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sugurugetoshairbrush · 2 days ago

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my affinity for challengers + obsession w/ stsg = a self-indulgent fic like this

Swimmers AU / 7k wrds | CW: Eiffel Tower - Gojo x Getou x Reader

“No, Satoru, I am not pulling out of the Olympic qualifier if I lose some dumb twenty-five-meter race to you,” Getou says, sharp and annoyed. His voice bounces off the tile and slips out through the slightly cracked locker room door.

“First of all, you chose breaststroke because you know your endurance is freakishly good. You’ve got lungs like a fucking sea lion. Second—best of three? Why? What even is that logic? And third—and this is the real kicker—you waited until now to spring this on me. After I’ve already been swimming laps for an hour.”

You freeze mid-step in the hallway outside the athletes’ locker room, towel-wrapped water bottle in one hand, still barefoot from the shower. The door’s open just enough to let the heat spill out—and their voices with it.

Inside, Gojo sounds like he’s smiling. That smug, shit-eating grin you’ve seen in passing.

“Well, correct me if I’m wrong,” he drawls, “but weren’t you the one who said—and I quote—‘doesn’t matter who, when, or how, I always come out on top’? Ringing any bells?”

A pause.

Then Getou: “Tch. You’re a fraud.”

“No,” Gojo replies, unfazed, “I think I’m actually People’s Sexiest Athlete Under 30.”

You bite your knuckle to muffle your laugh. You don’t catch what Getou says next, but his exaggerated gagging noise is clear enough. So is the sound of a towel smacking skin, followed by a low chuckle that makes your stomach flutter.

You’d already finished showering, wrapped yourself in something soft and breathable—cotton tee, shorts, skin still dewy from the heat. You’d meant to hit the pool for a late-night lap set after lifting in the adjoining gym, but when you saw them walk into the natatorium—caps in hand, towels around their necks, jammers hugging every line of their thighs—you stalled.

Gojo Satoru and Getou Suguru.

They’ve been on your radar since the competitor list dropped. You’d done a little sleuthing—okay, a lot—and tracked down their socials. Instagram. TikTok. Even LinkedIn, because apparently, your curiosity knows no bounds. You learned they go to the same university. That they’ve been best friends since elementary school. That they’re mini-celebrities in the swim world, part influencers, part freak athletes, all charisma and cutting times.

That was all it took. One spiral and boom—you’re irrevocably hooked.

You’re not just watching from the sidelines though. You’re a threat. Same age. Same qualifying bracket. Same drive. You’re all here chasing the same thing—Olympic selection. Swimming for your country. World stage or bust.

They’re intense. Confident. Unapologetic.

Just like you.

You know you should’ve left the second your shower was over, but you didn’t. You lingered. Stalled. And now you’re standing outside the locker room like a full-blown creep, listening to two men bicker through the steam like it’s prime-time TV.

You tell yourself it’s fine—you earned your spot. You can loiter if you want. Four months of early mornings, brutal laps, carb cycling, no parties, no vices. You’ve been in monk mode for like half a year. You can afford five minutes of unproductive voyeurism.

Earlier, you heard Gojo bragging about that People magazine article, the one about how he was basically born for water. Holding his breath in the bath as a baby. Surfing at six. Competitive swim team soon after. That’s where he met Getou. Same coach ever since—Masamichi Yaga.

They go at each other constantly, but the affection’s obvious. You can hear it even now—tension woven into comfort. A rhythm that comes from years side-by-side in lanes, locker rooms, hotel beds during away meets. When Gojo makes a gross joke, Getou snarls something back and wrestles him into a headlock, and they both laugh like they’ve done it a thousand times before.

There’s more splashing. More water hitting tile. You shift closer, peeking through the crack in the door.

They’re racing again. Cutting through the pool like they belong to it, streamlined bodies moving fast and fluid under the harsh overhead lights. Every stroke is clean. Powerful. Their form’s so precise it’s almost hypnotic.

When they pull themselves out of the pool, it’s pure muscle memory. Hands on the edge, one push, and they’re up. Water runs down their bodies in perfect trails. Getou pulls off his cap, long black hair unfurling past his shoulders, clinging to his skin. His goggles come off next, revealing eyes that are somehow soft and sharp all at once.

Then Gojo follows—white hair flattened to his forehead in wet curls, his eyes impossibly bright. Ocean-bright. Maldives bright. You remember that brutal open water race—fifteen hundred meters in blinding tropical heat—but what stuck with you most was how the water shimmered, dazzling and mesmerizingly blue.

You stand there frozen like they’re two sirens and you’re the idiot sailor about to walk into the waves.

Eventually, you turn away.

Back to your room. Back to your pre-race routine: meditation, journaling, breathwork. Dialing in.

You wonder, as you close the door behind you, if they’d even notice you. If they’d ever look at you the way you’ve been looking at them.

Maybe they will—after tomorrow.

If you win your heat, you stop being the underdog. Medal on your neck. Cameras in your face. Glory in your hands. You become the name they whisper. The one they fear.

Not just a competitor.

A threat.

And god, you’ve never wanted anything more.

𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃

Nothing’s more nerve-wracking than standing in the projector archway, surrounded by competitors, waiting for your name to be called. Your fate hinges on this. A single name, a single lane, and everything you’ve trained for—everything—crashes into this one race.

Your fingers drum restlessly against your thighs, your tech suit clinging tight, tension locked in your shoulders. You’re doing everything you can to regulate your breathing, to look composed, calm, untouchable. The girl behind you keeps adjusting her cap like it’s going to fall off. The girl in front is swiping her goggles again and again, her hands shaking just slightly.

You force yourself to roll your shoulders back. One deep inhale. Tunnel vision.

The crowd beyond the arch grows louder as each name is announced. You can barely see them through the lights, but the roar tells you how close you’re getting.

“Lane 1…”

“Lane 2…”

“Lane 3…”

Then—your cue. The light shifts. You step forward into the blinding space beneath the arch. The overhead shadows stretch long over your frame like you’re stepping into the arena of gods.

You blink into the floodlights, eyes scanning the bleachers, searching for something familiar—something grounding.

“Women’s 50-Meter Freestyle… In Lane 4…”

Your name explodes out of the loudspeakers, carefully enunciated, crisp. You force a grin as you raise your hand and wave to the crowd, blowing a kiss for the cameras. You don’t feel cool. You feel like your heart is trying to crawl out of your ribs.

You lower your goggles and walk to your block—Lane 4. Center. Spotlight.

You stretch—arms across your chest, legs swinging back, knees pulled tight to your torso. Then you yank your suit straps until they sting. That sharp snap makes it real: You’re here. This is it.

“Lane 8…”

With all swimmers introduced, you glance up once more at the stands.

And then you see them.

Gojo is impossible to miss—tall, loud, radiant in a half-unbuttoned white shirt fluttering in the breeze of a standing fan. His sunglasses have slipped down his nose, letting those electric blue eyes peek over the rim as he watches the lineup. You can see the grin tugging at his lips even from here.

Beside him, Getou sits with more composure—legs crossed, dressed in a fitted olive zip sweater, hair loose around his shoulders. His violet eyes are sharp, scanning the stats flickering across the board. His brows furrow, and you can practically feel him analyzing the competition—including you.

It hits you harder than the lights: they’re watching you. Their eyes are on you. The race isn’t even underway, and your pulse is sprinting.

You exhale once, grounding yourself, and step onto the block.

The surface is familiar beneath your bare feet. You steady your stance, shoulders squared. One foot back against the wedge. Hands curl around the edge of the block. You arch your back, tighten your core.

You can feel the dive already. You see the water. You see the wall. You see victory.

“Take your marks—”

Your muscles coil.

BEEP.

You explode forward, cutting through the air like a blade. Hands spear first into the water. Your face, your chest, your legs—all follow in a smooth, streamlined dive.

The water greets you cold and clean, swallowing the noise, numbing the nerves.

You start to move. Your legs pulse in tight, sharp dolphin kicks, driving you forward. The world above fades. Below, there’s only you and the lane.

You burst to the surface and launch into your stroke—powerful front crawl, arms slicing the water in perfect sync, face submerged between breaths. You barely register the roar from the stands. Your focus is narrow. Laser-sharp.

You count the strokes in your head.

The wall rushes up.

You flip—tight, fast. Feet slam into the wall. You push off hard. Perfect angle. Another dolphin kick sequence. A clean breakout. You take a single breath and go.

The second length is faster. Desperate. Every molecule in your body is pushing forward, burning with effort. You’re not just racing the girls beside you—you’re racing against failure. Against invisibility. Against being forgotten.

You force your stroke to stay clean. Controlled. You feel your muscles screaming, lungs about to burst. The final few meters blur. You pray, you curse, you give it everything.

Your fingertips slam the wall.

You surface with a gasp, your lungs catching fire, your chest heaving.

“In First Place… at 17.83 seconds…”

You blink water from your lashes. It takes a moment for the leaderboard to update, but your name is there—Lane 4 – 1st.

You freeze.

You… won?

You won.

It doesn’t register. Not right away. You’re still in shock when the announcer’s voice booms again:

“A new personal best—and an Olympic qualifier record! An incredible swim!”

The girls in the lanes beside you reach over, panting and red-faced, offering congratulations with tired smiles. One clasps your hand. Her grip is clammy.

You haul yourself out of the pool with shaky limbs, adrenaline making your skin buzz. The crowd is screaming. Flashbulbs. Applause.

You raise your arms above your head. Triumphant.

You turn to wave—and see them again.

Getou is standing now, hands in his pockets, but his eyes are wide, lips parted. A smile tugs at his mouth, soft and proud. He lifts his hand to wave.

Gojo? Gojo is practically climbing over the barrier. His sunglasses are gone, his shirt half-open, fists in the air like he just won the damn race himself. His voice cuts through the noise—you can hear him over everything.

And for once, the ringing in your ears clears. You hear the announcer, the crowd, the world.

“What a finish! That’s one of the fastest we’ve ever seen in this event—let’s take another look at that final stroke.”

You stumble toward the crowd gathering at the pool’s edge—your coach, the officials, journalists holding mics and cameras, shouting your name.

You’ve imagined this a thousand different ways.

None of them came close.

This? This is everything.

𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃

Dazed from the win, it feels like you only blinked—and now you’re standing under string lights at the official mixer, surrounded by finger food, corporate logos, and half the world’s best athletes.

The event is opulent in that casual, we have money and know it kind of way. Sponsored by Nike and Coca-Cola, it’s held outside along a boardwalk that hugs the coastline—sunset bleeding peach and pink over the water, waves lapping in time with the music that thrums through the crowd. Long banners flap overhead with bold logos and bold-faced swimmer-models you recognize from campaigns. Some you’ve raced against. One of them is you—or will be, if your coach Mei Mei’s instincts are right.

She told you to come. Said Nike ambassadors would be here, and your win put you in their eyeline. Mei Mei is ruthless and unbothered when it comes to anything but results—and getting paid for them. If she says it’s worth your time, it probably is.

Still, you didn’t need convincing. You would’ve shown up anyway. After months of solitary training and strict routines, you wanted a drink. A reason to laugh too loud and stay up too late. And judging by the sheer energy around you, you’re not the only one.

