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Gojo Satoru doesn’t follow anyone. On the field he’s a force to be reckoned with. In class, he coasts through with ease. At parties, he commands everybody's attention, with everyone orbiting around him. He’s the man other men want to be, and women want to be with.
Yet, none of that matters when he’s with Geto Suguru.
Suguru’s reputation is equally notorious, but for different reasons. Where Satoru shines brightly, Suguru remains in the shadows. Black clothes, heavy eyeliner, multitude of piercings, and a notebook full of sketches he never bothers to explain. People whisper about him—strange, reclusive, alluring. He doesn’t demand attention, nor does he want any, but he knows how to hold it.
It’s that contrast that has Satoru’s pulse racing when he approaches the man's dorm. Knocking first, before seeing himself in.
Inside, the room is thick with remnants of smoke and incense. Warm, stuffy, hazy. Satoru’s eyes adjust as he moves toward Suguru, who’s sprawled across his bed, long dark hair spilling around his shoulders, a joint burning low between his fingers. His lips curl into a smile—he was expecting him.
“You’re early,” Suguru says. His tone questioning, but certain.
Satoru grins, though it slightly wavers at the edges, adrenaline starting to course through his body. “Maybe I had nowhere better to be.”
Suguru doesn’t bite at the obvious bait. He knows why Satoru’s here. He takes another drag from the joint, bloodshot eyes lingering on Satoru’s mouth before exhaling slowly. Then, breaking the moment, “Sit.” He gestures to the space beside him.
Satoru’s body moves before his brain can register the command. He can’t help but follow Suguru’s lead.
The single-sized mattress dips under Satoru’s weight, but Suguru doesn't give him time to settle. He swings one leg over until he's straddling Satoru’s thighs—strong and sturdy, Suguru notes, tucking the thought away for later. He sits on his lap with the ease of someone who knows he belongs there. Satoru stiffens, instinctively leaning back, his hands landing on Suguru’s hips.
“What are y—”
“Relax, Satoru.” Suguru’s hand comes up, fingers curling firmly around his jaw. “Open.” He takes a long, deep drag from his joint.
The command feels heavier than usual, but Satoru obeys. Smoke curls into his mouth, hot and dizzying. Their eyes don’t break contact, Suguru’s fingers don’t let go either. Satoru laughs roughly, words catching on a cough. “Shit, that’s—different.”
“Breathe it in,” Suguru murmurs, thumb brushing the hollow of his throat, “Let it settle.”
The effects hit faster than Satoru would like to admit. Limbs loosening, skin humming with sensitivity, mind floating. The press of Suguru’s thigh against his own is enough to set him alight.
Another drag. Another shotgun.
Their lips hover millimetres apart, and Satoru finds himself chasing the smoke, chest pushing forward before he realises. Their mouths meet, and Suguru rewards him with a low, satisfied hum.
“Good boy,” Suguru teases, lips ghosting over his, “Again.”
Satoru laughs, hoping it sounds confident, but it’s shaky. His head knocks against the headboard. “You like bossing me around, huh?”
“Yes,” The answer is swift and resolute. The power Suguru feels in making the ‘almighty’ Gojo Satoru pliant in his hands is unmatched. His hips shift, pressing down in a slow grind that elicits a gasp, “And you like it too. Now—open.”
Another shotgun.
“Fuck—,” Satoru’s hands grip Suguru’s waist, clutching at the fabric, “You’re—fuck, you’re gonna ruin me.”
“Good. Let me,” Suguru’s voice is firm but low, before taking another drag and initiating another smoke-heavy kiss. His exhale shudders slightly against Satoru’s lips, betraying the facade he’s put up, “You’re making me feel it too.”
Through the haze, Satoru peers up. He can see it now, the faint blush across Suguru’s cheeks, the internal struggle between his lust and desire for control. He isn’t unbothered, just better at holding it in. The realisation only winds Satoru tighter, his cock throbbing and aching for more.
They fall into a predictable rhythm. Shotgun, Kiss, Grind. Each pass bleeds into the next until Satoru can’t tell whether he’s chasing the smoke or the warmth of Suguru’s mouth.
Their mouths move in tandem, hungrier, needier than their last kiss. What starts with the taste of smoke quickly turns heated and wet, lips sliding with the kind of urgency that doesn’t leave room for thought. Satoru tilts his head, chasing deeper, tongue brushing against Suguru’s. God, he can taste everything—the remnants of weed, the warmth of Suguru’s mouth, the faint tang of metal from his lip ring.
Suguru rewards his eagerness with a soft moan, one hand sliding up into Satoru’s hair, tugging hard enough to pull a groan out of him. He kisses like he commands, firm with no room for challenge, making Satoru follow his pace even when he’s desperate to go faster. Every time Satoru pushes too hard, Suguru pulls back, leaving him chasing, whining, pathetic, until he falls in line again.
Satoru can’t stop himself from touching. Hands roaming from Suguru’s waist up to his neck, then down again, gripping tight, like he can’t decide where he needs him the most. His thighs twitch with the strain of holding back but his body is moving on instinct, grinding up into Suguru for more friction.
They break away momentarily so that Suguru can murmur against his lips, “That’s it, just like that.”
The words sink into Satoru’s chest like a wildfire, his moan swallowed by Suguru’s mouth as they kiss again, slower and deeper, tongues dancing, breath hitching. The haze blurs everything except the pressure of Suguru straddling him, grinding his ass over Satoru’s hard cock.
His moans slip free unguarded, every thrust up into Suguru’s body ever more desperate than the last. Satoru doesn’t remember how exactly he got involved with Suguru or what they ‘are’, but Satoru knows there’s nowhere else he’d rather be right now than in this room, making out with the most gorgeous boy he's ever seen.
“Harder,” Suguru commands, hips rolling down to meet Satoru’s urgency, “Don’t hold back, Satoru. Chase it—chase me.”
He obeys, of course. How could he resist him? He might be the stereotypical jock, but he’s not stupid. Satoru thrusts up eagerly, clumsy in a way that isn’t like him. He’s overwhelmed. By the haze, the weight of Suguru, by the sheer intensity of his gaze. The heat in his stomach builds too fast, his body bowing under the onslaught.
Satoru comes undone with a choked sound. It’s sudden, embarrassing. Strings of cum paint the inside of his boxers as his hands grip Suguru’s waist with a vice-like grip—wanting, no, needing to have the man as close as possible. His mind continues floating as waves of pleasure continue washing over him, he wanders briefly to what it might feel like if he came inside Suguru.
Suguru doesn’t move away. He keeps Satoru pinned, hips grinding to coax guide him through his climax, foreheads almost touching, his own breath uneven despite the smirk tugging at his lips.
“Already?” he teases softly. A small laugh escaping him.
Satoru huffs and slumps against the headboard, chest heaving, pupils blown, sweat prickling his skin. “Shut up”, he mutters weakly, though the corners of his mouth curl upwards, embarrassment peaking through.
Closing the distance, Suguru leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of his jaw before whispering,
“Next time you’ll last longer.”