Chapter Text
Suguru Geto had no business looking that good in a dingy university hallway.
He was leaning against Gojo’s locker like he owned it, thumbs tapping lazily on his phone.
Dark hair pulled back messily, tattoos peeking from under his sleeve, chain glinting under fluorescent lights that were FAR too cheap to deserve him.
Satoru Gojo froze at the end of the hall, clutching a folder full of notes like a shield.
Geto looked up.
Smirked.
“Toru. You busy tonight?”
Gojo’s brain short-circuited.
“…Studying?” He squeaked. “Like a responsible student?”
Geto pushed off the lockers and sauntered toward him with the kind of confidence only rockstars or predators had.
“Come to my show.”
Gojo blinked.
“The… concert? The one with… lights? And… standing?”
Geto laughed, low and warm.
“Yeah. That one.”
Gojo’s heart did a somersault in his chest.
“But— I’ve never— I don’t— you know I’ve never been—”
Geto stopped right in front of him, close enough to smell smoke and spearmint gum.
“I know.”
A soft grin.
“That’s why I want you there.”
And that was the day Gojo made the worst, best, most terrifying decision of his academic career: he said yes.
===
The stadium was packed. Screaming fans, pulsing bass, the kind of energy Gojo only
associated with natural disasters.
He clutched the VIP barricade as if he were preparing for a tsunami.
When the lights dropped, the roar of the crowd nearly blew his eardrums out.
Then Geto walked on stage.
Leather pants.
Loose tank.
Hair wild.
Tattoos glowing under strobes.
Microphone in hand like a weapon.
Satoru ceased functioning as a human
being.
He wasn’t prepared for Geto in performance mode.
The Suguru he knew in class—the quietly witty guy who borrowed his pens—was NOTHING like the one on stage.
This Geto was sin wrapped in sound.
The beat of “She Twerkin” hit, heavy and slick, and Geto rolled his hips in a way that made the entire front row lose structural integrity.
Gojo’s jaw dropped.
Sweat glistened on Geto’s collarbone. His voice dripped over the track.
His body moved like he was coaxing the rhythm to obey him.
Women screamed.
Men screamed.
Gojo internally screamed.
Geto spotted him. Locked eyes.
And grinned like a man with far too much power.
Gojo gripped the railing so hard his knuckles turned white.
Then Geto did it.
He leaned into the mic, voice rough with adrenaline:
“Special shoutout to the gorgeous man in the glasses. First concert ever. Treat him right.”
Spotlights FLARED directly on Gojo.
He shrieked like a dying kettle.
People cheered. Someone pressed up against him. Someone else definitely twerked two inches from his elbow.
Gojo wanted to evaporate.
Geto, the bastard, winked at him.
===
After the show, Gojo wandered backstage like a ghost.
His hair was messed up. His shirt was wrinkled.
His life choices were questionable.
Geto found him leaning against a wall, trying to catch his breath.
“Satoru.”
Gojo nearly jumped out of his skin.
Geto grabbed his wrist gently.
“Come with me.”
He led him into his dressing room—dim, warm, quiet except for the distant hum of the crowd leaving.
Gojo stood in the middle awkwardly, still vibrating from the speakers.
Geto closed the door.
Locked it.
Then turned to him with a slow, satisfied smile.
“So. First concert.”
Gojo swallowed.
“It was… loud.”
Geto stepped closer.
“And?”
Gojo’s voice cracked slightly.
“And you moved your hips in ways I don’t think should be legal.”
Geto laughed softly, brushing a strand of white hair from Gojo’s forehead.
“You liked it.”
Gojo sputtered. “I— I didn’t dislike it—”
Geto slid a hand to Gojo’s waist, tugging him closer until their chests almost touched.
“You stared like you wanted to eat me."
Gojo’s breath hitched.
“I… might have.
Geto leaned down, lips brushing his ear.
“Good.”
Gojo’s knees nearly buckled.
Geto cupped Gojo’s jaw and pulled him into a kiss that was soft at first—testing, teasing—then deeper, hungrier.
Gojo gasped against his mouth, fingers curling into Geto’s shirt like he needed something to hold onto before he fell apart.
Geto’s hands slid around his waist, pulling him flush against him, heat against heat.
Gojo shivered.
He’d kissed people before, sure—but never like this.
Never with someone who seemed to know exactly how to move, how to tilt his head, how to swallow his breath.
Gojo clung to him, kissing back with a mix of eagerness and inexperience that made Geto groan softly.
Geto rested his forehead against Gojo’s, voice low.
“You taste good.”
Gojo choked.
“W—Why would you say that?!”
Geto laughed, brushing his lips along Gojo’s throat, grazing skin lightly enough to send goosebumps racing down his body.
“Because it’s true.”
Gojo’s fingers dug into his shoulders, breath trembling.
“Suguru… this is a lot.”
“Then tell me to stop.”
Gojo hesitated.
Then shook his head.
“No. Don’t.”
Geto’s smile turned warm and hungry all at once.
Geto guided him backward until Gojo hit the vanity table, bottles rattling behind him. One of Geto’s knees nudged between his legs, not pushing—just there, a warm tease.
Gojo made a soft sound he’d deny for the rest of his life.
Geto kissed him again, slower this time, savoring every reaction.
Hands slid under Gojo’s shirt, fingertips tracing the line of his waist, then his ribs, then the curve of his back. Gojo’s breath faltered—soft, shaky, wanting.
“Suguru,” he whispered, “I don’t— I’ve never— not like this—”
Geto kissed the corner of his mouth.
“I know.”
“We go slow.”
“Only what you want. But I want you, Toru. Badly.”
Gojo trembled.
“I want you too.”
Geto’s grin turned molten.
He kissed a trail from Gojo’s jaw to his neck—gentle, warm, lingering.
Gojo’s head tilted back instinctively, lips parted, eyes fluttering shut.
Geto murmured against his skin:
“Good.”
“Because I plan to ruin you.”
"Slowly.”
Gojo made another sound he’d absolutely never admit.
Geto’s hands slid to his hips, thumbs stroking small circles that made heat pool low in Gojo’s stomach.
The room dimmed.
Their breaths deepened.
Bodies pressed closer, warmer, hungrier.
Geto whispered against his mouth:
“You ready for your second lesson?”
Gojo exhaled shakily.
“Yes.”
Geto’s smile was pure sin.