steps ahead and annoyingly self-aware about it.
you, who challenged his dumb metaphors about slope and velocity, who called him mr. six-eyes to his face and somehow got away with it because you were his favorite. always had been. the kind of favorite he bragged about in the teacher’s lounge and roped into decorating the classroom before winter break.
you were a model student—helpful, on time, unnecessarily prepared. the kind of kid teachers loved and other students quietly resented. you volunteered to grade papers. reminded gojo when he forgot to collect homework. helped tutor the kid who failed the last quiz and smiled like it didn’t weigh on you when they rolled their eyes behind your back.
but beneath all that, you were sharper than anyone gave you credit for. you carried your loneliness like it wasn’t a burden, pretended you didn’t hear the whispers in the hallway, acted like being too smart and too eager never isolated you from the rest of them.
and you were angry, too—in that quiet, tightly-held way megumi recognized immediately.
you laughed at his deadpan jokes like he was a stand-up comic. knew the same bands. always had an opinion about the lyrics. and you looked at him, not through him. never like he was a project or a punchline or some gloomy background character that belonged to someone else.
you sat next to him in the library before he ever said a word to you. always brought an extra pen. never asked questions when he left school late or disappeared for a few days around the anniversary of his mom’s death.
and he wasn’t sure when it happened, when you and him started slipping into something else. all he knew was that one day, it felt natural, easy. like maybe this was the one part of his life that didn’t need overthinking. like maybe being understood wasn’t supposed to feel like a threat.
and everything about you was perfect—except for the fact that you were also helping out in gojo’s precalc class as an assistant. some glorified student aide thing to fill your schedule, since you’d already tested out of the other math electives.
and megumi had to hear about it. constantly.
"did you see her today? she’s already smarter than half the staff."
"i should make her my assistant year-round. no offense, megumi, but she actually smiles at me."
so no nosy teacher. no stupid dramatic grins. no “megumiiii, is that a smile? wow, should i call the press?”
you were his secret. the only thing in his life that didn’t belong to gojo or school or his past.
and for three months, the two of you had kept it that way. megumi sneaking you over whenever gojo was away at some conference or seminar—sent across the state by an overworked district and an underpaid school board that didn’t deserve him.
megumi keeps it quiet. keeps it safe. keeps you tucked away from the chaos, from the questions, from the way gojo would absolutely, irreparably ruin it just by opening his mouth.
and then—the front door opens. keys jingle. floor creaks.
and everything goes to hell.
you’re still half-asleep when it happens. soft morning light, your legs tangled in his sheets, wearing nothing but his black t-shirt—oversized, wrinkled, stretched loose at the collar where he tugged it over your head last night with more impatience than coordination.
your hair’s a mess from the way he kissed you into the mattress sometime around midnight, hands shaky, mouth reverent, like he wasn’t sure if he’d get to have you like that again. (he probably will, but god, it won’t be soon enough.)
he’s going to have dreams about it. scratch that—already has. the memory is singed into him, all warm skin and muffled sighs and the way you’d laughed against his throat after, breathless and half-drunk on him.
if this is the only play he ever gets for the rest of his life—which, honestly, he doesn’t think anyone could top you anyway—he figures he’d be fine with that.
you’re laid out on his bed like you belong there. like this is your room, your weekend, your morning. like you don’t know what kind of crisis is about to unfold.
because the door downstairs just opened, and gojo’s voice follows. bright, familiar, far too awake for this hour.
“megumiiiiii~ guess who’s home early!”
megumi’s blood stops moving. “no,” he whispers, already shoving off the blanket. “no no no—”
you blink, groggy. “what—?”
he’s at your side instantly, grabbing your arm, pulling you up with the desperation of a man about to be ruined. “get up. closet. now.”
“closet?” you echo, bleary and confused, letting him drag you across the room.
“don’t ask questions, please,” he hisses, already yanking the closet door open and practically lifting you inside like a rolled-up yoga mat. you stumble over his boots, hit your elbow on a crooked coat hanger, and feel your phone slip from your fingers and skitter across the hardwood like a hockey puck. “stay quiet. five minutes tops.”
“shh.” the door shuts fast, the click a little too loud in the dark.
your heart pounds against your ribs as your brain finally catches up. your eyes are still crusty from sleep, your legs sore in the good way, and your t-shirt—the one you definitely didn’t come here wearing—is sliding too far up your thighs. the absurdity of it all would be funny if not for the immediate threat of your eleventh grade precalc teacher being literally on the other side of the door.
outside, the bedroom door rattles open just as megumi throws himself back into bed, doing his best impression of someone who is absolutely not hiding his father’s former favorite student in his closet half-naked and still warm from sleep.
“go away,” megumi calls, instantly.
“awww, don’t be like that,” gojo says, already stepping in with a grocery bag and an obnoxiously wide grin. “i brought you strawberry milk. and chocolate pies. and look!” he waves something. “a little cactus for your desk. his name is steve.”
megumi sits up slowly, dragging a hand down his face, looking like he hasn’t slept in twelve days even though he slept just fine until two minutes ago. “you can put it on the dresser and leave,” he says, voice dry and low, as if sheer nonchalance might make the whole thing go away.
gojo waves him off with a laugh, already opening his mouth to make some retort about attitude, but he stops mid‑step. the grin sharpens into something far more interested, and his head tilts just enough for the sunglasses to catch the light.
