The three of you are lying in the bed. You’re seated between them, or more precisely, on them. Your head rests comfortably on Geto’s lap while your thighs lie on top of Gojo’s own. They’re both sat up, back against the wall and legs stretched out.

You’re currently fixated on Geto. There’s something so relaxing in the way he slowly draws smoke into his lungs, holds it in for exactly two seconds, and then exhales it from his nose like a sort of divine Kōryū.

When he’s done with his puffs, he looks down at you only to find you already staring; a couple strands of raven hair fall in front of his face as he does, those sharp eyes of his hanging low as a lazy smile approaches his lips. Even in your hazy state, it occurs to you that you’ve never found him more alluring than you do now, under the drug’s effect. There’s a calm to him so palpable that it feels like you could reach out and touch it; a calm that does not exist on any other regular day, when you’re not smoking weed and hanging casually.

You’ve always thought of Suguru as being like a quiet storm. Inaudibly tormented.

“You seem out of it,” he murmurs, and instead of passing you the burning joint, he parts your lips with his ring finger and places it between them. You inhale, then smile back as you catch the joint between your fingers and blow the smoke away from his face.

“I’m fine.”

Beside Geto, Satoru yawns soundly before letting his head flop onto his shoulder.

“This is starting to make me sleepy,” he mumbles, and you give him a light shove in the hip with your knee in response.

“Don’t. You literally promised you wouldn’t fall asleep like you did last time.”

A playful smile tugs at the corner of his lip as he looks over at you, the crystalline sea in his eyes glowing charmingly in the light coming from the buildings outside. “Promises are meant to be broken.”

Geto huffs a laugh from his nose as he wriggles his shoulder lightly, jerking Gojo’s head a little.

“Could be the smartest thing you’ve ever said.”

They inevitably start bantering after Suguru’s witty remark, low voices and giggling playing out like sounds of a distant radio in your fogged-up head.

As cheesy as it may sound, you’re glad you’re here: between them, smoking, saying stupid shit and laughing when there’s nothing to laugh about. It feels like you belong to them in the same way you belong to a certain place—like that particular spot you’ve always cherished as a kid, even though you were never able to pinpoint what made it so special in your heart.

You’re about to say something as your eyes flutter open (when did you even close them?) and you sit up, only to see Gojo and Geto with their lips intertwined. Any trace of thought is wiped clean from your mind.

The slowness and touchiness of it all suggest that this is definitely not their first time doing this.

One of Geto’s hands is cupping Gojo’s cheek while the other makes its way up and through his white locks. The gesture itself is almost as intimate as the kiss they’re sharing.

If weed had already begun to dry out your mouth, you’re now certain that said dryness comes from an entirely different feeling.

It’s when one of them hums something close to a soft moan into the other’s mouth that your stomach curls and tightens and suddenly you’re way too aware of your own labored breathing.

Have you smoked too much…? Maybe you’re hallucinating and this isn’t real.

But what if it is real? Are you supposed to leave them alone? You feel like you shouldn’t be witnessing this. There are so many emotions swirling inside of you that it’s impossible to discern which is which.

You put the joint down in the ashtray between you three, deciding that it’s best if you just go drink some water and maybe when you’ll be back you’ll see that none of it happened and that it was all made up by your intoxicated imagination.

That was the plan until you felt a hand on your thigh—that being Satoru’s. When you turn to look at him, he looks beautifully disheveled in the same way organized chaos is, like in those apocalyptic paintings of the nineteenth century.

“Stay,” is all he says. It’s not exactly a plead, but it’s definitely not a command either. As if he knew you’d comply either way.

Before you can muster up any sort of response, another hand—Suguru’s—crawls up the back of your neck and pulls you in. You don’t even try to resist since you already know that you just can’t. They’ve always felt ‘magnetic’ in a way, as if some unnamed force of sorts kept on tugging you towards their orbit: once you’re in its epicenter, there’s no way out. Not that you ever tried to find one.

