Work Text:
The recording light blinked red.
Nobara leaned into frame, grinning like she’d just caught gossip worth blackmail.
“Alright, people,” she whispered, then immediately snorted. “It’s Kugisaki. Welcome back to Pro Sorcerers Off Duty, where we prove Japan’s strongest are also Japan’s dumbest. Today’s challenge? Cookies. From a box. While missing basic human senses.”
She angled the camera toward the kitchen.
Counters wiped down. Mixing bowls stacked neatly.
A sad little box of cookie mix perched on the counter like it already knew it was doomed.
“First up,” she said, swinging the lens to Yuji, “we’ve got Itadori, representing Team Deaf.”
Yuji had his earbuds in, music faintly bleeding through.
He noticed the camera and immediately waved, beaming like this was the Olympics. Two thumbs up. Champion energy.
“He thinks this is a fitness vlog,” Nobara muttered. “Golden retriever with delusions of competence.”
She panned right. Megumi was standing in front of Gojo, looping a scarf around his mouth with solemn focus.
Gojo tilted down obligingly, eyes creasing with a smile. His hands settled on Megumi’s waist, thumbs brushing lightly against the muscle there.
“I’m not gonna miss the talking,” Megumi said, voice flat. His mouth curved just a little. “But I am gonna miss your mouth.”
Gojo’s eyes lit up instantly.
He leaned down without hesitation, catching Megumi’s mouth through the fabric.
The kiss was clumsy, muffled—but Megumi didn’t stop him. He kissed him back, steady hands tying the scarf into place without even looking.
When he pulled away, Gojo whined low in his throat, hands sliding to Megumi’s hips, trying to pull him closer.
Megumi leaned up, lips brushing his ear. His voice dropped to a whisper meant for Gojo alone. “If you behave, maybe I’ll give you something worth whining about later.”
Gojo froze for a beat, then his laugh rumbled, muffled under the scarf, heat sparking in his eyes.
Nobara groaned. “We’re filming, in case you forgot.”
“I didn’t,” Megumi said, not stepping back.
Gojo’s smile curved under the fabric, obvious even without sound. He only leaned away when Megumi nudged him, faint color touching his ears.
“Anyway,” Nobara cut in. “Japan’s Strongest is now mute. Honestly a public service.”
That left Megumi.
Gojo picked up one of his blindfolds like it was holy work. He tied it around Megumi’s head with unnecessary care, adjusting the knot once, then again, knuckles grazing his cheek.
Megumi huffed, arms crossed, patience thinning. “Get on with it.”
“Done,” Gojo murmured, satisfied. “Perfect.”
Megumi scoffed, expression flat. “Quiet,” he said. “That was your last word.”
Gojo’s muffled hum didn’t sound the least bit regretful.
“Disgusting. And finally,” Nobara narrated, zooming on Megumi, “Team Blind. Megumi ‘This Is Beneath Me’ Fushiguro. Watch him put his trust in the man who never shuts up and the one who never listens.”
“I can still hear you,” Megumi said, blindfold in place.
“Cry about it.”
Yuji suddenly bounded into frame with the butter clutched triumphantly. “Alright, team! We’ve got this! Eggs, butter, tray—boom! Cookies. Easy!”
“Why are you yelling at us?” Megumi asked.
“Because he can’t hear himself,” Nobara said.
Yuji squinted hard at her lips, nodding slowly like he was cracking a code. Then his face lit up. “Oh—you want some hand soap?”
Nobara blinked, then broke into a grin. “You’re such an idiot.”
Yuji’s eyes widened. He kept staring at her mouth. “An idiot?! That’s what you said?”
Megumi angled his head like he was tracking prey. “Somebody stop him.”
Gojo slid between them, silent but smug, holding the cookie mix like a peace treaty.
He glanced at the instructions, then at the chaos in front of him, eyes gleaming like he was already planning trouble.
Nobara cackled. The camera shook in her hands. “This is going to be a masterpiece.”
*
Gojo tapped the back of the cookie mix box and angled it toward Yuji.
Yuji squinted, nodded like he’d just unlocked hidden knowledge—then grabbed the entire bag of powdered mix out of the box.
Gojo blinked, apprehensive but completely powerless to what he was about to do.
“Alright!” Yuji announced proudly, far too loud. “Step one—Dry stuff!”
Half the bag cascaded into the bowl in one dramatic sweep.
Flour exploded upward in a powdery cloud.
