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The cabin breathes amber. Light spills in from the lake facing windows, thick and slow, drenching the walls in a syrupy blend of molten gold and bruised purples. Dust hangs midair like suspended glitter, shifting with the lazy drag of the breeze that slips through a cracked windowpane.
On the bean bag closest to the glass, Gojo has melted into himself, all long limbs and half-lidded eyes, a crooked grin twitching at the corner of his mouth. His shirt rides up just enough to expose a line of hipbone, and he hasn’t blinked in what feels like hours. His fingers twitch now and then, like his body’s remembering a song his brain forgot.
Geto’s more composed, in that way only people used to holding chaos gently can be. He’s folded into the couch, posture slack but deliberate, and cradling Shoko’s ankles gentle, mindless. She’s stretched across the cushions beside him, one arm thrown over her eyes, chest rising in deep, slow waves. Her laugh — when it comes — is hoarse and halfswallowed, like it got caught in her throat on the way out.
Across from them, Haibara sits too upright in the armchair, as if unsure whether he’s supposed to be enjoying this or apologizing for it. His fingers tap lightly against his thigh, still tingling from his first drag. He exhales smoke and uncertainty.
Nanami’s perched on the armrest beside him, steady as bedrock, one hand slipping the joint clean out of Haibara’s reach before the kid can even think about round two. His tone is even, not angry, just final. “Don’t even think about it.”
The air is thick with the sweet, earthy tang of whatever Shoko rolled earlier, cut through by the clean bite of lake air sneaking in. There’s a low hum somewhere; maybe the fridge, maybe the forest. Time slows, thickens, and stretches wide.
Nanami holds the joint like it might stain him. Between two fingers, as far from his face as his arm will allow. He stares at it like it’s a test he didn’t study for.
“It won’t bite,” Geto says, voice smooth and low, lips curling just enough. His thumb brushes lazy circles against Shoko’s ankle, unbothered.
Gojo cackles from his bean bag throne, the sound breaking the hazy quiet like glass. “That thing’s scared of him.”
Nanami stands, shakes his head once, and walks the joint over to Geto, who takes it without looking up. His inhale is slow, practiced.
“You’re lame,” Shoko mutters from beneath her forearm, not even sparing Nanami a glance.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t answer. Just stands there, arms crossed, expression flat.
Gojo chimes in, grinning from beneath his askew sunglasses. “Be nice to the soon-to-be Officer Kento.”
Geto tilts his head, exhaling a thin ribbon of smoke toward the ceiling. “How’s the academy?”
There’s no mockery in his tone, just that genuine curiosity he slips into so effortlessly it feels like a trick.
Nanami nods once. “I’m enjoying it.”
Gojo snorts. “Yeah, in the same way people enjoy chewing cardboard.”
Shoko bolts upright without warning, tossing her own arm aside like it offended her. “Swimming time.” She announces it like a decree, hands thrown high, silhouetted against the deepening sunset.
Before anyone can react, she’s on her feet, pulling her shirt over her head. It lands on the floor a beat later, followed by her shorts. She’s left in a black bra and panties that catch the golden light like oil slick.
Haibara looks like someone’s pointed a spotlight at him. His whole face flares red. His voice deserts him.
“Yu,” Shoko says, pointing directly at him. “You’re coming with me.”
He nods, dumbly. Darker red. Doesn’t say a word as he follows her out, eyes locked on the back of her legs like they’re leading him into battle.
Gojo tilts his head, peering over his sunglasses. “Does he know he’ll never hit that?”
Geto doesn’t even blink. Takes another drag, lets it out slow. “Let the kid dream.”
Nanami’s jaw tightens. Just a tick.
Gojo catches it, zeroes in. “Ouu, hit a nerve, huh? Loverboy,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.
Nanami flips him off over his shoulder and strides toward the door.
Gojo gasps, mock-offended. “My virtue!”
Geto rises too, stretching with a low grunt as his joints pop. He saunters over to Gojo, flicking ash into a tray on the way.
“First time?” he asks, voice low, teasing.
Gojo cranes his neck back, eyes half-lidded beneath the lenses of his sunglasses, lips curled in that brand of mock wounded theatrics he’s perfected. “Don’t tell me he gave you the honor of flipping you off first.”
Geto hums, unconcerned. He sinks one knee into the bean bag, the fabric sighing under his weight, and leans in until he’s hovering just above Gojo. The joint glows faint between his fingers as he holds it out.
Gojo’s gaze flicks from Geto’s mouth to the joint. He takes the drag straight from between Geto’s fingers, lips brushing skin just enough to be felt. The inhale is slow, indulgent, and when he exhales, it’s with a low, satisfied hum.
Geto watches the whole thing with parted lips, like something about it caught him off guard.