The dance floor is packed. Bodies grinding, hips rolling, drinks sloshing in half-raised hands. Someone’s shirtless. Someone’s on the DJ table. You catch the men’s 25-meter medley champ doing the worm on the pavement, sweat-slick and beaming, and you actually laugh out loud. The sound feels foreign in your throat—but good.

You drift toward a cocktail table near the edge of the boardwalk, one with a clear view of both the beach and the crowd. A server in a crisp white uniform slides by, and you grab a champagne flute, bubbles fizzing up in time with the bassline. You take a sip, cool and sharp, and lean your weight onto the table.

“Come here often?”

You flinch, twisting toward the voice that just shouted in your ear. “Wha—?”

Gojo Satoru is grinning at you, silver-white hair tousled from the breeze, the top three buttons of his shirt still scantily undone. His sunglasses dangle from one hand. His tone is smug. Purposefully annoying.

“Satoru,” comes the second voice—drier, smoother. “Don’t embarrass us five seconds in.” A hand thwacks the back of Gojo’s head, and the other extends toward you. “Sorry about him. I’m Suguru. Incredible win today. It was an honor to watch.”

Your pulse stutters.

Getou Suguru is calm. Composed. Long black hair loose around his shoulders, dark sweater rolled at the forearms. There’s something careful about the way he looks at you—like he’s assessing your muscle tension, your balance, your rhythm—and yet he smiles like he already knows you’re going to impress him again.

You manage to shake his hand, ignoring how warm and solid his palm feels against yours.

“Hey,” you say, voice still catching up. “Thanks. It feels… unreal. Like I know I earned it, but also? Some part of me thinks it was dumb luck.”

“Hmm,” Getou hums, tilting his head. “Unlikely. Based on the force in your breakout and the precision of your stroke timing, I’d say you’ve been training—what? Two, three times a day? For at least the last four months?”

You blink, floored. “Four. Exactly.”

He smiles like he already knew. Like being right is just another thing he’s used to.

“Pools and gyms,” you mutter, taking another sip of champagne. “That’s my entire life lately. I’m honestly shocked I haven’t developed some obscure aquatic dialect by now.”

“I told him,” Gojo cuts in, leg bouncing, sliding his sunglasses into the collar of his shirt, “that we should invent a bioluminescent morse code or some underwater vibration language. He shot it down. No vision.”

“I have self-respect,” Getou says flatly.

You laugh. You can’t help it. Gojo clocks it instantly.

“But you’re laughing,” he says, triumphant. “Which means you’re entertaining the idea. So when we’re both gold medalists in the fifty meter—men’s and women’s—we’ll start our own evolutionary swim lifestyle brand. Or no—wait. Even better. A swim cult. Matching robes, secret language, total aquatic domination.”

You smirk. “That’s awfully confident of you.”

“Cocky bastard,” Getou sighs, swirling his drink. “He’s unbearable when he wins. And worse when he doesn’t. We’re racing tomorrow, by the way. Fifty meter.”

“Oh yeah?” You lift a brow—you knew that, of course. “Doesn’t that put strain on your… dynamic?” You gesture loosely between them.

Gojo grins, all teeth. “Please. If anything, it makes us better. We’ve been competing since we were eleven. Every race, every training, every missed turn—it pushes us further. I basically launched his career.”

Getou snorts. “You flopped your start for three straight months until I fixed your dive.”

“And I made you faster just by existing.”

You raise your brows. “So you’re codependent and competitive. Glaring red flag.”

Gojo gasps in mock offense. “Rude!”

Getou smiles again—small, sharp. “So what about you? What’s your pre-race strategy? Meditation? Visualization? Or do you just dive in and let instinct take over?”

“I visualize,” you admit. “I memorize the feel of the water. Picture every stroke, every breath. Then when I get in, it’s all muscle memory.”

“Hot,” Gojo says. Then pauses. “I mean—cool. Strategic.”

You narrow your eyes, fighting a smirk. “Smooth.”

Getou lifts his glass to you. “Ignore him. He gets like this when he’s buzzed.”

“I’m not buzzed,” Gojo says. “Yet.”

Three drinks later, you’re not sure who suggested the beach walk, only that you’re now barefoot on warm sand, shoes dangling from your fingers, the ocean stretching dark and endless beside you. The air is cooler here, quieter—just the hush of waves and the occasional laugh slipping between you three.

You walk between them, the space tightening with each step. Shoulders brushing, hands swinging close.

“So,” Gojo starts, glancing down at you with a playful glint, “what are you doing after this? And before you say sleep, I’m gonna stop you right there.”

Getou arches a brow. “Are you seriously hitting on her like we’re not both here?”

“I’m hitting on her on behalf of us,” Gojo says.

You almost trip. “Oh?”

He looks you dead-on, flashing a dazzling smile as he runs a hand through his hair and strikes a pose—modelesque, full of ego and irony.

You give him a slow side-eye. “And what if I said I’m busy tonight? Stretching, foam rolling, and hydrating.”

“I’d say we can do all three together,” he says without missing a beat. “Hydration? Got water. Rolling? Suguru’s great with his hands. Stretching? I’m very flexible.”

“Flexibility doesn’t count if all your joints are unhinged,” Getou mutters. “Don’t listen to him. He hit his quota of shameless pickup lines about an hour ago.”

“Oh, I’ve barely started,” Gojo protests, turning to you again. “You’re the one who asked about our dynamic earlier, remember? This is it. I talk shit. Suguru rolls his eyes. We both fall in love with talented swimmers.”

Your lips twitch. “Is that right?”

“Hey,” Getou says, suddenly serious, but not unkind. “He jokes, but he’s right about one thing—you made that pool yours today. I’ve never seen a finish that clean under pressure. It was surgical.”

The praise hits deeper than it should. You swallow. “Thanks. It felt like… like I was outside myself for a second. Like time slowed down.”

“That’s when you know it’s real,” Getou says. “When you stop thinking. When your body just knows.”

Gojo nudges you with his elbow. “You talk like her now. I like this version of you—soft-spoken, contemplative… turned on by elite technique.”

“I am not—”

“Shh, baby,” Gojo teases. “Let her speak her truth.”

You roll your eyes, laughing. “You two seriously never shut up, huh?”

“Not when we’re interested,” Getou says, voice a little lower.

“And we’re very interested,” Gojo echoes.

The three of you stop, unintentionally, near the edge where wet sand meets dry. Moonlight reflects off the water. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears.

“I mean,” you say, half a challenge, “you barely know me.”

Gojo smirks. “I know enough. I know you have perfect dive form, don’t blink when you’re under pressure, and you’ve got that look in your eye—like you bite back.”

Getou leans in slightly. “We’d like to know more.”

“We like you,” Gojo says, tilting his head. “You’re sharp. And that race? I nearly dropped to one knee.”

Getou is quiet for a second. “He’s not wrong.”

The silence hums. You look between them. The crash of waves swells behind you. The champagne’s long gone, but the buzz is still there—only now it’s all in your chest.

“I do have a minibar in my hotel room,” you say slowly.

There’s a long, charged pause.

You’re still looking at the waves, but the way their bodies hover near yours—one on either side—you can feel every inch of tension building in the space between.

“Lead the way,” Gojo says, already grinning.

And when Getou brushes his knuckles softly against yours as you walk on, you don’t pull away.

𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃

The elevator ride is quiet—almost too quiet.

You’re sandwiched between them, the hum of machinery the only sound besides your shallow breaths. The tension is ridiculous, wrapped tight like an elastic band about to snap. Neither of them says anything, but you can feel the electricity—radiating off their skin, settling hot at the base of your spine.

Gojo’s arm brushes yours, then lingers.

His reflection gleams back at you in the mirrored wall—white hair tousled by the sea breeze, his undone shirt exposing a teasing stretch of chest, collarbone, the lean curve of a swimmer’s build. His sunglasses now hang off his shirt collar, forgotten. His lips are parted, like he’s halfway to saying something reckless at all times.

Getou, on your other side, is the picture of control. His black hair falls in loose waves just past his jaw, framing a face too striking to be subtle. Wide shoulders fill out the ribbed sweater, bunched sleeves revealing strong forearms, veins subtly raised beneath smooth skin. His eyes—violet and unreadable—watch the elevator numbers tick upward with a calm that borders on lethal.

His gaze flicks toward you more than once, tracking the way your chest rises and falls.

When the doors finally open, they both glance at you. You walk out first, pulse drumming behind your ears.

Your keycard trembles just slightly in your hand as you open the door to your room.

“Not bad,” Gojo comments, stepping in and immediately making himself at home. His body moves like a cat—long, languid, but never lazy. He leans against the minibar like it’s a throne and he owns the room. “Bigger than ours. Probably better water pressure, too.”

You raise a brow. “You planning to test it?”

He grins. “I’m a big fan of hydration.”

Getou enters more quietly, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. The sound settles over you like a shift in atmosphere—sealed in, no more distractions. Just the three of you, and the thin air of something that’s been coming ever since the first look.

You make a quick show of pouring drinks from the minibar, anything to give your hands something to do. Their eyes are heavy on your back.

The glasses clink softly as you pass them out. Gojo’s fingers brush yours—warm, rough in a way that feels earned. Calloused in places no casual swimmer gets. He lifts his glass with a smirk, eyes tracing your face like he’s trying to sketch it from memory.

Getou’s hand wraps around the base of his tumbler, his grip deliberate. His palm is large, fingers long, nails neatly kept. He accepts the drink with a nod—posture relaxed, but there’s tension in his shoulders like he’s waiting for the moment to strike.

“To tomorrow,” you say, lifting your glass.

“To tonight,” Gojo counters.

You clink. You drink.

It burns on the way down. So does the way Gojo’s watching your mouth. And the way Getou hasn’t taken his eyes off your collarbone, not even to blink.

“So,” you say, trying to maintain some illusion of control. “You two always flirt with competitors this hard?”

Gojo grins, flashing those impossibly white teeth. “Only when the competition looks like you.”

“And swims like you,” Getou adds, his voice low, even. “Every movement, tight and exact. You make the water obey.”

You swallow.

Gojo steps closer. The muscles in his neck shift as he tilts his head, pale lashes catching the soft light. “You know, it’s kind of unfair. You swim like you own the pool. Then you come to a mixer looking like—”

“Careful,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “What do I look like?”

He smirks. “Trouble. What’s not to be a little obsessed with?”

You give him a slow smile. “That sounds dangerously close to sweet.”

“I’m sweet. Sometimes.”

“Never when it counts,” Getou cuts in, setting his glass down. He steps in closer—slow, certain—until he’s standing right in front of you.

“Me?” he says, voice low. “I’m honest.”

His presence settles around you like a shadow, warm and deliberate. “You are trouble,” he murmurs. “And I think we both like it.”

His gaze drops to your lips, then returns to your eyes like a challenge.

Gojo’s fingers trace the rim of his glass. “So what do you like?”

The air thickens. Your throat dries.

“I like…” You breathe out slowly. “Earning the attention of other high-caliber individuals.”