Megumi reeled back, coughing. “What the—what just hit me?! Who threw that?”
“It’s flour,” Nobara answered with a giggle, trying to hold the camera steady. “Relax. You’re not under attack, just surrounded by idiots.”
Megumi wiped his sleeve across his face, murder in his eyes. “Was it Itadori? I’ll kill him.”
Blindfolded, Megumi swung at the air like he could fight particles themselves. His hand clipped a measuring cup, sending it skittering across the tile and vanishing under a cabinet.
Yuji was oblivious. “Now we need… butter. It says ‘softened,’ so I guess I’ll just squish it?”
“Stop talking,” Megumi snapped. “You’re too loud.”
“I can’t hear you, but I’m gonna assume that’s encouragement!” Yuji said cheerfully.
Megumi growled under his breath, fumbling across the counter like a man hunting a ghost—until a cool hand caught his forearm.
He froze.
Even blindfolded, he knew that touch. Gojo’s fingers always carried that faint chill.
His grip was calm. Like he was steering a skittish cat instead of Japan’s grumpiest sorcerer.
Without speaking, Gojo slid his hand down to Megumi’s wrist and tugged, guiding him back toward the bowl.
Megumi grumbled but followed. “If this turns into a food fight, I’m leaving.”
Gojo’s hand brushed his side in passing—a grounding tether disguised as nothing.
Megumi caught his wrist before he could slip away. “You’re enjoying this,” he said. “Me flailing around like a moron.”
Gojo leaned close enough for their shoulders to press, chest shaking with a muffled laugh.
Megumi’s mouth curved despite himself. “Thought so.”
The sound steadied him, even when Yuji dropped a stick of butter into the bowl with a wet thud.
“And now we mix!” Yuji cheered. “Do we have a whisk? Or should I just—”
Gojo slid smoothly between them and caught Yuji by the wrist, shaking his head in a clear don’t even think about it.
“Touch that dough with your hands and I’ll break every finger,” Megumi warned, still holding onto Gojo.
He didn’t need sight to know how bad it looked: flour fog in the air, Yuji stomping around, utensils clattering.
But Gojo’s presence kept his temper from boiling over.
Something pressed into his palm.
A whisk.
Megumi curled his grip around it. The bowl was waiting—Gojo’s hand steady at the rim, guiding.
Megumi began to stir, rough at first, until the softest breath of laughter from Gojo reminded him to ease up.
“…This better be edible,” Megumi muttered, loosening his wrist.
Flour streaked his sleeves. Chocolate chips rattled across the counter. Yuji’s music leaked faintly.
But all Megumi registered was Gojo’s hand at his back. Ridiculous, how safe that made him feel.
Nobara laughed again. “I’ve seen cursed spirits less pathetic than this.”
Yuji bounded back with a cookie sheet in one hand and eggs in the other. “Okay, cracking these straight in!”
“No, you’re not,” Megumi barked.
Gojo was there again, catching Yuji lightly by the elbow. Patient. Redirecting him to the prep area before setting the tray down in front of Megumi instead.
The dough was… marginally mixed. It smelled like sugar and regret.
Gojo scooped a neat portion, then guided Megumi’s hand to mimic him. Two cookies took shape in unison, no words needed.
Yuji dumped the entire bag of chocolate chips into the bowl.
Megumi groaned. “Heard that. Toru, he’s sabotaging us.”
*
Gojo stood at the sink, rinsing the whisk under warm water, humming off-key behind the scarf.
Yuji held the cookie sheet in both hands like it was a trophy. “Nobara, Nobara—watch this,” he called, grinning like a kid about to pull off a magic trick.
Nobara groaned but moved in closer, adjusting the camera to get a dramatic angle as Yuji crouched in front of the oven.
“Gotta nail the tray slide,” he whispered, completely forgetting he still couldn’t hear himself.
The oven door creaked open. Steam rolled upward.
Yuji leaned in, focused.
A few feet away, Megumi turned toward the sound of the sink, one hand brushing the counter, blindfold still tied tight.
He stepped forward—straight toward the open oven door.
Gojo turned just in time, eyes flashing wide, and lunged.
One arm wrapped tight around Megumi’s waist, yanking him backward just before his shins could collide with the hot metal.
Megumi stumbled, caught against Gojo’s chest.
Yuji slid the cookie sheet in with a flourish and kicked the door closed. “Boom. Nailed it.”
Nobara didn’t respond, her eyes locked on something behind him.