“He likes me better,” he says eventually, smirk curling on his mouth. Lazy.
Gojo lets the smoke bleed from between his own lips, eyes fixed on Geto's face. “Mmm,” he says, voice syrupy, “you do have a certain charm.”
Both hands come up without warning, curling around Geto’s hips as he yanks him down into his lap.
Geto goes without resistance, folding into it with that peculiar grace he has, even stoned out of his mind. He doesn’t stumble. He settles, draping across Gojo like he belongs there.
Gojo squirms a little, angling for a more comfortable seat under Geto’s weight. The shifting fabric, the warmth of skin against his thighs, the soft give of Geto’s body, it sends a slow, lazy shiver up his spine.
Good god.
They pass the joint back and forth, fingers brushing in the handoff, lazy and slow like neither of them’s in any rush to see the end of it. The ember shrinks with each pass, the room thick with smoke and something else; something warmer, denser.
Gojo leans back against the bean bag, spine curved just so, one knee bent beneath Geto’s thigh. His hand drifts idly from Geto’s hip, fingers skating across the dip of his waist, tracing a slow line down to the top of his thigh. Just enough pressure to linger. Just enough to be felt.
Geto doesn’t flinch. He shifts, slight, almost imperceptible, a little closer. His thigh slides more firmly against Gojo’s, but not enough for their hips to press. Just enough to crowd his space, to let the suggestion hang in the air like the smoke.
Gojo’s fingers curl slightly into the muscle of Geto’s thigh, thumb brushing circles where the ripped denim meets skin. His gaze flicks down to where their bodies almost touch, then back up to Geto’s mouth as he lifts the joint for the final drag.
Geto inhales slow, exhales slower. His eyes don’t leave Gojo’s face. “You always this handsy when you’re high?”
“It’s a special treatment” Gojo says, grin lazy, voice low enough to vibrate somewhere between them.
Geto hums, eyes half-lidded, letting the last curl of smoke drift past his lips. “Lucky me.”
He stubs out what’s left in the tray beside them, then settles deeper into Gojo’s lap. Still not close enough. Just barely there, to make Gojo acutely aware of every inch of space between them. And the heat of it.
Gojo’s grip on his thigh tightens for a beat. Then he lets it go, fingers brushing away like he’s wiping off the want.
The silence between them stretches, not awkward, not even loaded. Just... thick. Comfortable. Close.
Their breaths sync up, slow and even, and the last of the golden light fades to blue around them.
Geto shifts again, slow and deliberate, and reaches up to Gojo’s face. His fingers curl around the frame of his sunglasses, sliding them off in one smooth motion.
“You know who wears sunglasses indoors?” he asks, voice just above a whisper. His eyes flick from Gojo’s eyes to his mouth and back again.
Gojo doesn’t miss the reference. A grin twitches at the corner of his lips. “Blind people, and douchebags.”
They both let out a soft breath — half chuckle, half exhale — and Gojo tips his head back against the bean bag like he’s offering up the whole of himself just for that one moment of contact.
Geto hums, satisfied, and lets the sunglasses drop carelessly into the bean bag beside them. His hand moves again, this time threading through Gojo’s hair, fingers slipping beneath the longer top and brushing along the recently-shaved undercut.
The difference in texture makes Geto pause. Then he does it again, slower.
Gojo shivers, barely, and leans into the touch like it’s instinct. Like Geto’s hand was made to be there. He closes his eyes for a second, just to feel the warmth of Geto’s palm against the side of his head, the pressure gentle but possessive.
Outside, Shoko’s laugh cuts through the quiet like a firecracker — wild and bright, echoing off the lake.
They both glance toward the massive window, a quick flick of the eyes toward the blue and the darkening outdoors. For a split second, there’s the outline of Shoko running into the water, arms flailing. Haibara just behind her, hesitant, caught mid-undress. Nanami on the shore, standing stiff like he’s still in uniform.
Then, their eyes are back on each other.
And it’s like nothing else ever really asked for their attention in the first place.
Geto leans down, close enough that Gojo can see the flick of gold in his eyes, can feel the ghost of his breath over his cheek. The room feels heavier, like the air’s been waiting for this moment too.
Gojo’s breath catches.
He knows it won’t happen. Knows.
No matter how wrecked they’ve gotten, how high, how wasted, how handsy — it’s always stopped just short. Always teasing, always heat without flame. A game they play with no name, with no rules, but one very clear line that neither ever really crossed.
Still, his heart stutters like it might. Like this time could be different.
He exhales, slow and shaky.
Fuck.
A game of who breaks first. Gojo hates losing. And yet he feels like he might just.
Geto shifts.
