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Gojo has never liked smoking.
The acrid smell alone is enough to turn his nose, let alone the taste - like burnt tires and black licorice. Then there’s the way the scent lingers, seeping into clothes, and fabric, and skin. With his rather sheltered upbringing smoking had never even been a consideration, and frankly he couldn’t fathom the appeal of sucking on something that did little else but poison you. That was until he’d met Suguru Geto.
Based on his historical feelings toward the habit, he should have been disgusted when he’d first seen him pull out a bespoke cigarette case in the break between their lectures. But the nasty rebuking words building on his tongue had left his brain entirely when he’d watched Geto slot the slender cigarette between his lips and take his first drag, watched his expression soften as he blew the streams of curling smoke from his nose like he was one step closer to nirvana.
Don’t get him wrong, he still thinks it’s an objectively filthy habit. But the way Suguru does it makes it look like an art form. Maybe it’s just his own perverted mind, but watching the way Geto gracefully curls the rolling paper between slender fingers, slowly runs his lips over the edge, tongue slipping out to seal the roll - Gojo can’t help but find the whole ordeal decidedly seductive.
He even makes the scent tolerable - smoky tobacco mixed with his cologne, dark and sweet, and him. Maybe it’s because he only smokes hand rolls, that makes it cleaner, makes it okay. That’s what Gojo tells himself anyway whenever Geto disappears from study hall only to reappear fifteen minutes later sucking a lollipop and reeking of cologne. He has to admit it’s sweet, the way Geto tries to be subtle, knowing how much Gojo despises his little habit. But when he sticks out his hand to gift Gojo his own strawberry flavored lollipop, that familiar scent of smoke still curls up from beneath the heady perfume no matter how much of it he sprays.
Geto already has one perched between his lips when Gojo rounds the corner. It’s tucked between his canines as he lifts a hand in a leisurely wave, lips tugged into a warm smile around the stick.
He smokes it quickly as they walk the few streets down to the cafe, their regular by the sole fact that it’s the only place in the prefect that will turn a blind eye to the sheer amount of sugar Gojo adds to his drink. Gojo makes a conscious effort to keep his eyes forward until Geto snubs the cigarette out into a public ashtray somewhere along the trail.
It’s only twenty minutes after their drinks arrive that Geto lifts himself from the cute little wooden chair, fishing the engraved cigarette case from the chest pocket of his worn leather jacket.
“Just be a minute, ‘kay?” He murmurs cheerily, already turning toward the glass door of the cafe before Gojo shoots up from the booth behind him and he pauses at the sudden motion.
“I’ll uh- come with you,” Gojo explains, hand lifted to rub delicately at the back of his head, carding through the pale spikes. “Finished here anyway, right?”
Gojo holds Geto’s even gaze, pointedly avoiding the obviously half full mug of hot chocolate left cooling on the table beside him, pink marshmallows melting to sugared foam.
Geto fixes him with a lightly suspicious glance over the curve of his shoulder, an accusatory arch in his slender brow, but he turns around nonetheless and pushes through the door of the cafe. The door swings closed with a pleasant little melodic chime as he leads them both down the street, dipping into a surprisingly private side alley.
They barely make it halfway down the alley before Geto stops and leans back into the wall, sliding down until he’s crouched, before he begins busily fishing his Zippo from another of his jackets many pockets. Gojo toes the ground, kicks a pebble thoughtlessly as he considers what it is he’s supposed to be doing, before he decides that sitting is probably an acceptable option.
Gojo slips down the wall beside Geto, listening to the grinding little clicks as he flicks the igniter until a flame bursts a few inches from his face.
The spark bathes Geto’s features in warm glow, delicate and almost regal. The sight is stark, oddly intimate, and it sends a flurry of something frantic and unnamed in Gojo’s gut. When Geto slips the lighter back into his pocket, he knows he’s been staring too long, and he should really look away. But he stays frozen anyway - azure eyes transfixed on the way a tiny thread of saliva links Geto to the filter for a heartbeat before his too pink tongue darts out to lick it away.
Gojo watches the butt of the cigarette sizzle down another inch and flare in time with Geto’s inhale. He lets the smoke pool in his mouth for a moment, slipping from his nostrils and lips like the tendrils of a dragons breath before he sucks it back in, and then exhales in a final huff, relaxing back into the wall like all of his stress and worries swirled out with the smoke.
Gojo swallows thickly, forces himself to actually look away then, pulse thrumming hard and hot in his chest.
Geto’s saying something in a lighthearted tone, something casual and unimportant - entirely oblivious to the way Gojo’s sweating beside him despite the mild weather. He’s half convinced his heartbeat might actually be audible with how hard he can feel it hammering in his chest.
“Ah, shit,” Geto’s muttered grimace hits his ears, and when he turns his head Geto’s lips are pushed out into a pout, dark eyes down-turned watching the way the cigarette is edging closer to his finger tips. The glow is harsh, reflecting orange in the dark polish coating his nails. “No ashtray.”