You meet his gaze. “Is this the part where I find out if I’ve earned yours?”

Getou’s voice is low, steady. “Don’t play coy. You know you’ve earned it. This is where you decide if you want ours.”

The words hang there.

You stare at him. Then glance at Gojo. He’s behind you now, leaning just close enough that you can feel his breath ghost the back of your neck.

“I do,” you say. Barely above a whisper. “I want this. I want you.”

Gojo’s hand finds your waist. “Both of us?”

“Yes.”

It’s Gojo who kisses you first.

His mouth is hot, soft, teasing at the edge of firm. He tastes like whiskey and salt air, and he kisses like he races—relentless and showy, like he knows he’s good.

Getou moves behind you, slow, deliberate. His hand comes to your hip, grounding you, thumb tracing just under the hem of your shirt. Then he tilts your jaw toward him and kisses you too as Gojo’s lips trail down your neck.

His kiss is different. Controlled. Intimate. His mouth is warm, his lips plush, his kiss patient—like he’s savoring it. Like he wants to learn the way you taste.

You melt between them.

Gojo’s fingers are in your hair now, tilting your head for a better angle, while Getou’s hand has slipped to the small of your back, guiding, steady. Their bodies frame yours, one in front, one behind—heat on both sides, tension in every brush of fabric, every sigh.

You’re breathing fast now, drunk on the heat, on their hands, on this strange shared rhythm.

But none of it feels rushed.

They touch like they’ve waited.

They kiss like they’re memorizing.

They hold back just enough to leave you aching.

The first moan slips from your mouth without warning.

Gojo pulls back just enough to murmur, “God, that sound. Keep making that sound.”

Getou’s breath fans your neck. “She will.”

You whisper their names like a prayer. Satoru. Suguru.

They answer with lips and hands and warmth, slowly backing you toward the bed, never breaking contact. The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and then you’re sitting, and they’re both still standing—looking down at you like you’re the first stroke of a race they’ve been preparing their whole lives for.

Gojo is already tugging his shirt over his head, revealing long lines of lean, toned muscle. He stretches lazily, like he knows you’re watching. His torso is sculpted, swimmer-cut—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, everything pale and smooth, except the sharp edges where strength hides.

Getou peels his sweater off more slowly. His chest is darker, dusted with a faint line of hair, muscles thicker, solid. He’s less flashy about it, but somehow it makes him even harder to look away from. Like every move he makes is calculated to devastate.

Your breath catches.

They both notice.

Gojo chuckles, voice low and smug. “You’re staring.”

“You took your shirts off,” you say, somehow managing to sound irritated.

“And you look like you want to take off a lot more,” Getou murmurs.

You smile.

Then reach for the hem of your own shirt.

Gojo whistles.

Getou’s jaw tightens.

There’s a beat of silence.

And then the bed shifts as they move in—slow, deliberate, like the race hasn’t started yet, but the warm-up is already better than the competition.

They sit on either side of you, knees brushing yours on the edge of the bed. The air is thick, expectant. Heat coils low in your stomach as the tension you’ve been carrying for weeks threatens to break loose.

“Okay, so obviously I kissed her first,” Gojo announces smugly, leaning in, “so it’s only fair I get to go again.”

“Only fair?” Getou scoffs, eyes flicking to him, unimpressed. “You kiss like you’re trying to win a speed round. She deserves something slower. Thorough.”

Gojo gasps, clutching his chest like he’s been personally insulted. “Thorough? Please. I’m an artist. My tongue is practically a precision tool.”

“You’re a nuisance,” Getou mutters, and turns to you, eyes softening. “You okay with him talking about his tongue like that in your presence?”

Instead of answering, you reach for Gojo, your hand sliding along his jaw, and kiss him—firm, full, and hot. His breath catches in his throat before he melts into you instantly, mouth parting, hands gripping your thighs like he’s worried you’ll float away. Beneath the bitter tang of whiskey, there’s something sweeter—and he kisses like he talks: shameless, greedy, fun.

But then you feel another set of hands—Getou’s, warm and confident, sliding up your hips to rub slow, reverent circles into your waist. His touch is grounding, coaxing. You breathe out a sigh and break the kiss, turning toward him, lips still tingling.

But Gojo makes a wounded noise, like you’ve taken away his favorite toy.

“Oh come on, I was just getting started—”

You blink, dazed, and huff a laugh. “Honestly? This would be so much easier if I could kiss both of you at the same time.”

They both recoil slightly, blinking at you.

“Ew,” Gojo says first, like you just suggested sharing a toothbrush. “Like, at the same time together?”

“That’s… a bit much,” Getou admits, scratching the back of his neck.

You stare at them. “You two are pressed up against me, shirtless, kissing me like you’re starving, but kissing each other is too intimate?”

They look at each other like the thought had never occurred to them.

You cock your head. “You’re very close for ‘just best friends.’ I mean, what’s the most intimate you two have ever been?”

They hesitate. You raise a brow.

Gojo finally speaks—grinning but clearly flushed. “…Can I tell her?”

Getou groans. “You’re gonna anyway.”

Gojo turns to you. “Okay, so… summer swim camp. I grew up in this super traditional, purity-culture household—no touching, no talking about sex, nothing. I hadn’t even jerked off. Suguru found out and had a full meltdown.”

“I was concerned,” Getou deadpans. “You were sixteen. It felt… medically unsafe.”

“And then,” Gojo continues gleefully, “he tried to help me get over it by explaining how to do it. But I was still weird about it so I—uh, asked him to show me.”

You blink. “Wait. You watched him?”

Getou runs a hand over his face. “It was educational.”

You lose it. A choked laugh bursts out of you, shoulders shaking.

Gojo is bright pink, shoulders hunched but still grinning. Getou is flushed to the tips of his ears, glaring at the floor like it personally offended him.

“That is… the cutest weirdest shit I’ve ever heard,” you say, still catching your breath. “So. Are you gonna kiss, or what?”

Their heads snap up.

“What, now?” Gojo blinks.

You crawl between them, taking each of their hands and placing them gently where they belong—Getou’s on Gojo’s jaw, Gojo’s palm pressed flat to Getou’s chest.

“Yes. Go ahead.”

They look at each other. Tense. Hesitating.

Then—softly, like they’re testing the air between them—they lean in. Their lips brush, light as a whisper.

They pause.

Then again—this time longer, firmer.

And then they really kiss.

It starts slow, gentle, and then deepens—tongues meeting, mouths opening, the heat finally igniting between them. Gojo lets out a soft, desperate whimper. Getou presses closer. When they finally break apart, they’re both breathless.

Getou’s eyes are heavy-lidded, glassy, his mouth flushed. Gojo is panting, pink from his cheeks down to his chest.

“That was… fuck—”

You surge forward, unable to take it anymore. You kiss Gojo, then Getou, and then both of them at once, tongues brushing, lips sliding. It’s dizzying—hot and messy and perfect. You moan into the kiss, and Gojo whimpers again, his hands slipping beneath your bra.

Getou’s hands are already there—one cupping your breast, the other groping Gojo’s pec, fingers teasing his nipple. He tugs and flicks until you both gasp. His voice is a low growl against your lips.

“Fuck. You both sound so good.”

Gojo’s hand is between Getou’s legs now, palming him through his pants, the other squeezing your breast tight. He’s trembling.

“Slow down,” Getou breathes, voice calm but thick. “Let’s make this last.”

He pulls back, shifting to the foot of the bed. His legs spread wide, commanding without speaking.

Gojo perks up instantly, already moving to kneel in front of him. Your lips curve, just slightly, at how naturally he follows—no resistance

“Skirt off,” Getou says to you, voice low and dark. “Let me see you.”

You stand, shimmying out of your skirt and panties, baring yourself in front of both of them. Getou watches you with open hunger, licking his lips, gaze trailing over every inch.

Then he leans back fully, reclining with ease, one hand lifting to beckon you forward.

“Up here.”

His arms are strong as they haul you up, thighs bracketing his face. The second your heat settles over him, his mouth parts—and he licks you slowly, shyly at first, little kitten licks. Avoiding your clit on purpose.

You gasp. “Suguru…”

He moans against you, the vibration making you shiver.

Below, Gojo is already mouthing over Getou’s cock through his pants, needy and unfiltered. You catch the shimmer in his eyes as he unzips him and takes him into his mouth, lips stretching beautifully around his thickness. His cheeks hollow, throat working. It’s obscene.

You bite your lip, watching Gojo fall apart. He pumps his own cock with one hand, the tip glistening with pre-come.

Getou groans under you, the sound thick with heat, sending goosebumps up your spine. His tongue works tighter circles around your clit, slick and unrelenting, and then—he starts suckling, soft at first, then harder, teasing the edge between pleasure and overload.

You gasp, thighs trembling around his head.

Then come his fingers—two, thick and precise, sliding deep into your soaked heat. He curls them expertly, dragging along that perfect spot again and again, his knuckles pressing firm as his mouth stays locked to your clit.

Your hips jerk, overwhelmed, and he growls into you—low, hungry, coaxing.

He pumps his fingers in a rhythm that’s too good, your walls fluttering around him, your body drawn so tight it’s like you’re suspended in heat and muscle and sound. His other hand is gripping your thigh—firm, possessive, almost bruising—as if anchoring you in place while he works you open.

“I’m gonna—” you cry, breath hitching—

You can’t even get the words out right.

Your orgasm crashes over you, hard and fast. You gush around his fingers, hips bucking. He groans and keeps licking, lapping up your release like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

Then he reaches down, grabs a fistful of Gojo’s hair, and yanks—hard enough to pull him deeper.

Gojo moans, loud and raw, gagging slightly as Getou pushes him down. His whole body shudders—shoulders trembling, thighs flexing, like the sensation wracks straight through him. When he finally pulls off, it’s with a wet pop, his lips slick, eyes glassy.

“Did you just—?” you gasp.

Getou grins. “He came.”

Gojo whimpers, flushed to his ears, cock twitching where it rests against his thigh.

“Fucking cockslut,” Getou teases.

Gojo only whines in response.

Getou flips you over easily, guiding you onto your knees. “My turn.”

He kisses Gojo before he goes—slow and filthy—then moves behind you, thick cock nudging at your entrance.

Gojo climbs up to the headboard, still dazed. You crawl to him, mouth open, licking his come-slick tip before taking him in fully. He shudders.

Getou pushes into you at the same time, slow at first—deep and unhurried, like he wants to feel every inch of you stretch around him. He rolls his hips with purpose, setting a pace that’s deliberate, steady, firm. Each thrust drags a quiet moan from your throat even as it’s stuffed full of Gojo, your body caught between both of them.

Then Getou picks up speed.

His rhythm shifts—still controlled, but faster now, harder. His hips snap against yours with a wet slap, over and over, the sound of your bodies connecting loud, obscene, echoing off the walls. The bed rocks with the force of it.

Gojo is moaning above you, his fingers knotted tight in your hair, hips twitching as you take him deep down your throat—messy, breathless, surrounded.

Everything spirals—heat, friction, sweat-slicked skin. Getou’s voice is in your ear, filthy and low. Gojo’s whimpers echo in your mouth.

