Chapter Text
Satoru had always been too much for most people.
Too loud, too fast, too smart, too strong. Born into legacy, hailed as the pride of the Gojo clan since he could walk, spoken of like a storm wrapped in silk. People either wanted something from him or wanted to be him. Both were exhausting. He was coddled, yes—pampered, praised, paraded around like a thoroughbred, and taught to believe he was untouchable.
The problem was, he was untouchable.
No one ever really saw him. Not beyond the Six Eyes, not beyond the technique, not beyond the bloodline. He could make a joke, and people would laugh before he even finished it. He could lie, and they’d believe him just because he said it with confidence. He could fail, and the world would say it was someone else’s fault.
Then came Suguru.
And Suguru looked at him like he saw right through all the performance.
He didn't care about the Gojo name. He didn't laugh unless something was actually funny. He didn’t hesitate to call Satoru out on his shit. He was sharp, principled, sarcastic, and maddening in a way Satoru didn’t know how to deal with.
Satoru liked it. He liked him.
Not at first. Or maybe yes, at first. But it grew. Like mold. Creeping up the corners of his carefully polished brain. First it was friendship. Then it was best friendship. Then it was Satoru letting Suguru finish his coffee even though he hated when people took his stuff. Then it was Satoru watching him sleep on long train rides and wondering what shampoo he used. Then it was boners.
Unwanted. Uncalled for. Inconvenient.
He thought maybe it was just teenage hormones. A fluke. Like a cursed spirit with a weird mouth—disturbing, but manageable. Then came the sleepless nights. The Google searches. And the scariest...the Reddit forums.
Is it gay to have a boner around your best friend?
Bro touching doesn’t mean homo right??
Help: I think I wanna suck his dick but like… no homo?
He took a test called “Are You Gay?” and got ‘Bi Disaster’ three times.
He blamed the algorithm. And yet… Every time Suguru got out of the shower, shirt slung over one shoulder, water trailing down the line of his collarbone like a crime scene waiting to happen, Satoru had to take a moment. Just a little mental reset. Maybe slap himself across the face, pretend he was just overheating, mutter something about cursed energy overheating the brain.
He kept a hoodie nearby just in case he had to hide his full-blown situation. There was something wrong with him. Or something too right, and that was worse.
Because Suguru wasn’t just hot. He was warm. He was the only person Satoru ever let see his ugly parts, his selfish thoughts, his panic at night when the expectations pressed too heavy. Suguru never recoiled. He never tried to fix him. He just listened, sometimes with his hand pressed to the back of Satoru’s neck like that was all the reassurance he needed to breathe.
It made Satoru want to crawl out of his skin. It made him want to live inside Suguru's instead.
He told himself they were just really close. Bros. Platonic. Normal. Normal guys with normal friendships and normal urges. Guys kiss sometimes. Don’t they?
Okay. Maybe not. But they did share beds occasionally. And Suguru didn’t pull away when their hands touched. Or when Satoru stared too long. Or when he accidentally pressed a little closer than necessary during a movie.
So really… if he did want to kiss him, or fuck him, or scream his name into the pillow—was it really gay? Or was it just another level of best friendship?
That’s what he told himself.
Until the night it finally happened.
The night Jujutsu High decided to throw a party, Satoru knew immediately it would go to hell. He just didn’t expect to enjoy the descent.
It started as these things always did—with Shoko stealing half a cabinet of alcohol from Yaga’s office, Utahime swearing she wasn’t drinking but absolutely drinking, and Nanami looking like he’d rather be swallowed by a cursed spirit than be around these degenerates. Haibara had made it his personal mission to get everyone “just tipsy enough to sing” while blasting some cursed pop band Suguru swore was objectively bad.
There was music, there was something definitely not just weed being passed around, and there were rules being broken every five minutes. No one cared. They were all half-traumatized weapons of war in training. A little alcohol felt like nothing.
Satoru had made a decision early on. He wouldn’t get drunk. Nope. Not tonight. He would stay sharp, aware, and, most importantly, composed.