It’s then that Gojo realizes they aren’t actually in a smoking area. As if reading his thoughts, Geto fixes him with a cheeky smile and lifts a finger to his lips, winking in with a hushed murmur of “shh.”
“Y’think anyone would notice if I just ditch this here?” Geto questions, flicking his cigarette, tanned cheeks warm. Gojo thinks he might actually look a little embarrassed as he peers around at their surroundings. He follows Geto's gaze. The alley - despite its privacy - was nearly spotless, it was frankly a little unnatural.
“Uh, yeah dude,” Gojo replies dryly, “this is like, the cleanest street in all of Harajuku apparently.”
Geto chuckles a little at that, still gazing around, fingers tapping lightly at his chin as he considers his options. Gojo turns his head then, eyes tracing the shape of Geto’s profile.
“You could put it out on me?”
It’s half a joke when it slips from his lips, and he expects Geto to laugh in response, maybe shove him or tell him to fuck off in that playful way he usually does. But when he tilts his head to dare a glance at the other man he finds Geto is already looking at him, gaze flat and dark eyes narrowed a little in assessment.
Geto shrugs then, leather jacket crinkling lightly with the motion, and before Gojo can say anything else or back out of the mounting hole he’d dug himself into, Geto’s hand is outstretched, and he’s grabbing Gojo’s arm.
“Woah, what are you-?”
Geto’s rough, tugging the sleeve of Gojo’s pale blue sweater up his wrist until the toned muscle of his forearm is laid bare, fine hair prickling in the crisp air. Geto hums, cigarette twirling between his fingers until the butt is down-turned. Gojo tries to speak, but the only noise he manages is a meek little squeak before Geto lowers his hand and presses the lit cigarette down into Gojo’s skin.
“Shit!-“ Gojo chokes, the sound weaker than he’d intended. His eyes are wide and he can feel tears spring to the edge as he watches Geto crush the lit cigarette further into his flesh like he’s his own personal ashtray.
That concept solidifies in his mind alongside the sear of blistering pain zipping up his forearm. It’s pathetic, really, the effect it collectively has on him. He should recoil, should snatch his hand away and curse Geto for such an action. Yet the only emotion he feels bubbling hot in his stomach is raw unbridled need.
In the next blink Geto’s fingers are on him, hand wrapped tightly around his wrist again, thumb smoothing away the black ash from the site to reveal the burn. Gojo’s arm is shaking, pale skin bubbled pink and angry in a near perfect ring where the cigarette had kissed him.
Geto makes a pleased sort of sound that goes straight to the writhing heat in Satoru’s belly before he releases his wrist, leaving Gojo cradling the limb in his lap like a wounded bird.
“Shouldn’t joke around like that, hm Satoru?” Geto smiles, tilts his head to hopefully catch a glimpse of Gojo’s surely flabbergast expression.
But Gojo isn’t even looking at him, his head is down-turned, azure eyes still locked on the burn, lips parted as he pants gently. Even from this angle Geto can see the way his eyes are blown - black devouring icy blue as he thumbs absentmindedly at his arm, taking in the sight of his seared skin. Geto can see the way his thighs are parted a little, jeans pressing a little tighter than before.
Geto scoffs, and the sound does nothing to cool the desirous flames licking at Gojo’s throat, if anything it spurs them on - coal to the metaphorical fire.
“Seriously?”
Gojo groans in reply, head thrown back until pale strands hit the brick wall behind them. He swallows, giving Geto a stellar view of the long lines of his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing beneath a barely perceptible flush of pink painting his skin.
“Can’t help it,” he whines, voice low and a little breathy. His head suddenly tilts forward again, and Geto flinches a little under the sheer intensity of his gaze. “Do it again.”
Without another word Geto reaches into his breast pocket and plucks out another cigarette. Eyes dark and shining with something unspoken as he peers down at Gojo, tan face lit warm in the glow of his lighter. Geto takes a long, indulgent drag before he exhales, letting the smoke drift and curl around Gojo like a veil.
“Thought you didn’t like me smoking, Satoru,” Geto teases around the cigarette, lips spread into a sly smile. Gojo feels a prickle of goosebumps sizzle over his skin as he watches Geto take another drag through the haze of smoke. The way Geto manages to purr his name never ceases to light something hot and dangerous somewhere deep in Gojo’s chest.
“I don’t,” he replies, a little breathless.
“No?” Geto questions sweetly between another mouthful of smoke. “Then what’s this then?”
All coherent thought leaves Gojo’s brain when the sole of Geto’s boot presses into his crotch, blood instead pooling somewhere much lower and much more demanding. For a heart stopping moment he’s utterly frozen, doing nothing but watching the slow press of Geto’s foot until he feels himself throb pathetically against the straining fabric of his jeans.
“Oh fuuuuckk…” Gojo moans and sucks his lower lip between his teeth. He lifts his hips in a few sharp, experimental bucks against the pressure and finds his breath catches at just how good it feels.