Yuji looked up, grin fading when he saw Gojo holding Megumi like he’d just pulled him out of a collapsing building.
For once, Gojo didn’t laugh. His hands stayed firm, almost too tight. “Careful,” he murmured, voice low enough that only Megumi heard it.
“You okay?” Megumi asked, confused.
Nobara lowered the camera slightly, her expression tight. “Shit, Megs. You almost walked right into the oven door.”
Megumi’s fingers curled against Gojo’s shirt, heart racing even as his voice stayed calm. “I’m fine.”
Gojo’s grip didn’t loosen. “You weren’t about to be.” His hand hovered at Megumi’s hip like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.
Yuji blinked, guilt flashing. “Holy shit—sorry. I didn’t even see him.”
The kitchen was quiet for a beat.
Then Nobara coughed. “Okay, that’s your one life-threatening moment for this video. No more near-deaths in the baking arc, got it?”
*
The kitchen looked wrecked. Flour coated the counters, a mixing bowl had toppled sideways, and Megumi’s blindfold sat crooked across his face.
Gojo’s scarf bore a smear of dough from Yuji’s spatula swing. Yuji himself had chocolate chips stuck in his hair like a lopsided crown, looking smug about it.
Megumi planted his hands on the counter and let out a long breath. “This is worse than any mission I’ve ever been on.”
The steady hum of the oven filled the quiet. Nobara’s lens whirred as she zoomed.
“We survived,” she declared. “Barely. I expect hazard pay.”
Yuji pulled his earbuds out, smiling at her.
“We’re not done until they’re baked,” Megumi muttered. “And I still don’t trust Yuji.”
“I heard that.” Yuji whined. “And I was banned from the oven, thank you very much.”
“Smartest decision all day,” Megumi said.
“So far,” Gojo corrected.
Yuji crossed his arms, sending chocolate chips raining to the floor. “Fine. I’ll just document our genius. This is history in the making.”
Gojo slipped past Megumi to rinse a spoon, hand grazing his side on the way.
Megumi tilted his head. “I always know when it’s you.”
Gojo hummed, pretending not to hear, shoulders loosening anyway.
“Doesn’t matter if you’re quiet. Or if your hands aren’t freezing. I’d still know.”
Gojo paused at the sink, then smiled under the scarf. He didn’t turn, just let Megumi’s hand find his sleeve.
“This whole thing’s stupid,” Megumi said, thumb brushing fabric. “But… I’d do it again. If you asked.”
Gojo threaded their fingers together and gave a gentle squeeze.
The moment lasted—until the oven beeped.
Yuji shot out of his chair. “Cookies!”
Nobara’s laugh cracked. “Finally. I was about to eat the raw dough.”
Gojo squeezed Megumi’s hand once more, then slipped free and went to the oven.
“Don’t let me smell smoke,” Megumi warned.
“Wow,” Gojo said lightly, sliding the tray out with easy precision. “Such confidence in me.”
Steam curled up from the tray. Golden. Edible.
Nobara zoomed in, voice dripping with awe. “Ladies and gentlemen… We’ve achieved the bare minimum. Incredible.”
Yuji leaned over Gojo’s shoulder, wide-eyed. “Science works!”
Megumi snorted. “Miracle’s more like it.”
The cookies came out lumpy, burnt on one side, but technically edible.
Yuji clapped like he’d just solved world hunger. “We did it. Oh my god—we actually did it.”
“You’re banned from my kitchen forever,” Megumi muttered. “All kitchens. Everywhere. Even the ones you haven’t discovered yet.”
Gojo leaned against the counter, calm as ever, one hand settling at Megumi’s lower back.
Flour still hung in the air. Nobara was still filming, though her grin had gone intent. Yuji slipped his phone into his pocket, suddenly quiet.
Megumi didn’t notice.
“Can I take this blindfold off yet?” he grumbled, tugging at the edge near his temple.
“Yeah,” Nobara said quickly, her voice a little too shaky.
Megumi yanked it off with a huff. The kitchen came back in a blur. “Feels like I’ve been in the dark for an hour—”
He froze.
Gojo was kneeling in the middle of the kitchen, pants smudged white, scarf loose around his neck. The black cloth that had gagged him earlier now draped like a ribbon.
In his hands: a ring box, open.
Megumi’s brain stopped. “…What is this.”
Behind him, Nobara made a strangled noise. Yuji clapped both hands over his mouth.