“…what’s that on your neck?” he asks, the question all sugar and hook.
megumi freezes, his entire body going still, suddenly very aware of the evidence of last night blooming on his skin and of how if the collar of his shirt slips down any further it will reveal more than just his throat.
in the mirror on the back of his door he can see the flush crawling up his face, redder with every second, and he tries not to notice it even as it gives him away.
“i—fell,” megumi mutters, words flat but his ears bright with heat.
“fell?” gojo echoes, one eyebrow creeping above the rim of his glasses.
“yup.” megumi blinks slowly, like he’s rebooting. “onto my binder.”
gojo raises his other eyebrow now, smile spreading. “your binder gave you a hickey?”
“it’s not a hickey,” megumi says, voice clipped and almost petulant, as though the words themselves taste sour. “and it’s, uh… a weird binder.”
“uh‑huh.” gojo lets the sound drag out as he surveys the room, sunglasses sliding down his nose. “soooo…” he trails off, stepping toward the desk with exaggerated curiosity. “whose bag is that?” he asks, finger extended.
in fact, he already knows what gojo is pointing at; he’s been mentally circling it like a bomb since the moment the door opened. bright and unmistakable, your bag sits propped against his desk leg—the same bag you’ve carried to school for four years.
he holds his breath and thinks, fleetingly, that if he does it long enough maybe he can pass out and die on the spot. (he really hopes this will be the case)
“that,” gojo continues, undeterred, “is a pink bag. i don’t recall my emotionally‑repressed, all‑black‑wearing son owning anything pink.”
megumi exhales a sharp sigh, eyes narrowing. “please leave.”
“megumi, but i missed you,” gojo says instead, flopping onto the bed and knocking half the covers off like he owns the place. “been thinking about our quality bonding time. like when i taught you how to ride a bike. or how to cook ramen. or—”
both of them turn toward the closet just as you let out a quiet, panicked “shit!” and fumble to kill the ringer. the sound of you dropping something muffled against the floorboards makes megumi want to crawl under the bed and never emerge.
“what was that?” gojo asks lightly, though the edge of amusement in his voice is unmistakable.
megumi blinks once, hard. “nothing.”
gojo hums, slow and playful. “weird. sounded like a notification. do ghosts text now?”
megumi clenches his jaw until it aches. “it’s nothing.”
gojo grins, all teeth now. “is ‘nothing’ short for ‘a girl is hiding in your closet and probably freezing because i have the AC set to antarctica’?”
megumi stares at him, unmoving, wishing he could will the man out of existence.
“come on,” gojo says, stretching like a cat, arms over his head, “you’re not in trouble. i’ve snuck more people into this house than i care to admit. i just want to know who.”
and though that would sound comforting if it came from any other parent, megumi already knows gojo knows exactly who it is—from the bag brighter than the sun to your muffled curses, it’s obvious. gojo isn’t an idiot, and the only reason he’s still playing dumb is because he wants megumi to say it out loud. because, apparently, tormenting him is a hobby now.
they stare at each other. megumi prays silently that he’ll drop it, but gojo just keeps smiling, shark‑bright.
“i think you, um… know who it is,” he grumbles finally, looking away.
gojo makes a fake shocked face, hand to his heart. “oh, so there is someone in the closet!” he tuts loudly, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “tsk, tsk, son, i can’t believe you lied to me.” his voice is all fake scandal, but his eyes are gleaming with amusement.
megumi groans and drops his head into his hands, muttering through his fingers, “is that all?”
“yeah, kid,” gojo says, rising from the bed and straightening his shirt. “just, uh… make sure to cover that up for school on monday.” he points at the mark on megumi’s neck with an exaggerated wag of his finger, then ambles toward the door. “oh, and i brought home some really good food from the conference. it’s downstairs on the counter.”
he’s a foot out of the doorway when he pauses and glances back over his shoulder, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. “feel free to help yourself too, y/n.”
you jump out of your skin a little at the sound of your name. muffled through the closet door, you manage an awkward, “uh… thank you, mr. gojo.”
the door shuts behind him with a lazy click, his footsteps retreating down the hall.
megumi stays seated on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands still covering most of his face like he could hide from the morning if he just stayed still long enough. his pulse is still racing, and the embarrassment is very much alive and well, churning somewhere in his chest alongside the last scraps of adrenaline and the desire to relocate to a different dimension.
but beneath all of that—humiliation, disbelief, the horrifying memory of gojo’s “tsk tsk, son” echoing in his skull—there’s something warmer. something stubbornly steady, even in the wreckage of what was supposed to be a quiet morning.
because for as unbearable as gojo is, for all his noise and theatrics and sunglasses indoors at seven a.m., he still showed up. always has. always will.
and you, curled up in his closet, wrapped in one of his hoodies, hiding out with bedhead and no pants and a laugh that always makes him feel like the smartest person in the world—you’re here too.
you’re ridiculous, and he’s completely, pathetically yours.
and even in this chaos, in this absurd house with this absurd life, he knows he’s lucky.
and then, muffled and small, your voice cuts through the silence:
“um… meg? is it safe to come out now?”
he exhales slowly, and despite everything, a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
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