You all fall together—one after the other, like a chain reaction ignited from the center. You cry out around Gojo’s cock, your moan muffled and wet, thighs trembling as your body clenches tight around Getou. He groans, deep and ragged, and pulls out just in time—stroking himself through the last desperate thrusts before he spills hot across your back, thick and sticky, painting your skin in frantic streaks.

Gojo follows seconds later with a choked gasp, his hips twitching against your lips. His come spills down your throat in warm, salty bursts, and you take it all, swallowing around him as his fingers tighten in your hair and his whole body shudders with release.

You collapse in a pile of tangled limbs and half-worn clothes.

Breathless. Glowing.

And when you finally settle, it’s like muscle memory—Gojo curled on one side of you, Getou on the other, legs tangled, fingers still lazily tracing skin. You’re floating in a warm, drunken haze, everything soft and slow and heavy. The room spins gently, your bodies sticky with sweat and come, but no one moves to clean up. Fatigue drapes over you like a second sheet, thick and absolute.

You fall asleep like that—utterly spent, and completely wrapped up in each other.

𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃

The morning comes slow and golden.

Sunlight spills across the bed in long, lazy stripes, warming your bare skin. You’re caught in the middle—wrapped in tangled sheets, the scent of sex and salt air still clinging to your limbs, your body deliciously sore in all the best ways. Gojo’s arm is slung across your waist, his face buried in your neck, breath warm against your skin. Getou is behind you, his chest pressed to your back, hand resting low on your hip, his thumb occasionally twitching.

You lie there for a moment, unwilling to break the spell. Everything feels hazy and perfect—like the space between sleep and waking, where nothing bad can reach you.

But eventually, your full bladder wins.

You carefully ease out of their grip, lifting Gojo’s arm and inching away. He groans softly but doesn’t stir. Getou murmurs something unintelligible and tightens his grip for a second before letting go.

You pad to the bathroom, do your thing, wash your face, try to not overanalyze anything in the mirror. Your lips are a little swollen. Your neck might have a mark or two. You look well-fucked and happier than you’ve felt in a long time.

When you return to the bedroom, you freeze in the doorway.

They’re snuggling.

Not just knocked-out sleep-spooning—full-on snuggling.

Gojo’s face is nuzzled against Getou’s collarbone, lips slightly parted, one hand fisted gently in his shirt like a kid clinging to a favorite blanket. Getou has an arm wrapped around him, palm resting lightly on Gojo’s bare back, and even in sleep, his fingers are drawing lazy, unconscious circles.

You stifle a laugh and reach for your phone, snapping a quick photo—but the click of the shutter sound echoes way louder than you expect. Fuck. Ringer’s on.

Getou’s eyes crack open, groggy and narrowed. “What was that?”

Gojo blinks blearily. “You taking pics of us without permission?” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

You grin. “Couldn’t help it. You two were spooning so sweetly, I thought I walked in on a honeymoon.”

Gojo groans, flopping onto his back. “Delete it or at least let me edit it.”

“Absolutely not. It’s mine now.”

Getou stretches with a soft grunt, his muscles flexing as he props himself on one elbow. His voice is still gravelly. “Where you off to?”

“Meeting my coach in twenty,” you say, rummaging through your disaster of a suitcase for something halfway unwrinkled. “But I’ll be at your race. Wouldn’t miss it.”

That perks Gojo up. “You’re coming?”

You nod. “Front row. Screaming your names. I’ll flash you if you’re lucky.”

Gojo sits up instantly. “Please do.”

Getou snorts. “Do not give him hope like that this early in the morning.”

Gojo turns to him. “You think I don’t deserve hope?”

“I think you barely deserve breakfast.”

They both look at you again, something shared flickering between them. It’s not quite spoken—but it’s there.

Gojo leans forward, chin on his palm. “So, hey. Hypothetically…”

“If one of us wanted to take you out,” Getou continues, voice smooth, “like, actually—post-race. What would you say?”

You blink, caught mid-button. “You both want to?”

They glance at each other, then nod—Gojo’s a little more eager, Getou’s more restrained, but the intention is clear.

You tilt your head, amused. “Okay. How about this—you two are racing the same event today, right?”

“Yeah,” they say in unison.

“Then whoever wins…” You shrug, like it’s no big deal, even though you’re pretty sure you’ve just reignited a fire under their already-scorching rivalry. “Takes me out.”

They stare at you for a beat.

Gojo grins first, bright and cocky. “You have no idea how into that I am.”

Getou hums, eyes sharpening. “I accept.”

𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃

insp in pt by: angelicnymph <3

18 notes · View notes

sugurugetoshairbrush · 4 days ago

Note

When do we get our next installment of stoner suguru? No rush, but I am FROTHING at the mouth! I am always so impressed by your talent 🖤

-megumisdivinedogs

THC-Infused Dining with Stoner!Suguru Getou

(except Gojo’s the chef) [prev]

ask, & you shall receive—the meal is plentiful: 10k wrds

[cw: mentions of shooting / Sugu eats more than just dinner ;) ]

Waking up takes effort. More than usual.

Your eyelids feel like they’ve been weighed down with bricks, stubborn in their refusal to lift. There’s a choice to make: stay swallowed by the dark pull of sleep, or drag yourself back into the sharp discomfort of reality. Right now, unconsciousness is winning. It’s easy. Quiet. But the dull throb in your shoulder won’t let you drift off completely—it keeps tugging at you, reminding you that you’re still here, still in pain.

You let out a low groan, one you’ve come to associate with the bullet wound. Even with the strong-ass painkillers they gave you, the ache lingers, constant and mean. You’d think it’d fade by now, or at least your body would get used to it—but no. Your body is as stubborn as your spirit.

Blinking your eyes open is a slow crawl, but it pays off. Some of the pressure in your shoulder eases once you realize Gojo’s sprawled out halfway across you, hand flopped awkwardly over the sore spot. His palm is bent back, knuckles grazing your collarbone, fingers curled loosely where your shirt dips open.

You squirm out of his touch and shift, settling yourself against Suguru’s chest instead, tucking your head into the crook of his neck. The movement’s minimal, but both of them still have a hand clinging to your oversized sleep shirt—one Suguru had helped you into last night, being extra careful not to jostle your wound.

Suguru, bless his heart, has become a total helicopter boyfriend—having assumed the role himself. Always hovering, always watching, insisting on helping you with everything—even if it’s something you can obviously do yourself. Gojo’s the same, in his own disjointed way—two sides of the same coin. What started as your closeness to Gojo through Suguru had, somewhere along the way, become something else entirely. Not romantic. Not strictly platonic. Just… yours.

To anyone on the outside, the dynamic probably seems strange. But to you, it makes perfect sense.

The only real complaint this morning? Suguru’s room is a damn sauna. The blinds are half-open, sunlight blazing through them, blankets stacked too high, and three bodies’ worth of heat making it nearly unbearable.

You glance up just in time to catch a bead of sweat forming at Suguru’s hairline. It rolls down his temple, along his cheekbone, and trails past his jaw down his neck—right to where your forehead is pressed against him. It glides over the small mole at his pulse point, and for a moment, you consider licking it off—before thinking better of it. To your ongoing dismay, you still don’t have the full mobility to finish any of the debauchery you insist on starting.

Instead, you lean in, brushing your lips against the shell of his ear and whisper, “Su-gu-ru. Wake up, love.”

He huffs, then groans softly.

Long lashes flutter. His head turns a little.

“Hm… what’s wrong? You okay?”

His voice is thick with sleep, words slow. You nuzzle closer, your nose brushing his cheek. From this angle, you can’t see his face clearly, but the concern in his tone is unmistakable.

“I’m fine, just… Sato’s putting pressure on my shoulder again.”

Right on cue, Gojo’s fingers twitch—then one of his nails digs in, shooting a bolt of pain through your shoulder and down your spine.

Suguru shifts immediately, moving you off him with careful hands, then—not so carefully—shoves Gojo’s head.

Gojo barely stirs, grumbling like a cat and burrowing deeper into your side.

You try a gentler touch, brushing your lips near his ear like you did Suguru.

“Sato, sweetheart. You’re hurting me.”

That does it.

He jerks upright like he’s been electrocuted, legs slipping off the bed as he lurches away from you. Wide blue eyes, tousled hair, cheeks flushed, drool crusted on his lips—it’s a whole look.

You burst into a giggle.

“What?” he says, blinking. “What’s funny?”

“You look like a wreck,” you tease. “Like you didn’t just fall asleep—you crashed. Like full-body impact. Highway collision.”

He squints at you, then scowls. “The fuck? An impromptu roast and assault first thing in the morning? That’s cold.”

He wipes at his mouth and eyes in the same motion. “Reel in your man, please.”

“He was just looking out for me,” you say with a shrug, rolling your shoulder slowly. The pain’s still there, sharp around the edges, but manageable. “If this is gonna be our sleeping situation now, y’all are gonna have to learn to work around me.”

“Kaaay,” Gojo mutters, flopping back dramatically.

“Yes, ma’am,” Suguru echoes, already coaxing you back against him with a hand on your cheek.

Gojo stretches out across the foot of the bed, kicking his legs restlessly, his Digimon shorts riding up. Suguru presses a kiss to your forehead, then rests his chin on the top of your head.

It’s calm. Quiet. Safe.

They’ve both taken time off to help you recover—putting everything else on pause without hesitation. You didn’t even have to ask. That guilt still hangs between the three of you though, unspoken but heavy.

“How’s the pain today?” Suguru murmurs.

Gojo perks up, watching you closely, too closely, like he’s trying to read your mind.

You lie. “Four out of ten.”

Gojo narrows his eyes, and suddenly it feels like he’s staring at you with six of them.

“Okay, fine,” you sigh. “Six. Maybe seven.”

“I’ll get your meds. Apple sauce too. Strawberry, not pear—don’t worry, I remember. Unlike some people.” He sticks his tongue out and dodges a pillow Suguru chucks at his head. “Be right back!”

As part of the now-established routine, Suguru also slips out of bed, heading toward the bathroom to grab fresh gauze and ointment.

You sink deeper into the pillows, letting your thoughts drift—back, always back—to the car chase, the flash of the gun, the sound of the shot.

Your hand finds your chest, fingers splayed just above your heartbeat.

Every morning since that night has felt monumental—like life handed you a sharper sense of purpose. You find yourself reflecting, to remind yourself: yeah, you’re still here. Still kicking.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

“Shit—Shoko, what do I do? She passed out. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck—help me!”

“What happened?! Wait—she was really hit?!”

“Just drive, Toji!”

“Suguru, breathe—where’s the wound?!”

“Shoulder. It’s bleeding. I’m gonna fucking kill you, Toji.”

“Pull over.”

“No, no. Can’t—we’re not far enough away yet!”

“Then go to a damn hospital. Or the police. Something.”

“Nanami, you know we can’t—”

“Toji, are you FUCKING serious?!”

The car was pure chaos—voices overlapping in a frantic blur, panic rising with every second, adrenaline spiking to a fever pitch. The wheels jerked on uneven asphalt. The sound of tires screeching under fast turns blended with the panic coming from all sides. Everything was loud, everything was moving too fast.