But Gojo stayed steady, holding the ring higher, eyes calm. Certain.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Megumi muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Covered in flour, yelling at Yuji—that’s when you decide to do this?”
Gojo’s smile tugged slow and certain.
“You set me up,” Megumi accused. “You were laughing under that scarf the whole time.” He shot a glare at the others. “And you two knew?”
Yuji nodded so hard he nearly toppled. Nobara sniffled, wiping her face.
“Unbelievable,” Megumi growled. “Whole damn conspiracy. You’ve never been quiet a day in your damn life, and now you’re not gonna say anything?”
Still, he stepped forward. Flour streaked his arms. His hand went to the back of his neck.
Finally, he met Gojo’s eyes.
“I don’t do cheesy,” Megumi said, voice rough. “I’m not kneeling. I’m not writing poetry. And I’m not crying on camera.”
His scowl deepened.
“But you’re the only person in the world I’d let get away with this. So yeah. It’s yes, you manipulative idiot.”
Gojo’s breath left him like it had been caged for years.
He rose without fumbling, slid the ring onto Megumi’s hand, and lingered there, thumb brushing over his knuckle.
Megumi leaned forward, forehead brushing his. “You make me feel ridiculous.”
Gojo’s smile gentled. “You make me feel lucky.”
Megumi’s lips curved despite himself. “…I hate you.”
“Love you too,” Gojo murmured.
The kiss was soft, awkward only because Megumi forgot he still had an oven mitt dangling from one hand. Neither of them cared.
Nobara sniffled louder. “This is the best day.”
Megumi broke the kiss just long enough to glare. “Turn the camera off or start planning your funeral.”
Nobara sniffled louder. “Okay, but say it like you mean it, Shakespeare.”
Megumi’s eye twitched. “I will throw this oven mitt at your head.”
Gojo caught his hand again, threading their fingers together with maddening ease. Still smiling, still entirely unbothered.
Megumi sighed, long-suffering. “Fine. I love you. You happy now?”
“Ecstatic,” Gojo murmured, leaning in to press their foreheads together. “And wildly turned on.”
“Gross,” Nobara called. “Cutting the feed. We’re done here.”
*
The cookies—miraculously—didn’t poison anyone.
Yuji grabbed two straight off the tray, burned his fingers, and shoved them into his mouth anyway.
“Hot—hot—worth it,” he mumbled around crumbs, already reaching for a third.
Gojo wasn’t much better, leaning half over the counter, scarf slipping loose as he devoured his share like the tray might vanish if he blinked.
“You two are animals,” Nobara announced, arms crossed. She swung the camera onto Megumi, zooming mercilessly. “And look at this—Fushiguro, almost smiling. A whole engagement and we get one facial-expression upgrade. Historic. Truly historic.”
Megumi exhaled, steady. He didn’t need to answer Nobara or react to Yuji’s antics.
Even blindfolded in the chaos, he’d known where Gojo was. He hadn’t needed sight, or sound, or words. He always knew. Always trusted.
Now, with the ring cool against his skin, Megumi lifted his gaze.
Gojo was still laughing, eyes bright, certain—as if he’d never doubted Megumi would say yes.
Cookies could burn. Flour could cover everything. The kitchen—or the world—could fall apart around them.
And still, Megumi would find him. Every time.
*
Yuji made a panicked sound. “Nope. I am leaving. I am out.”
“I was still rolling!” Nobara barked, one eye still in the camera. “Do not traumatize the nation!”
“Too late,” Gojo said, voice dipping to something positively indecent as he tugged Megumi closer. “I think it’s time we consummated the baking challenge.”
“What does that even mean?” Yuji yelped, already halfway out the door.
Megumi tilted his head. “You want me bent over the kitchen island? That it?”
Gojo blinked—visibly delighted. “I mean, I was joking, but—”
“Goodbye!” Nobara shouted, slamming the camera onto the counter like it burned her. “You freaks can have the kitchen, the house, and the last of my sanity.”
The door slammed behind them.
Silence returned to the kitchen.
Gojo’s grin stretched wide. “Well, Mr. Fushi-Gojo...”
Megumi shoved him against the counter, lips brushing his ear. “I’m already yours,” he said, breath low. “But if you need proof, I can leave marks.”
*
The kitchen floor was warm under their bodies. Or maybe that was just them—heat still coiling through every nerve, breath still uneven, hearts still trying to find a rhythm that wasn’t pure chaos.
Megumi lay sprawled on his back, bare chest rising in slow, shallow pants.