It feels casual at first, an innocent adjustment — if such a thing exists when you’re sprawled across someone’s lap, stoned and watching them like they hung the stars. Gojo thinks he imagined it.
Until Geto does it again.
Just a slide of his hips, barely there, but unmistakable. Their crotches brush.
Gojo squeezes his eyes shut, jaw clenched tight.
Shit.
Then Geto rolls his hips again, this time slower, more deliberate.
Shit.
The friction sparks low in Gojo’s gut, white-hot and pulsing. He makes a sound, quiet, involuntary, all throat. It slips out before he can catch it, and Geto stills for half a second like he heard exactly what he needed to.
Then he moves again.
A firmer grind this time, no mistaking the rhythm now. No playing dumb. He’s rutting down, slow and steady, the pace too measured to be accidental.
Gojo’s hands shoot back to Geto’s thighs —gripping. Holding on. He digs his fingers into muscle, trying to ground himself, to not lose it.
But Geto’s thighs are solid, flexing beneath his palms with each roll of his hips. And Gojo’s vision is swimming, half from the high, half from the way Geto’s breath hitches just slightly on the exhale.
Gojo could fall apart. Right here. Right now.
He swallows hard, neck tight, fingers curling tighter.
And Geto— Geto just keeps going. His movements get messy. Less rhythm, more hunger.
His hips grind down with a growing urgency, like he’s chasing something now, like the game’s dissolved into something neither of them can name.
Gojo opens his eyes. Looks up.
Geto’s lips are parted, breath spilling out in shaky bursts. His bangs have fallen loose, swaying with every motion, catching the fading light in soft, uneven flickers.
Without thinking, Gojo reaches up, fingers threading through dark strands, pushing them back from Geto’s face.
Geto groans — low, tight — and grinds down harder in response.
Gojo bites his lip.
There’s no way Geto doesn’t feel how hard he is beneath him. Just like Gojo can’t not feel the thick press of Geto’s cock grinding into him, insistent and aching through layers of rough denim.
Fuck. Fuck it.
Gojo shifts, hips rolling up to meet Geto’s next thrust, and the sharp, broken sound Geto makes punches the breath from his lungs.
One of Geto’s hands slips behind him, bracing on Gojo’s thigh for leverage. The other settles low on Gojo’s stomach— too low. Just above his waistband. Just enough to make Gojo’s hips stutter and his gut twist with arousal.
A sharp inhale rips from Gojo’s throat. He’s seeing stars.
And like Geto knows, like he’s reading the heat straight off Gojo’s skin, he moves faster. His grinding turns desperate, friction building with every rut of his hips, every stuttered breath between them.
The room’s filled with the quiet, obscene sounds of them — panting, swallowing moans, the slick rasp of denim-on-denim that shouldn’t sound as hot as it does.
Gojo digs his hands into Geto’s hips, grip bruising now, holding him in place before guiding, rolling him down, lifting his own hips up in sync.
Their rhythm locks in. Sloppy but aligned.
His thumbs brush just under the hem of Geto’s shirt, not quite touching skin, hovering at the edge like a held breath.
Geto moans again, louder this time, head dropping forward, eyes squeezing shut.
And Gojo can feel it. The heat curling in his spine, the pressure winding tight, the edge so fucking close it’s almost unbearable.
So when his orgasm hits, it hits like a fucking car crash.
One second, all he feels is the grind of Geto’s hips, the heat of him, the weight. The next, it’s like something inside him snaps taut, his cock twitches hard, and a moan tears from his throat, thick and open and embarrassingly shaped like Geto’s name.
He comes in his jeans — sharp, all consuming, shaking. It rushes through him so suddenly he forgets how to breathe. It’s white noise and static and the sweetest, dirtiest kind of collapse.
For a few beats, the world holds its breath with him.
He blinks, dazed, breath sawing in and out of his lungs, fingers still clamped hard on Geto’s hips.
It takes him a second to register that Geto’s stopped moving.
And when he finally lifts his gaze, he finds Geto staring down at him, mouth open, pupils blown so wide they’ve swallowed the brown in his eyes.
“Shit, did you—?” Geto starts, voice rough with disbelief.
But he’s already shifting back. Gojo shudders, full body, involuntary, as overstimulation kicks in, nerves frayed raw. He hisses through his teeth, thighs twitching.
Then Geto’s hands are on him, at his waistband, undoing the button, pulling down the zipper. His fingers dip into Gojo’s jeans, warm and certain, searching for that telltale wetness.
And when he finds it, he lets out a moan. Low. Ruined.
Gojo can barely keep up. All he can do is watch, glassy eyed and panting, as Geto pulls his hand back, and moves fast, frantic to undo his own belt, fumble with his fly.