You drifted in and out of consciousness, each jolt of the car pulling you back or shoving you under.

In.

“I lost them. We’re clear. Let me pull over.”

Out.

In.

“Lay her down—elevate her arm. We need to cut around the wound.”

“Shit—her shirt’s soaked. It’s sticky, and—fuck, is that too much blood?”

Out.

In.

“Use my tie. Tourniquet, upper arm.”

“Thanks, Nanami. Finally, something useful.”

“I offered an Oxy!”

“You’re pill-pushing—you want to give her pain relief or just push a habit? Junkie.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Get the fuck away from her!”

Out.

In.

“Gojo, look over this with me. You’ve got good eyes—see any fragments?”

“Um, I think it just grazed her. Partial entry? Skin’s torn but not super deep.”

“Okay, good. Now run to that store, grab—”

Out.

In.

“Press the bottle to her shoulder—cold as we’ve got.”

“Is she waking up?”

“Hard to tell.”

“TOJI, GET THE FUCK UP—”

“Mind helping me keep Suguru from committing a homicide in this damn parking lot?”

“—broke my fucking nose, YOU PSYCHO!”

Out.

In.

“Hey, squeeze my finger if you can hear me,” Shoko’s voice cut through, low and steady, warm against the backdrop of shouting.

You felt her finger slide into your palm.

“Squeeze it, come on.”

You managed a weak grip.

“Good. Open up��pain meds. You’ll want them, trust me.”

Two pills pressed to your lips. Then water followed—cool, gentle, some of it spilling down your chin. You swallowed slowly.

“Don’t talk,” Shoko murmured. “You’ll be okay. The wound’s clean, not life-threatening, but you’re going to see a professional—non-negotiable. I still have medical connects. Guy who’ll treat you without questions.”

Her voice dipped, dry but amused.

“Suguru knocked Toji clean out. It would’ve been hilarious if we didn’t have to pull several muscles holding them apart after.”

You tried to open your eyes, but a damp cloth was covering them, warm from your skin. Shoko’s cool hand rested on your forehead.

“You’re running a light fever. Focus on breathing for now, alright?”

So you did.

You breathed, let yourself float on her voice, let them load you back into the car, let them take you to the walk-in clinic tucked between two nameless storefronts. The drive was a blur.

Inside, the exam room was sterile and too bright. The doctor said nothing as they poked at your shoulder, mask hiding any hint of expression. Gloved hands pressed your arm down. Cold metal dug into raw flesh, scraping at dried blood, opening the wound wider to clean it further. You couldn’t see much, but you felt everything.

The pain flared, white-hot and blinding.

Suguru held your hand in a death grip. Shoko stroked your temple. Gojo muttered nonsense under his breath like a bad distraction. Nanami kept telling you to breathe through your nose.

It didn’t help.

Toji hovered too close, trying to say something—an apology, maybe. Suguru snapped.

“Get the fuck away from her.”

Toji didn’t move.

“I swear to god—”

“Okay!” Gojo suddenly barked, springing into action. He plucked cotton pads from a cabinet, tore them apart, and gently pressed the fluff into your ears.

“Better?” he mouthed, eyes wide.

The noise dulled immediately. Voices reduced to murmurs. A single sense cut off.

You could still taste the copper tang in your mouth—your lip torn open from biting it too hard. You could smell antiseptic, that sharp clinical sting as the doctor finished bandaging you up. You could feel the slight tremor in your fingers and the pressure of Suguru’s hand in yours. You didn’t realize you were crying again until Shoko brought more water to your mouth and dabbed your cheeks with gauze.

Eventually, the doctor finished. Instructions were handed off. Supplies were bagged. And you were helped to your feet.

You made it to the bathroom. Looked in the mirror.

Your reflection nearly broke you.

Wide, bloodshot eyes. Tear tracks on your cheeks. A makeshift sling over your shoulder. Shirt torn at the seam. Dirt smudged along your collarbone.

You looked terrible.

And worse than that… exposed.

Stripped down to your most vulnerable—laid bare for all of them to see. It was mortifying.

But when you shuffled back out and sank into the recliner, they were all there. Circling you. Hovering. Whispering their relief. Checking your temperature. Brushing your hair back. Passing you water and meds with trembling hands.

That’s when it hit you.

They cared. Really, deeply cared. You weren’t alone.

And that was enough.

Honestly, it was a fucking miracle you walked away with just a shoulder wound. It could’ve been worse—should’ve been worse. But you were still breathing. Still here. And somehow, everyone else was too—gathered around you, untouched but shaken, refusing to leave your side.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

Even as your shoulder healed up fast, the aftermath of getting shot lingered in weirder, messier ways—mostly between Suguru and Toji.

Toji had tried showing up at Suguru’s apartment multiple times since the incident. And every single time? Door slammed in his face. Once on his foot. Another time on his hand, which Suguru didn’t even pretend was an accident. He was furious. The kind of deep, simmering rage that no amount of apologies—or bruised toes—could cool down.

Weeks passed. You had time to process what happened, to recover both physically and mentally. The grudge you were holding started to fizzle out, like the last bubbles in a half-flat soda. But Suguru? He was like dropping a Mentos into a bottle of Coke—still exploding every time someone even mentioned Toji’s name.

You ended up pulling Gojo aside one night, just to get his honest read.

“I mean,” he said, scratching the back of his head, “Toji definitely fucked up. No argument there. But it wasn’t on purpose, y’know? He panicked. Poor judgment, yeah, but not malicious.”

And to his credit, Gojo had a point. You hadn’t exactly seen Toji thriving post-shooting. Mostly, he looked like a guilty, oversized stray dog lurking around the block. Sad eyes. Slumped shoulders. Loitering near the building like he was trying to manifest forgiveness just by being visible.

One afternoon, the loudspeakers in his car were blasting Reasonable Doubt on loop—Regrets on repeat for over an hour. Not subtle. Almost impressively on-the-nose.

Even little Megumi had taken notice. He cornered Gojo at one point and asked, “What’s wrong with my dad? He’s being weird.” Which was Megumi-speak for emotionally constipated and clingy. You figured he was mostly mad about having his freedom clipped—less time sneaking around with his badass little friends, more time with Toji attached to him like a koala in mourning.

Weirdly enough, Toji had picked up a construction job. A legit one. Which made you wonder why he hadn’t done it sooner, considering the guy was built like a human forklift and could definitely bench a refrigerator. From what Gojo told you, he was doing alright. Maybe even better than when he was neck-deep in sketchy side hustles.

The whole thing—the shooting, the near-miss, all of it—had shifted things in unexpected ways. Not all bad, either.

For one, it kicked Suguru and Gojo’s creativity into overdrive. When they weren’t nursing you back to health—changing your bandages, managing your meds, washing your hair with the gentleness of actual saints—they were spitballing ideas. Gojo, of course, took the lead on trying to expand their business model into operations fancier than dime bags and ziplocs.

He’d been cooking. Literally.

Tinkering with recipes for THC-infused meals, half-baked plans for a cannabis supper club or a branded edible line. Gojo called it Elevated Dining, which made Suguru roll his eyes hard enough to sprain something.

Since you were still on painkillers—and banned from smoking—Suguru and Gojo joined you in abstaining. You were stir-crazy without your usual wind-down routine. Honestly, you were itching for something—weed, wine, anything that didn’t come in an orange prescription bottle. Shoko agreed. She even dropped off a couple CBD samples and shot a look Suguru’s way that basically said, relax, man—ease up already.

He didn’t. Not fully.

Suguru had been militant about your recovery. No cutting corners. No shortcuts. But Gojo had finally gotten him to agree to one joint venture: a THC-infused dinner he was planning as both a trial run and a celebration. Thirty days since the shooting. You were scabbed up, sore, but stable—and more than ready to get back to your roots.

The thought of it was satisfying on every front.

Good food. Good vibes. Good people.

Finally, a chance to exhale.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

“Open.”

Big blue eyes blink up at you, framed by lashes so white they’re almost translucent, just a few shades lighter than Gojo’s pale skin. You obediently part your lips and let him spoon in a dollop of fruity applesauce. It coats your tongue, smooth and sweet, washing away the bitter aftertaste of the meds you just took. You didn’t need to be fed—your shoulder worked fine—but you let him baby you anyway.

Suguru, still crouched at your side, finishes adjusting the bandage. He’s meticulous about it, fingers moving with practiced care as he smooths the wrap along the slope of your shoulder. You can tell he’s not satisfied until it looks symmetrical, clean, perfectly aligned.

“You like it?” Gojo asks proudly. “I got the good stuff from Whole Foods. Not that weird off-brand knockoff with the weird cartoon apple.”

“Yeah? And whose card did you use?” Suguru deadpans without looking up.

“Objection. Relevance?”

You giggle, “Overruled.”

“Aw, baby,” Suguru sighs dramatically, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Don’t take his side. We need to maintain a united front against the hurricane force that is Gojo Satoru.”

Gojo hums, folding his arms. “Interesting metaphor, coming from the man who’s knocked the wind out of Toji twice in the past month. Literally.”

“Yeah, well. Fuck that guy.”

You and Gojo share a quick glance—one of those quiet, mutual looks laced with concern. Suguru doesn’t usually hate people. Not like this. And holding onto that anger for so long was taking a toll on him. Eventually, you’ll all have to sit him down and actually talk before it calcifies into something uglier.

Gojo senses the tension and cuts in fast, lifting his phone with a dramatic flourish. “Ahem! Now, if I could direct your attention to tonight’s exclusive menu.”

He swipes a few times and angles the screen toward both of you, revealing a PDF that looks surprisingly legit, like something you’d see at a trendy LA pop-up.

Tonight’s Tasting Menu – Curated by Chef Gojo Satoru Appetizer: Caramel Popcorn – Drizzled in salty-sweet cannabutter and topped with a touch of sugar for a mouthwatering crunch. Main Course: Pasta with Clams & Green Chiles – A savory twist on a classic, featuring a green chile ragout and cannabis-infused clam sauce. Dessert: Salted Caramel Fudge Brownies – Dense, gooey, chocolatey perfection, baked with cannabutter. Cooked with love (and a little THC), by yours truly – GS

Suguru lets out a low laugh, tapping his chin. “Safe to say when I end up with early-onset diabetes, I’ll know exactly who to blame.”

“Ingrate. I pour my soul into this menu and all I get is slander.” Gojo sticks his tongue out.

You grin. “This sounds incredible. I’m starving already.”

Gojo lights up at your praise, puffing out his chest. “Finally! Appreciation! Someone with taste!”

“I never said I wasn’t excited,” Suguru shrugs. “I’m just mentally preparing myself for how unreasonably addictive this is going to be. Know I’m going to eat like six brownies.”

“Well,” Gojo huffs, heading for the kitchen. “Prep’s gonna take a minute. Try not to distract me.”

You and Suguru take your stations at the counter for cannabutter duty while Gojo slips into full chef mode—chopping, dicing, muttering to himself, and moving with an almost suspicious amount of precision. His lips are slightly pursed, snowy brows furrowed in the way they only do when he’s actually focused.