His hair stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat, and a smear of chocolate had somehow found its way to his collarbone. His thighs still trembled faintly, muscles twitching with aftershocks.
Gojo hovered above him, one elbow braced on the tile, the other hand splayed wide across Megumi’s ribs.
That hand moved slowly, thumb brushing flour from his skin, then dipping low to stroke a mark he’d left just minutes ago—dark and blooming near his hip.
He leaned in, pressing a kiss to Megumi’s sternum. Then another, higher. Then just below his throat, lips soft and slow and lingering.
“Still with me?” Gojo murmured, voice low and hoarse.
Megumi groaned. “Unfortunately.”
Gojo huffed a laugh against his skin, kissing up the column of his throat. “You look very with me. Sexy, wrecked, possibly feral…”
“Sticky,” Megumi corrected, dragging a hand through the flour-caked mess beside them. “I feel like I rolled through a bakery and lost the fight.”
Gojo kissed the edge of his jaw, all soft fondness. “You’re stunning.”
“I have cookie dough on my ass.”
“Even hotter.”
Megumi tilted his head toward him, mouth curving despite himself. “I hate you.”
Gojo smiled, brushing the backs of his fingers along Megumi’s flushed cheek. “Love you too.”
A long beat passed.
Gojo watched his breathing steady, the sharpness behind his eyes dimming into something calmer. Softer.
Then Megumi’s hand slid up, fingers wrapping around Gojo’s forearm lazily. “That was good,” he said, voice still rough. “Like, really good. I don’t want to give you a compliment, but.”
Gojo nuzzled into the hollow beneath his ear. “You don’t have to say it. I know.”
Megumi’s voice dropped. “Gonna make you earn it. Every time.”
Gojo grinned. “That a challenge, Mr. Gojo?”
“Not taking your name.”
“I’m hyphenating. We’ve been over this.”
Megumi let out a breathy half-laugh, then groaned when Gojo kissed the base of his throat again, licking a line across skin slick with sweat and sugar. “Stop it. I’m sore.”
“Good sore?” Gojo murmured, trailing kisses to his shoulder.
Megumi hummed, somewhere between smug and sleepy. “You’re on thin ice.”
“Should I make cookies on it?”
“I’m going to smother you with a baking tray.”
“...Hot.”
They lay tangled for a beat longer, limbs heavy and bodies marked, surrounded by the absolute wreckage of their kitchen.
*
Gojo stood and stretched with a groan, arms rising high above his head until his spine cracked loud enough to echo off the kitchen tile.
His hair stuck out at all angles, and his skin was dusted with flour, chocolate, and hickeys—like some deranged pastry chef had tried to decorate him with lust and violence.
A faint red scratch ran down one side of his ribs. Another curved over his shoulder. He didn’t seem to mind.
“Okay,” Gojo said, totally unbothered, already launching into a monologue. “We need to talk wedding colors. Not just the basic ones, like theme colors. And you know Nanami’s gonna pretend to be chill but internally combust when we ask him to wear lavender—”
Megumi didn’t answer.
He was sitting up now, knees bent, still half-covered in flour and sweat. His elbow rested on the cabinet behind him, eyes fixed on the man in front of him.
Because Gojo was laughing, and naked, and ridiculous.
Megumi’s eyes traced him from head to toe—his chest rising with breath, his hair catching the light, that goddamn smile that never wavered, even when everything else did.
It hadn’t stopped. Not once. Not since the day he took Megumi in.
And now he was standing barefoot in their kitchen, half-covered in cookie dough and love, planning a future like it was inevitable.
Like it always had been.
Megumi blinked, once. His throat worked.
He still didn’t speak.
“Babe?” Gojo glanced over, grinning like a fool. “Are you having a post-coital stroke or are you just really into my wedding planning?”
Megumi rolled his eyes—lightly. Without force.
Then he said, very softly, “You’re really something.”
Gojo paused. His grin softened.
“I mean it,” Megumi added. “You… You’ve always been here. Even when I didn’t make it easy.”
Gojo’s smile grew slower. Warmer. “That’s because you’re worth it.”
Megumi let out a breath, quiet and fond and a little exasperated. “I guess I’m the lucky one, huh?”
“You are,” Gojo said instantly. “You get all this.” He gestured to himself, absolutely filthy and somehow still stupidly handsome.
Megumi barked a short laugh. “Shut up.”
But he didn’t look away.
How could he?
***