In a much similar way, you yield to their touch and let them draw your body between their pleasingly warm ones. You feel fuzzy and tingly all over, unsure if it’s because of the drug working up your system or if it’s because of them simultaneously sinking their heads in the sides of your neck. Their breaths are warm and their lips wet as they pepper open-mouthed kisses and the occasional gentle bite up and down your feverish skin; you can do nothing but melt into them, arms slowly coming up to wrap around their shoulders as you sigh.

You should be wondering if they were casually making out just because they’re high (that can happen, right?) or if they have a ‘thing’ going on—and if they do, why didn’t they tell you? You should also be asking yourself why they made you stay, and even more so, why they’re kissing you now.

You really, really should.

But reality is, whatever this is feels too good to be questioned.

You force yourself to keep your eyes open, suddenly afraid that once the drug’s effect is over you won’t be able to remember any of this. You need to commit every single second to memory. You need to know that this is real and tangible.

Maybe that’s why you pull on Gojo’s hair. Not roughly, but definitely hard enough to make him feel something, given how he hums against you. He glances up at you, then traces his mouth all the way up your cheek in a damp trail of scattered kisses until he takes an unexpected turn towards your lips instead.

Satoru’s tongue is in your mouth before your body even reacts to the sudden intrusion. He tugs at your t-shirt, drawing you closer until you’re facing each other completely. He shifts to sit on his knees without breaking the kiss and so do you. His arms naturally find purchase around your waist, like you’ve done this a hundred times before. He grips you tighter for a brief moment and scoops you up so you’re settled in his lap, each knee beside his hips.

He spills languid moans into your mouth, forcing you to drink them in, making your stomach do weird flips with every noise. He’s all but gentle with it—he’s slow and sensual but increasingly intense and sloppy, as if he’s getting impatient. It’s the kind of pace difficult to keep up with when you’re high. You wonder if he’s as messy when sober.

When your senses become so overwhelmed that your ears begin to ring, you feel Suguru’s chest lean against your back. He applies enough pressure for you to press tighter against Satoru; he’s holding you together to make sure you don’t melt away. He works lingering kisses behind your ear, earning a shiver out of you.

Your hands instinctively come up to hold onto Gojo’s shoulders as you pull away from his lips to catch your breath, a single string of spit being the only thing connecting you two before it inevitably snaps. His chest rises and falls heavily with every breath, forehead dipping to rest against your shoulder.

One of Geto’s hands reaches up to run its fingers through his silky hair just to tug at it the next second, making him look up.

There’s something punishing in the way Geto catches his lips next, crushing you between their bodies with the force with which he leans in. Something primordial and raw that you’re not part of, and aren’t meant to be.

You can hear Gojo’s moans muffled by Geto’s mouth when his hips start bucking up against yours.

That’s when you see it for how it truly is: they’re ruining each other through you.

As of now, you’re a tool to them.

You don’t know if it should, but it indeed turns you on.

Your mouth finds Gojo’s neck to kiss and suckle on as your hips move in tandem with his, making your ass bump against Geto at the same time, who soon catches the rhythm. They’re both hard—you can feel it—and it’s driving you insane, almost as much as the sounds they make. Your brain could melt out of your ears at any moment at this rate.

After they break their kiss, they both lean onto you, panting and seemingly exhausted if it weren’t for their hips still incessantly rolling up into you. You bite down your lip to suppress any obscene sound threatening to spill out, but Geto grabs you by the chin with a firm hand, turns your head towards his, and presses his lips to yours.

His kiss is searing, even vicious in a way. He’s relishing the way you taste and the way Satoru tastes on you, that much you can tell. However, deep inside, your gut tells you that he wants you to know that Satoru tastes better on him.

You involuntarily let out a whimper as your lips part further, allowing full entrance to his tongue. You meet him halfway, letting the wet smacking noises echo in your ears.

You’ve rarely witnessed anything so primal from Geto, and even then it probably wouldn’t compare.

When he lets you go with a huff, leaving you with numb lips and out of breath yet again, he draws away from you and you let yourself peel off of Gojo in turn. In that brief instant, their eyes meet: a midnight sky clashes with a midday one. They share a look—a specific one: the kind that says things too heavy for words to hold. Yet, it remains undecipherable to you. It’s exclusive to them.

You can only sit alone with the conclusion that yes, you do belong to them, but they’re not yours.

They’re each other’s.