You and Suguru settle in at the bar. He passes you the small, slightly overpacked ziplock of flower Gojo handed off earlier. The buds are dense, bright green, and fragrant. The air fills with that familiar, musky citrus scent the moment you crack it open.

You each grab a grinder and start working. The sound of metal teeth crunching through sticky flower is rhythmic, satisfying. The movement feels good, honestly—simple, repetitive. You hadn’t been using your arms much since the shooting, and something about this small effort, the twist and press of it, feels grounding.

A fine, fluffy pile of green starts to build on the tray in front of you.

Next step: decarbing.

Gojo hands off a tray he’s prepped with parchment paper, and you spread the ground weed evenly across it while Suguru adjusts the oven. Once it’s inside, you move to the stovetop where a saucepan of water and butter is already warming. When the time’s right, the decarbed cannabis goes in, bubbling gently as it infuses.

You and Suguru take turns stirring, careful to keep the heat low and steady.

The smell starts to change—deep and nutty, earthy and buttery. It clings to your clothes, curls around your fingers. Suguru leans on the counter beside you, resting his chin on his hand, watching the mixture swirl.

With the cannabutter simmering low and steady, Suguru helps you prep for a shower.

He wraps your shoulder in plastic, fingers gentle as he smooths the layers into place, sealing them with strips of medical tape. The wound was cleaned last night, redressed this morning, but keeping it dry is still a must. His hands linger near your collarbone before pulling back, eyes scanning you quietly, waiting for your next move.

You step under the stream, letting the hot water hit your spine and melt down your back.

Then you hear it—the soft shift of clothes, the dull clink of his rings hitting the edge of the counter. The shower door slides open.

Suguru steps in behind you.

His presence fills the space. Warm. Solid. Familiar. Water spills over his broad shoulders, his long hair flattening against his scalp in thick, black strands. Droplets roll down his cheeks, along the sharp slope of his nose, trailing down his chest in glossy lines.

He picks up a rag, soaps it slowly, until the shower fills with the scent of sandalwood and citrus.

He starts washing you, moving with quiet care. The cloth drags gently across your skin—never rough, never rushed. His other hand rests on your hip, steadying you. Every now and then, he leans forward to press soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, the small of your back.

You turn to face him, bare and slick, steam curling around both of you. Your chest meets his, and he doesn’t move away. The moment hangs between you, warm and slow.

You kiss him. Softly. Slowly. The faint taste of soap flowery between your mouths. It’s not sexual—it’s grounding. Like saying I’m still here without needing to speak.

Your hands drift down his arms, tracing each bruise blooming across his knuckles—evidence of how hard he’s been holding on to his rage lately. You lift one of his hands, pressing a kiss to the swelling along his fingers, delicate and deliberate.

His gaze stays locked on yours, something raw flickering behind his eyes.

The shooting didn’t just shake you—it peeled everything back. Left nothing to hide behind. No more skirting around it. No more pretending.

He whispers, “Mine.”

Your voice is soft, steady.

“Yours.”

You linger too long in the shower, basking in the warmth, in Suguru’s touch, in the rare quiet. By the time you both towel off and make your way back to the kitchen—still damp, dopey smiles plastered on your faces like kids who snuck off to play hooky—Gojo is clearly over it.

He’s hunched over the stove, furiously straining the cannabutter through a cheesecloth like it personally insulted him. There’s a pot steaming beside him, dishes piling in the sink, and an expression on his face that screams betrayal.

“You missed the alarm,” he snaps, glaring over his shoulder. “And the timer. And the second timer. And my text.”

You open your mouth to apologize, but he cuts you off with a dramatic wave of his spoon.

“Nope. Out. Both of you. I swear, if I want something done right in this godforsaken apartment, I just have to do it myself.”

Suguru lifts his hands in mock surrender, nudging you out of the kitchen with a smirk. “Chef Gojo’s in his element. We’re lucky he’s not throwing knives.”

“I heard that!”

You plop onto the couch, still giggling, buzzing off endorphins and the scent of sugar in the air. A few minutes later, Gojo emerges with a tray in hand, smug and satisfied, each appetizer portion served in cute striped paper cups like something from a boutique movie theater.

The popcorn glistens gold under the light—glazed in caramel, warm and glossy, dusted with flaky salt.

You drop a piece in your mouth and let out an involuntary moan. It’s crunchy, sweet, salty, and buttery all at once. Perfect.

“Holy shit,” you mumble, grabbing another.

Suguru raises a brow, tastes his, and immediately nods. “Yup. Dangerously good.”

Carelessly popping pieces into your mouth—one thing leads to another, and suddenly you’re both tossing popcorn at each other, laughing as you try to catch them midair, missing half, chewing the rest triumphantly.

“When d’you think we’ll start feeling it?” you ask between mouthfuls.

“Well,” Suguru says, lounging back. “Cannabutter hits slow. My bet’s during dessert.”

“I’m thinking mid–main course,” you counter, tossing a kernel that bounces off his chin. “Gojo doesn’t do small portions. The man’s probably gonna load every plate like a serving for three.”

Suguru smirks as he rises, his shirt lifting just enough to reveal the faint trail of hair beneath. He scratches lazily at it. “Only one way to find out.”

The kitchen smells divine—complex and rich, a symphony of spices blooming in the air. Wine simmers in a pan, bubbling gently as it mixes with garlic and herbs. Clams steam in a pot nearby, their shells popping open from the heat, hissing softly as the briny scent hits the air. Gojo plucks them out with tongs one by one, sets them aside to cool, then starts deshelling them with the kind of hyper-focused tactical finesse usually reserved for brain surgeons.

Pasta boils behind him, half-stirred as he whirls around the kitchen, multitasking like a caffeinated cooking show host. And through all of it, he’s filming.

“Alright, so that’s one cup of clam juice—don’t look at me like that—and three tablespoons of chili paste,” he narrates into his phone, flipping the camera angle. “I’m eyeballing this, obviously. Precision is for cowards.”

You and Suguru settle at the counter, watching with amused fascination.

“Sugu,” you whisper, nudging him. “What do you think he just put in?”

“That red paste? Sriracha.”

“No way. It looked too oily—chili garlic sauce, maybe.”

You both go silent, trying to eavesdrop on Gojo’s self-commentary. He spoons something from a bowl that looks like yellow-orange caviar.

Suguru squints. “What the hell is that?”

Gojo answers without turning around. “Wasabi masago, thank you for your unprompted concern.”

You blink. “You made that up.”

“Look it up, babes! I don’t just look pretty, I research.”

You and Suguru burst into laughter, especially when you get a look at what’s holding Gojo’s hair back: your fluffy spa headband—the one with the little pink cat ears.

The image of him bouncing around the kitchen, high on adrenaline and ego, talking to his phone in a glittery cat ear headband is almost too much. You lean into Suguru, wheezing.

“God, why couldn’t it have been the bunny ears?” you mutter.

“Shame. Missed opportunity.”

Gojo looks up mid-batter-stir, glaring. “Watch it.”

He’s working on the dessert now, mixing the brownie batter directly on the counter in front of you—bowl in one hand, whisk in the other, looking far too smug for someone with cocoa powder dusting his shirt. A puff of dry mix poofs into the air and hits you square in the face. You cough once, waving your hand in front of your nose as Suguru swats at the air too late.

“Collateral damage,” Gojo says smugly, flashing a grin full of pearly teeth.

Still, you can’t even be mad. The batter smells insane—fudgy, dense, with just the faintest earthy note of cannabis lingering underneath. If you weren’t watching it happen with your own eyes, you wouldn’t know it was infused. The dominant scent in the room is comfort. It’s richness. It’s warmth.

Soon, you’re seated with a steaming bowl of pasta in front of you—rotelle, perfectly al dente, each spiral coated in a light, glistening sauce flecked with fresh green herbs. Tender clams peek out between the pasta, and everything is finished with a delicate sprinkle of seasoning that smells citrusy, salty, and just a little spicy.

It looks like something straight off a glossy food blog. Unfortunately, Gojo seems to think the same.

“Don’t touch it,” he warns, waving his phone like a weapon. “Not until I get the shot.”

You groan, slumping back in your chair as he circles the table, phone angled like he’s shooting a Michelin-starred feature. “Gojo, come on.”

“Shush. This is for posterity,” he mutters, crouching to get a dramatic side profile of the bowl. “And also my story. And possibly for Yelp, depending on how this goes.”

You lean dramatically toward your plate, pretending to inhale it, which earns you a shove from Suguru and a “Stay still!” from Gojo.

After what feels like an eternity of camera clicks, he finally nods, satisfied. “Alright, proceed.”

You’re granted the first bite—an honor Gojo insists must be handled ceremoniously. He turns to Suguru.

“Do the thing. Come on, evenly portioned—get some pasta, a clam, a little bit of green on there—yes, that’s it.”

Suguru rolls his eyes but plays along, raising the fork to your lips with exaggerated care.

The moment the food hits your tongue, you melt.

It’s insane—bright from the herbs, salty from the clams, rich from the butter, with just the faintest heat trailing at the back of your throat. It’s perfectly seasoned, perfectly cooked, somehow delicate and comforting at the same time. You moan around the bite.

That’s all it takes. All of you dig in, mouths too full to bother with words. Gojo tries anyway, talking around his own bite.

“O’kay buh like—ser’sly—iz this not the best—”

Suguru doesn’t even look up. He just gestures broadly around the table at the way you’re all inhaling your food like you haven’t eaten in a week. It says everything.

Gojo smirks, satisfied.

You lean toward Suguru and gently tuck a loose strand of dark hair behind his ear, saving him from the very real possibility of a mouthful of pasta and hair. It’s still slightly damp from the shower, curling softly where it clings to his temple. You press a kiss to his cheek, then trail it to the corner of his mouth to lick off a tiny smear of cheese.

He blinks, caught off guard, then hums low in his throat. “Thanks,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw.

Just then, Gojo’s phone buzzes violently against the table. It skitters in a jittery half-circle across the marble from the force of it.

“Oh shit,” he mutters, flipping it over. His expression shifts into amused delight. “We’re expecting visitors~”

He slides the phone toward you, and there it is—his story post. A filtered overhead shot of the table, three bowls artfully arranged, captioned:

‘who wants a plate lol - pull up !! XD’

You slowly drag your gaze up to him.

“Sa-tor-u…”

“Okaay, the syllabized, fully enunciated name… Not a great sign,” he winces.

Suguru sighs, mouth still full. “Nn’ ideal,” he mumbles, then swallows. “But hey… feedback’s important for the experimental process, right?”

Gojo shrugs. “It’s called building buzz.”

You snort. “It’s called you didn’t even ask.”

“But now we’ll know if the meal passes the crowd test!”

“Or if we’re about to get ambushed,” Suguru mutters.

You’re halfway through your bowl when a knock rattles the door.

You groan dramatically, dragging yourself to your feet like it takes everything in you. But the second you’re standing—you feel it.

Oh.

You were right.

The high hits like a warm wave rolling through your body. Your limbs feel light, floaty, like your bones took a break and forgot to clock back in. For a second, you have no idea how to walk properly. You take one step. Then another. Then pivot for no reason at all, sashaying down the hallway like you’re on a runway that only exists in your head.