The moment Geto frees himself, Gojo’s breath catches again. His cock is flushed dark, thick and leaking, so achingly bare against the soft drag of his own palm.
And that’s not even the worst of it.
The worst is the way Geto looks at him: hungry, wild, like nothing else exists. Like he’s coming undone just from touching himself in front of Gojo.
Geto’s other hand shoves Gojo’s shirt up, frantic, exposing abs, chest, whatever skin he can find like he needs it right now. The drag of fabric burns deliciously on Gojo’s oversensitive skin.
“F-fuck,” Geto exhales, voice wrecked.
He jerks himself in tight, fast strokes, the heel of his palm dragging against the slick head with every motion. His index finger slips over the tip, teasing the wet, and Gojo watches like he’s hypnotized.
No embarrassment. No shame.
Just hunger.
The kind that makes his thighs tremble and his mouth go dry, because, fuck, nothing compares to this. Not the teasing. Not the grind. Not even the high.
Just this: Geto, falling apart in his lap.
The more desperate Geto’s strokes become, the shakier he is, his body trembling above Gojo’s lap, barely held together. His thighs twitch, breath stuttering, every movement teetering on the edge of collapse.
Gojo brings both hands to Geto’s waist, slipping them beneath his shirt, palms firm, grounding. His thumbs press into the ridges of Geto’s abs, damp with sweat, tense like a pulled bowstring.
The touch makes Geto shudder. A soft, wrecked whine slips from his throat.
Then suddenly, urgently, Geto pushes himself up, lifting off Gojo’s lap with Gojo’s hands still steadying him, balancing on shaky knees. He shifts forward, body curling over, fucking into his own fist now with a rhythm that’s nothing short of needy.
And fuck, Gojo gets it. His heart stutters. His mouth goes dry.
He tilts his head back, eyes fluttering shut, and lolls his tongue out.
He hears it first, Geto’s moan. His name, broken and hoarse, like a prayer.
Then the first hot rope of cum lands across his cheek, some catching on his tongue, the rest streaking across his face. The taste hits a second later — sharp, bitter, familiar — and Gojo swallows hard around it.
Geto doesn't stop.
Another pulse, then another he cums so much. Hard, wet heat painting Gojo’s lips, his jaw, his chin. Gojo can feel the tremors through Geto’s thighs, through the palms on his waist, can hear the slick sound of Geto still stroking himself through the aftershocks, chasing it, like he never wants this moment to end.
Gojo’s panting, skin sticky, pulse thudding against his ribs.
And then, before he can even finish swallowing, he feels it.
A soft press of lips.
Then a tongue pushing into his mouth, chasing the mess he hadn’t even finished tasting.
His brain short circuits.
He gasps into it, because fuck, this is filthy. Filthy in the way that rewires your whole body.
Geto’s mouth is slick, hungry, tongue tangling with Gojo’s, tasting himself like it’s nothing, like it’s everything.
And Gojo lets him. Moaning low into the kiss, arms locked tight around Geto’s waist like if he lets go, he’ll lose the only thing in the world still burning.
Gojo collapses face-first into the couch cushions, his limbs sprawling like he’s been poured there. Fresh sweatpants cling loosely to his hips, a clean white shirt rucked up just enough to show a sliver of his lower back. He feels boneless. Buzzed. Giddy.
They kissed for a solid five minutes in the bathroom afterward, him pinned between Geto and the sink, one hand tangled in that loose, half-undone bun. Geto’s mouth had been slow, thorough, and filthy.
The memory still simmers in his stomach, heat curling low, not quite spent.
“Move.”
A foot nudges his thigh, just short of a kick. Gojo lifts his head with a groan and a lazy grin.
“You could say please, you know.”
Geto’s already standing over him, arms crossed, unimpressed.
Gojo groans again but shifts sideways, legs splayed in a V, creating space. “Your throne awaits, Your Highness.”
Geto snorts. “That’s gay as fuck.”
He sinks into the space anyway, back meeting Gojo’s chest with a quiet exhale like it’s the only place that makes sense. Gojo drapes one arm lazily around his waist, nose nudging the back of Geto’s neck.
Then the door slams open.
Shoko bursts in, soaked from head to toe, hair plastered to her face, water dripping onto the hardwood. Behind her, Nanami trails in, exasperated and lecturing mid-sentence.
“Why the fuck does it smell like sex in here?!” Shoko snaps, completely ignoring Nanami’s lecture.
“You’re imagining things,” Geto says without hesitation, deadpan.
Nanami sighs, running a hand down his face. “I’m for one, imagining throwing all of you out of my parents’ cabin.”
Shoko kicks off her shoes with a wet smack, socks squelching. “I better not find anything crusty in the bean bag.”
Gojo muffles a laugh into Geto’s shoulder. “No promises.”