“You’re a bad liar, Satoru,” Geto tuts, taking another slow drag before he lowers his hand to tap the excess out. Satoru flinches a little at the tiny sparks nipping sharply at his skin in the dusting of ash. Geto chuckles, and the sound goes straight to his cock, still trapped beneath the iron press of Geto's boot.
The thought comes to him that he should probably be ashamed, embarrassed at the way he’s blatantly humping his best friends leg in broad day light, begging him to use him like a human ashtray. But the thought is distant, and it fades away into a meaningless hum when Geto lifts his foot back, then brings in back down to tap the sole against his length a few dizzying times before he begins swiping side to side in slow grind.
“Oh Suguru- fuck….”
Gojo’s hips are rolling then, stuttered humping thrusts kept shallow and tight beneath the press of Geto’s boot.
“You like this?” Comes Geto’s sultry purr. “Being my little ashtray? Humping my boot like a good dog?”
Gojo’s nodding before Geto can even finish the sentence, blinking up at him with wet half-lidded eyes swirling with raw desperation.
Geto says nothing, but his gaze burns hot as the tip of the cigarette perched between his lips as he sucks in another drawl, and the stick sizzles down to the filter.
“Open.” Geto requests with a single word, voice warped a little as he holds the smoke behind his teeth.
He’s peering down at Gojo with a lazy, expectant sort of expression painting his delicate features. And when Gojo does nothing, he tilts his head, and strands of inky hair slip free from where he’d tucked them behind his ear.
“Well?” He prompts again through a swirl of smoke, dark brow quirked.
Gojo’s lips part instantly to let his tongue slip out, laid flat and waiting as he watches Geto move above, pupils blown wide beneath pale wisp of his lashes.
Still a little dazed, Gojo’s eyes go cross-eyed to watch as he angles the cigarette down, breath hitching as the red hot tip nears his twitching tongue.
The second the burning tip of the cigarette makes contact, he jerks in place, pale lashes fluttering shut as his eyes roll back. It’s stunning - the pain sizzling over his taste buds, sharp and hot alongside the acrid flavor of ash. And then he feels it - that bubbling pleasure in his belly peaking in a thick pulsing throb as his cock kicks against the underside of Geto’s boot. His hips rut in jerky little humps as he rides it out, jaw slack, tongue still outstretched as he whines high-pitched and desperate. He can feel himself drooling down onto the pale blue knit of his sweater, a mix of spit and wet ash smeared over the cashmere.
Through the blood pounding hotly in his ears he can hear Geto cooing at him, sweet soothing sounds, though the iron press of his boot doesn’t relent - worn leather still grinding Gojo’s cock beneath it so hard that it’s almost painful. Gojo can feel tears pooling hot at the edges of his lashes, eyes watering with the sting of the burn and the residual buzz of his orgasm.
By the time he finally blinks his eyes open, lids feeling heavy and sticky, Geto is leaning down, and he lowers a hand to grip Gojo’s chin between his fingers, smearing the drool there. His thumb pets over Gojo’s silky tongue, eyes tracing the angry raised ring in the center. Gojo keeps his tongue outstretched, jolting beneath Geto’s touch each time he brushes a little too close to the scorch mark.
“Poor thing,” Geto soothes, voice thick with mock concern, “looks painful.”
Lifting his head back, Geto parts his own lips and in an act that shocks even Gojo - dazed as he is - spits directly onto Gojo’s waiting tongue.
Geto straightens up all casual then, lifts a delicate hand to tuck stray strands of jet black hair back behind his ear. As he does so, the stack of titanium jewelry there glitters, black gauge shining like a marble. His other hand slips from Gojo’s tongue and instead pats a few times at his hollowed cheek, smearing spit over his flushed skin.
“Swallow, baby,” Geto whispers, lips spread and eyes narrowed in a sly, pleased grin.
Baby. That single word bounces around the empty space inside Gojo’s skull, mellowing any emotion aside from pure bliss.
If he wasn’t so far gone he probably would have gagged, spat, something. But with his spent cock twitching in his sticky boxers, and Geto looking down at him with that dark heated gaze - he instead curls his tongue back into his mouth and swallows; ash, spit and all. It burns, the rub of his scorched tongue on the roof of his mouth, and all he can taste is the bitter tang of tobacco alongside the sharp blistering acidity of his wound. He licks his lips. In this moment he thinks it might just be the best thing he’s ever tasted.
“And what do you say?” Geto’s voice pierces the pleasant haze, tugging him back from his dreamy trance.
Gojo’s back aches where it’s pressed against brick, and his ass is numb from the hard alley way floor beneath him, but still he parts his lips and croaks a heartfelt reply.
“Thankyou, Suguru.”
Geto smiles, a warm genuine grin that has a delicate flutter of butterfly wings tapping against Gojo’s ribcage.
“Good boy.”