You reach the door, twist the knob, and pull it open to find your upstairs neighbors: Toge, Yuuta, and Maki.

Maki holds up her phone like she’s flashing a VIP pass. On the screen? Gojo’s story post. “Came for the food,” she says flatly, already stepping inside.

“Hi,” Yuuta says sweetly, waving. “Sorry about her.”

Toge gives a small bow and a polite smile before slipping in behind them.

You let them pass, too dazed to protest. The three of them somehow live in one of the building’s smallest units—basically a glorified shoebox—and you can’t really blame them for accepting any invitation that includes free food and better airflow.

Speaking of—there’s a vent just above the door, and the cool air drifting from it feels incredible. You stay there for a second too long, swaying gently, letting the breeze wash over your face like it’s a personal reward for being so gracious.

Eventually, you follow the trail of conversation back to the kitchen, where Suguru’s seated at the counter, finishing his plate. You lean your head on his shoulder, melting into him.

He hums at the contact, slow to react but smiling softly. “Yeah… you were—”

“I know I was right,” you murmur smugly.

He drums his fingers on the counter, then tugs you gently into his lap. You settle there as Gojo launches into full presentation mode, now fully in his element.

“Now,” Gojo begins, holding a bowl in both hands like it’s the Holy Grail, “what you are about to experience is the culmination of culinary innovation, technique, and a touch of divine chaos—”

Maki interrupts, unimpressed. “You bought the clams at the supermarket. You didn’t forage shit.”

Toge taps rapidly at his phone and holds up a message on his Notes app:

‘Just give us the MF food.’

Gojo sighs. “You’re all so ungrateful.”

But he’s clearly stoned now too—his cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, his energy giggly and warm. He dishes out three servings with exaggerated care, pointing excitedly at the gooey strands of cheese stretching from spoon to bowl.

“Look at that. You see it? That’s real cheese. None of that fake-ass bullshit.”

More neighbors trickle in.

Someone from the fourth floor. That couple with the tiny dog. Even Gakuganji—the grumpy old man from the first floor who once yelled at Gojo for breathing too loudly—shuffles into the apartment like he was invited.

Suguru watches the ever-growing crowd with a slow turn of his head and finally asks, voice flat, “Who the fuck is letting all these people in?”

You blink at him, mind lagging a little behind.

Then it hits.

“Shit,” you mutter. “I left the door unlocked. Actually… I think I left it sliiightly open.”

His brow furrows, the crease between them deepening.

You lean forward and mouth over the spot, trying to smooth it out with your lips. “Sorry, Sugi. Sorry.”

He scowls at you, but it’s a half-hearted thing—his eyes soft and hazy, glazed in violet. They drop to your mouth. He sighs.

“I’m—” he kisses you, slow and warm.

“So—” another kiss, lower this time,

“Pissed,” he finishes, licking lazily along the seam of your lips.

You giggle against him, the issue already forgotten.

Gojo bustles around, a social butterfly flitting from one conversation to the next, before reappearing from the hallway—one long leg bouncing with barely contained energy. He catches your eye over Suguru’s shoulder and widens his gaze, eyebrows lifting as he mouths come here, subtly jabbing a finger toward his room with exaggerated urgency.

You lean back slightly, and Suguru’s lips chase after yours instinctively, slow and needy—high, affection-drunk, and fully immersed in your gravity.

You press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, murmuring, “Bathroom. Be back,” as you slide off his lap.

He hums but doesn’t protest, settling into your warmth like a cat curling into the imprint you left behind.

You trail after Gojo, limbs loose but heavy, the short walk to his room somehow feeling like a mini workout. You flop dramatically onto his bed the second you step inside, exhaling like you’ve just completed a marathon.

Gojo’s got his phone propped up on his vanity with the help of a box of Push Pops, stacked with disordered elegance like it’s a makeshift tripod. You notice he’s mid-FaceTime.

“—don’t know if it’s a good idea,” Gojo is saying, his voice a little too loud. “But look, she’s here—you can ask her yourself.”

You squint at the screen, head tilting slightly before your brain catches up.

Toji.

He’s on the other end of the call, arms folded across his chest, muscles flexed beneath a slightly wrinkled white tank top. He’s leaning against the counter in what looks like his own apartment—the layout nearly identical.

His eyes flick up as he sees you enter.

“Hey. First off—how’s the shoulder?”

You rotate it slowly, showing off the range of motion with a faint grin. “Good. Extra good, thanks to this guy.” You jab Gojo in the ribs. He yelps and curls away, nearly knocking over the Push Pops.

Toji chuckles. “Glad to hear it. Been keeping ears to the ground, by the way—still got people trying to ID the shooter. Got a couple leads I’m chasing.”

Your expression softens. “Please keep me updated.”

“’Course.” He nods, then rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking off-camera. “Anyway… I was just askin’ Gojo if you think it’s cool for me to come upstairs and grab a plate. Not trying to overstep or anything—just figured, y’know, I did supply the zip. Free of charge.”

Your eyebrows lift. That part hadn’t made it to you.

You glance at Gojo, who’s already nodding, giving you a look that says Yeah, he’s really trying.

He grabs a Push Pop from the box—blue razz—twisting it open with a sharp crack before shoving it in his mouth with a look of pure, sugar-driven bliss.

You sit up a little straighter. “Well, I’ve got no issue. I think you’re mostly worried about Suguru, though.”

Gojo pops the Push Pop out with a loud slurp and chimes in, “Which I said. And I stand by it—this is probably his best shot at not getting decked. Everyone’s mellow. All defenses down.”

Toji rummages off-screen, muttering something. “I’m fucking starving. Haven’t been grocery shopping in days. Been picking up a shit ton of OT and just throwing twenties at Megumi for takeout. Pantry’s pathetic.”

He flips the camera to show a few dusty cans and a single box of crackers with a folded top.

Gojo hums. “Damn, relatable. But didn’t you used to sell food sta—”

You elbow him sharply in the ribs.

He coughs dramatically, still sucking on the Push Pop.

“What Gojo meant to say,” you cut in, “is that if we time this right, you’ll be fine. The brownies are almost done, everyone already here is occupied, and if I pull Suguru into the bedroom to redress my shoulder, it’ll look like you just came up with someone else. Casual.”

Gojo rubs his side, pouting. “Genius,” he mutters, recovering just in time to sloppily resume licking the Push Pop like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

Toji considers this, then nods. “Alright. Appreciate it. See ya soon.”

The call ends.

You fall back onto the bed with a sigh, eyes closing for a beat.

Gojo flops next to you, candy still in his mouth. “We should’ve charged for plates.”

You laugh. “You mean I should’ve charged. You invited half the block.”

“De-tails,” he mumbles, already distracted again, reaching for another Push Pop.

You slip easily into Suguru’s conversation mid-sentence, easing down beside him where he sits next to Haibara—a neighbor from across-the-hall, bright-eyed and practically buzzing with questions between oversized bites of pasta.

“So, like, do you think an LLC is overkill? Or should I just start with something casual? Pop-ups, maybe?” Haibara asks, half-talking, half-chewing.

Suguru nods thoughtfully, offering a balanced take about ease of paperwork versus liability, but you catch the glint in Gojo’s eye from across the room and tilt your head, silently cueing him in.

Despite being high out of his mind, Gojo somehow always manages to deliver when it comes to flexing his business acumen. He perks up immediately, tapping the air like he’s conducting a symphony.

“Okay first of all—LLCs are never overkill,” he announces, standing and launching into a detailed, surprisingly coherent breakdown of tax benefits and branding strategy.

You take that moment to tug gently at Suguru’s sleeve, pawing at his arm like a cat begging for attention. He looks at you, already softening, the way he always does when you touch him. After a beat, he lets himself be pulled up without resistance.

“Need you for something,” you offer vaguely, not bothering to clarify as you guide him down the hall.

Just as you reach the bedroom door, Suguru lands a sharp, playful slap to your ass. You jolt with a gasp, more from surprise than pain.

“If you’re already this worked up,” he says, voice low and amused, “you could’ve just told me.”

His half-lidded eyes are dark with heat as he pulls you close, both hands sliding down to squeeze your ass, gripping you like he’s rediscovering something he doesn’t want to let go of.

You laugh, breath catching. “How presumptuous. I was going to ask you to redress my shoulder.”

That sobers him. Instantly, his hands still. His gaze flicks to your shoulder, still neatly bandaged—the wrap precisely how he left it.

“It looks fine,” he says, frowning slightly, though his voice is soft. One hand lifts to cradle your cheek, warm and rough, grounding you. His thumb brushes your jaw as he leans in, nose brushing yours, and the coolness of the touch makes you shiver.

You tilt your chin up, lips pursed, waiting. But he only grins and pulls back, just out of reach.

“Liar.”

“Tease.”

His smile deepens, eyes crinkling with amusement. Then he grabs your thighs and lifts you effortlessly, turning toward the bed. He kneels on the edge, lowering you with a gentleness that doesn’t match the hunger in his eyes, until you’re sprawled across his pillows.

His elbows land on either side of your head, caging you in. His hair falls forward, strands still damp from your earlier shower curling near your cheeks. The air smells faintly of lavender shampoo and his skin—clean, warm, familiar.

You reach up and press your thumb to his bottom lip, tracing it, feeling the give of it under the pad of your finger. Plush. Inviting. He kisses your thumb and then captures your mouth with his, slow and unhurried.

He shifts, laying more of his weight on you, careful to avoid your injured shoulder. His forearm braces beside it, maintaining the smallest space while the rest of his body melts into yours. The heat of him is dizzying. Your chest rises to meet his. Your lips part wider, drinking him in.

One of your hands slips beneath his shirt, mapping the lines of his back, the dip of his spine, the firmness of his shoulder blades. You want to touch all of him—at once. There’s too much to feel and not nearly enough patience.

Suguru groans into your mouth, dragging his tongue against yours in a slow, deliberate sweep. He breaks away just to bite down on your lower lip before diving back in, his mouth rougher now, needier.

His kisses trail along your jaw, then return, messier and deeper. His tongue flicks against yours again, wet and warm and utterly intoxicating. Your hips shift restlessly beneath him.

You can’t help it—you squeeze your thighs together, the ache between them growing fast, blooming at the center of your body like heat spreading outwards. And then he shifts, hips grinding down, and you let out a shaky moan.

His clothed erection presses perfectly against your clit, thickening with each slow grind.

You mewl, body twitching up to meet him. That sound—that raw, exposed sound—rips something loose in him.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, voice ragged. “Let me eat you.”

You tilt your hips again, chasing the friction. Suguru noses at your throat, then breathes hot against your ear.

“Just a taste,” he whispers.

You don’t trust your voice. You just nod—shaky, desperate.

Your movement brushes your cheek against his, and he growls softly before biting your earlobe, grounding you in the moment with the sharpness of his teeth, the warmth of his breath.

Suguru shifts lower, your thighs still looped around his waist until he carefully guides them over his shoulders. His hands grip the back of your knees as he descends, mouth already brushing against the inside of your thigh like he can’t bear to wait.

