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“you are infuriating, satoru.” geto growls.
gojo, unable to feel uncomfortable in any situation ever, just makes a satisfied sound against the wall, his hipbones lodged uncomfortably between the concrete and geto’s own.
“and that’s what’s getting you all riled up, hm, suguru?” he counters, voice sickly sweet in the way he knows grinds geto’s gears. “you’ve got your hand on my pants just because i’m so— ah — good at ticking you off?” his snark earns him a grunt from geto and a shove- his shoulder bumps the wall awkwardly- and then there’s a hand in his hair pressing his cheek into it as well and that’s new.
“shut up.” suguru snarls, venomous like the curse he had swallowed this morning, which put him in a nasty mood already, and then all gojo had to do was show up and put his stupid teeth on display and yap about his long face bringing the whole city down, suguru, and that was it for geto’s thinning patience. a few hallways, a few sharp turns and a storeroom door slamming closed later, geto’s set on teaching gojo a fucking lesson, be it by the roots of his stupid hair or the lapels of his stupid shirt.
he pries gojo’s lips to open wider and instantly presses two fingers against his tongue. gojo, in turn, hums in exaggerated satisfaction and hollows his cheeks, getting the digits wet. closes his eyes like he’s getting a kick out of this, too. somewhere in his mind, geto gets even more pissed that even this can’t catch gojo off guard, that even this is indulging him.
no matter what, satoru gojo always gets his way. geto wants to throttle him.
(though that’d probably be a win for him, too. he can almost imagine it— his hands around gojo’s throat, squeezing, gojo’s own hands scrambling for him to let go, his half-lidded eyes, his stupid, cocky grin—)
in front of him, gojo whines, clearly impatient. geto clicks his tongue, annoyed again. “no one let you complain.” he snaps, presses his fingers further down gojo’s throat until he gags, then pulls them out. gojo gasps, then turns towards geto, their eyes locking. “fortunately,” baby blues glint mischievously. “i am extremely talented at complaining when i don’t need to.” there’s spit trailing from his lips to geto’s fingers. geto hates how it makes him feel. “you of all people should know that, suguru.” gojo singsongs his name and geto chokes down violent impulses.
geto chooses not to respond, bites down hard on gojo’s exposed collar instead. him and his stupid, wide-collared shirts, always further down one shoulder than the other, showing off his throat. gojo yelps, then melts into his touch, leaning into geto. his hands scramble against geto’s pants, searching for his belt or his zipper, whichever is closest, until geto pins both his wrists to his back. gojo whines again, quickly turning breathy when geto’s teeth scratch his earlobe. “suguru,” he pleads. “suguru, please.”
“please what, satoru? what do you want?” geto’s grip tightens on his wrists. “i’ve barely started and you already want more? greedy bitch.” he tuts. gojo shakes, ears going red. geto makes a mental note of his reaction.
there’s nothing sweeter than the most powerful man in the world writhing in your grip, geto thinks. he brings his hand to gojo’s neck, tips his head back. gojo’s wide eyes meet his, pupils blown, lips parted. he almost looks pretty. still more of a taunt than a genuine compliment, but geto supposes he’ll take anything in the state he’s in. hilarious to find out that a few choice words and some rough treatement here and there is all it takes for satoru gojo to melt in your hands.
geto leans down and slots their mouths together, sloppy and sharp right from the start, and presses his thigh between gojo’s legs at the same time. gojo moans, unabashed, into his mouth. geto bites down on his lower lip in return.
he’s had to learn the hard way that gojo has absolutely zero shame, but he’s not even sure if he’s locked the door or not. which storeroom are they in, anyway?
he presses himself harder into gojo, trapping his hands behind his back, and uses his free hand to ruck his shirt up. he digs his nails into gojo’s soft waist, reveling in the way his breath hitches. he pulls him higher on his thigh, then back again, and gojo claps his palm to his mouth, eyes impossibly wide. he looks at geto, and there is a plea in his expression, a wild want, like his cocky facade has been ripped off to reveal pure desire. geto almost delights in it. he doesn’t let his enthusiasm show, though, running his fingers along gojo’s pants with a bored expression. “hmm?” he teases. “gonna beg?”
gojo wastes no time. “please,” he shakes. “suguru, suguru, please, i’ll do anything, just—”
suguru cuts him off with a bruising kiss, pulling gojo up his thigh again, harder this time. “anything?” he drawls, voice silky.
gojo sobs. “yes, yes, yes, please, anything you want,” he moans again, desperate.
there’s one thing in the world that’s sweeter, geto thinks again. and that’s leaving him on edge.
he mouths up gojo’s neck, to his jaw, up to his ear. gojo is shivering by the time he speaks. “stay fucking quiet for a day or two, will ya?”
he pulls away before gojo can process the request, watches his knees buckle with sick self-satisfaction, and promptly leaves.
the door slams shut behind him before gojo can compose himself to ask what the fuck that was all about, and when he turns, red-cheeked and blue-balled, the room is empty.
three paces down the corridor, geto hears a distant shriek of anger. he can’t restrain his grin.