He looks up at you, eyes hooded, utterly wrecked in the best way—lips parted, pupils blown wide. He breathes in like he’s savoring something rare and sacred, mouthing at the damp heat between your legs with reverence. When you press your heel into the side of his neck, he chuckles low, eyes gleaming with mischief, and finally drags your leggings and panties down—slow, teasing. He only fully removes one leg, letting the other dangle at your ankle, fabric visibly stained at the crotch.

From where your head rests on his pillow, you can see the dark spot clearly. It sends a ripple of arousal through you.

Suguru starts with your thighs, kissing and sucking the soft flesh, marking you with dark bruises and gentle bites. Your skin feels like it’s buzzing, every nerve ending electric, your body a live wire under his touch.

“Feel everything, huh?” he murmurs, his breath fanning over your center.

You twitch in response, hips jerking subtly.

“All that sensation—it’s a lot, isn’t it?” He blows a stream of cool air onto your clit, and your body jolts like you’ve been shocked. “Good.”

Then, without warning, he flattens his tongue and licks a slow, deliberate stripe from your perineum up to just shy of your clit.

“Fuck—yes, Sugu. More.”

He hums in approval, the vibration making your toes curl. “Let me know if it’s too much,” he says between licks. “Just tap me twice. I’d say pull my hair—but we both know I like that.”

You glance down at him, meeting his gaze, and immediately feel yourself unraveling under the weight of those black, blown-out eyes. He licks a lazy circle around your clit, then has the audacity to wink before wrapping his lips around it, sucking hard.

The noise you make is somewhere between a moan and a gasp, hand flying to your mouth to muffle the sound as you bite into your knuckle.

But Suguru doesn’t let up.

Two fingers trail along your slit, collecting the wetness already spilling from you. He plays with your pussy, slow and testing, all while his mouth stays fixed on your clit. The dual sensation has you clenching around nothing, mind spinning.

Then he spits—wet and hot—and spreads it with a fingertip, circling your entrance before pressing in. You try to grip him, suck him in, anything for relief. He slides one thick finger inside, then another, slowly stretching you open. The ache is good, grounding. You clench around him, walls greedy, already fluttering.

He groans into your clit, the sound rough and desperate. “Fuck, so tight.”

He pumps his fingers deeper, curling them expertly, and the slick sound of it is obscene. He tongues your folds between strokes, chasing every drop of you like he’s starving.

The pressure builds to a breaking point, a sharp, overwhelming coil of heat and tension that twists deep inside you. Suguru’s mouth stays locked on your clit, sucking rhythmically, tongue flicking in slow, intentional patterns. The dual sensation of his fingers plunging into you—deep, steady, relentless—and his mouth working you over has you scrambling for something to hold onto.

Your hands fly to his hair, tugging hard, fingers curling tightly in the dark strands. He groans in response, the sound encompassing. He resists your pull just enough to stay buried between your legs, lips never leaving you.

Your other hand finds the nape of his neck, anchoring yourself as he sinks his fingers deeper—knuckle-deep now—before scissoring them slowly. He groans again, feeling you pulse around him.

“Sucking me in like that… greedy little thing,” he murmurs, breath hot against your skin. “This still okay?”

You try to answer, to give him something—yes, don’t stop, more—but all that escapes is a loud, helpless moan as he twists his fingers, drawing them back with a slick, obscene sound before pushing in again. Your whole body clenches.

His mouth laps greedily, catching the slick that leaks out with every thrust. He makes no effort to be subtle—if anything, it’s like he wants to consume you completely.

“Mm,” he mumbles against your cunt. “Tastes sweet.”

You bite your lip hard, trying to stifle another moan. You can still hear faint conversation bleeding in from the other room—Gojo’s name, laughter, someone talking about food—and the absurdity of anyone being able to carry on so casually while Suguru is devouring you only makes it more impossible to stay quiet.

He curls his fingers just right, pressing into that soft, spongy spot deep inside. His tongue continues abusing your clit, circling with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk upward, your thighs quivering as your body tightens.

And then there’s his gaze—locked on your face, heavy with heat, so clearly enjoying every second of this it’s maddening.

“Suguru—” You gasp.

The orgasm crashes over you—sharp, sudden, all-consuming. Your legs tremble, back arching off the bed as you gush around his fingers, clenching down hard. The sounds—your gasps, the wet rhythm of his fingers, the obscene slick of his mouth—fill the room, echoing inside the haze of your head.

His fingers stay buried, slow and steady, coaxing you through the aftershocks as he watches your face twist with pleasure.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispers, eyes locked on your face. “Let go for me.”

He doesn’t stop until he’s sure you’re done.

Until your thighs stop twitching.

Until your hips stop chasing.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Just like that.”

Finally, he pulls back just enough to see your face, your expression slack and spent, flushed and dazed.

He grins.

You’re barely breathing, chest heaving as you come down, the high washing over you in waves.

And still—he isn’t done.

He adds a third finger.

You whimper, overwhelmed, and your eyes catch the outline of his cock straining hard against his pants, the fabric stretched tight over the shape of him.

Suguru sits back on his knees, fingers glistening, and lifts them to his mouth, sucking them clean with slow, deliberate indulgence. Then, finally, he frees himself. His cock bobs against his stomach, thick and flushed and leaking.

He leans over you again, expression unreadable, a bead of pre sliding slowly over the curve of his frenulum.

“Give me another,” he says, voice dark and low. “I know you can.”

He dives back in, tonguefucking you deep, pulling your shirt up so you can shove it between your teeth and bite down hard. Your moans are barely contained, your whole body thrumming with sensation.

One hand gropes at your chest, thumb flicking over your nipple through the fabric of your bra. The other strokes his cock in steady, deliberate motions, syncing with the way his tongue moves inside you and the way your body tightens around him.

When his thumb trails back down to your clit, circling the swollen nub lazily, it tips you over the edge—it’s too much.

“Su—Sugu—fuck—coming, I’m coming—I can’t—”

Your thighs clamp around his head, your cunt spasming around his tongue as he groans into you, eyes fluttering shut. You hear him moan your name, soft and wrecked, and then he’s pulling back just enough to breathe, his jaw slick with your release.

He pants for a moment, then grunts—deep, guttural—and pumps his cock faster. You watch, dazed, as he stares down at you, the tension in his face drawn tight.

With a sharp exhale, he strokes himself once, twice more—and then he’s coming, spilling hot onto your pussy, white smearing across your folds. His breath stutters as he rides it out, milking every drop with slow strokes, sweat clinging to his skin, his body still shivering with release.

When he finally looks up at you—flushed, panting—you’re both left speechless.

You run a finger through the mess he’s left between your legs, swiping through the silky strands of his release where it glistens over your folds. Bringing it to your lips, you suck the come off slowly, hooded eyes fixed on his.

Suguru lunges forward, catching your mouth in a searing kiss. It’s messy, hungry, more possession than affection. You tilt to meet him, but the sudden shift twists your shoulder at a bad angle, and a sharp jolt of pain breaks through the haze.

You flinch.

Immediately, he pulls back, eyes wide, expression collapsing into guilt. His hand slides gently down your arm, thumb brushing over your forearm with care.

“Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, breath still ragged. “No—just… was too sudden. I—shit, I’m still not thinking straight. That was intense.”

His mouth curves into a half-smile, concern still lingering in his eyes. He squeezes your thigh, grounding you. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Sure was.”

Then he leans over the side of the bed and grabs his phone, tapping the screen. “Would you believe me if I said we’ve been at it for over an hour?”

He shows you the screen, and you blink a few times, reality slowly slipping back into place.

“Our lack of decorum is honestly shameful.”

He grins, then eases off the bed, muscles flexing as he moves. On instinct, you reach out and swat his ass, because you can.

He snorts and keeps walking, heading toward the small dresser where his mini fridge hums quietly. He grabs two water bottles and a pack of moist towelettes, cracking one open as he returns.

Suguru kneels between your legs and wipes you down gently, the cloth cool and damp against your sensitive skin. It shouldn’t feel this good—being cleaned up like this—but the high lingers, and his touch is so careful, it feels more like a balm than anything else.

Once you’re clean, he passes you a bottle of water and stands beside you, downing his in a few deep gulps. You finish yours in one go—fifteen seconds flat—barely stopping to breathe.

You brace yourself for a snide comment, but when you look up, Suguru’s already chugging a second water like a man possessed. His Adam’s apple bobs with each swallow, throat working fast as he drains the bottle in under five seconds.

He exhales, crushes both empties in one hand, and tosses them into the bin without a word.

You lean back onto the pillow, breathing deep, eyelids drooping.

Suguru drops down beside you, draping an arm across your waist.

You stay like that for a moment—sated, tangled up, still wrapped in the haze—with the low hum of conversation beyond the bedroom door and the warmth of his body anchoring you.

When you and Suguru finally slip out, you ease the door shut behind you. There’s a subtle shift in your stride—slower, a little stiff—both of you pretending the change of clothes is purely coincidental, not the result of post-orgasmic cleanup.

You exchange a glance.

The kitchen is empty now, the commotion having migrated to the living room. Gojo, in a moment of endearing thoughtfulness, has left two brownies for you both, neatly wrapped in parchment and sitting beside the stove. You grab them quickly, handing one to Suguru and threading your fingers through his free hand to guide him toward the noise.

The apartment is packed—people draped across every available surface. Cushions on the floor, backs leaned against walls, legs flung over the sides of sofas and chairs. Everyone looks blissed-out, red-eyed and giggly, a fog of THC and leftover food polluting the air.

Perfect cover.

You guide Suguru toward Gojo, who’s perched sideways in an armchair, legs dangling over one armrest like a kid mid-storytime. He’s deep in animated conversation, gesturing so wildly he nearly hits the person next to him.

“—and you wouldn’t believe who she brought home the other day—oh, hey! You’re back!” Gojo grins wide, catching sight of you. “Try the brownies. Try them right now. They might be the best thing I’ve ever made.”

You nudge Suguru to sit at the foot of the chair and slide into his lap, your back resting comfortably against his chest. He pulls you in like you belong there—which, at this point, you do.

Then you notice who Gojo had been talking to: Toji.

He’s kicked back at the far end of the couch, closest to you, one arm slung over the backrest, head tipped against the cushion like he hasn’t moved in a while. His bowl sits empty in his lap, and he lifts a lazy hand in greeting.

“’Sup, you two.” He nods, eyes flicking to the brownies in your hands. “Seriously though. Try them. I don’t even like chocolate like that.”

He says it casually, but you catch the shift in his gaze—hesitant, searching. Like he’s testing the air for tension before he breathes it in.

Suguru shifts beneath you, his chin lifting just a little as he meets Toji’s gaze. His voice is calm, offering a simple nod of acknowledgment.

“Toji,” he says, in greeting.

Then he leans in, brushing his mouth against your neck, voice dipping softer. “Feed me?”

You glance down at the brownie in your hand, then back at him, smiling like it’s a secret meant only for him.

You break off a piece—warm, gooey—and bring it to his lips.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

+ planning 1 more installment since I'm running out of ways to get high LOL

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