Then he had exactly two drinks—two—and promptly forgot how doors worked.
“I think someone slipped me something,” he whispered to Suguru, swaying into him as they leaned on the edge of a too-small couch, watching Shoko challenge someone to a drinking duel with alarming confidence.
“No,” Suguru said dryly, “you’re just a featherweight.”
Satoru sniffed. “I’m 6’3,” he said with the offended dignity of someone who was, in fact, 6’3 but currently being held up by one (1) arm slung around Suguru’s shoulder.
“And yet here we are,” Suguru said, shifting slightly to make room for him without protest.
Satoru’s body heat clung to Suguru like a second skin. Maybe that was the alcohol. Maybe it was just... him. He didn’t move away. Not when Suguru’s fingers draped across the back of the couch. Not when Satoru slouched deeper into him. Not even when he reached down, almost subconsciously, and slid his hand under Suguru’s shirt.
Just his pinky at first. Resting against bare skin.
Suguru didn’t react. He didn’t flinch or smack it away. He didn’t even look. Just kept talking to someone across the room about cursed sigil tattoos like there wasn’t a six-foot-tall disaster trying to commit casual fondling under the guise of “balance.”
Satoru’s pinky curled a little further. Totally normal. They were best friends. This was just what best friends did—cuddling shirtless on public furniture while intoxicated and pretending it wasn’t charged.
And then, of course, someone shouted, “Let’s play ‘I Have Never!’”
Satoru, in his definitely-not-drunk state, was immediately interested. Mostly because it meant he could sit still, focus on Suguru’s thigh next to his, and not get up. Walking was hard.
The game started stupid. It always did.
“I’ve never kissed someone older than me.” Utahime drank. Shoko drank. Suguru drank. Satoru blinked.
“You kissed someone older than you?” he asked Suguru, mock-scandalized.
Suguru just gave him a lazy look. “You think I’m picky?”
Satoru immediately had an image of Suguru making out with some older curse user with scars and a grudge and almost choked on his drink.
Not jealousy obviously. Just surprise. Normal best friend reaction.
More questions. More drinks. Shoko confessed to getting kicked out of a funeral. Haibara drank for way too many things. Suguru drank like he was hydrating for war. Satoru drank less because he needed to remain semi-functional—but he kept watching Suguru’s hand, the one that now rested just under the hem of his shirt like it belonged there.
It probably did. Probably had for a while now. Normal best friend behavior. Obviously.
Someone said: “I’ve never had a sex dream about someone in this room.”
Satoru froze. So did Suguru. Everyone around them giggled or groaned, glancing at Shoko or Utahime or even Nanami, who looked vaguely traumatized. Suguru? He just sipped. Calm and composed. Satoru’s brain went static.
Suguru had a sex dream about someone in the room. And he didn’t specify who.
It could’ve been Shoko. Or Utahime. Or—no, no, there was no way—
...Right?
Then Suguru turned to him, met his gaze lazily, and asked, “You drinking for that one?”
Satoru laughed a little too loud. “Please,” he scoffed, raising his cup with a flourish. “Who hasn’t had a dream about Utahime? She’s got that angry librarian vibe.”
Utahime threw a pillow at him.
But Suguru’s eyes stayed on him. Warm. Knowing. Just the edge of something Satoru wasn’t ready to name. The hand under his shirt pressed a little more firmly. Satoru’s stomach flipped. His jeans got a little tighter.
Totally fine. Totally normal. Totally something that happened when your very close platonic best friend touched you while looking like he was imagining what you sounded like moaning.
He was going to throw himself off the balcony. But not before leaning a little closer and whispering, “If I say I had a dream about you, do I get to drink again?”
Suguru’s smile curved slow. Dangerous. Like he knew the rules of a game Satoru didn’t realize he was playing. “You can drink for whatever you want,” Suguru said. “That’s the fun part.”
Satoru downed his cup and wondered if it was possible to die from how hard you could want someone while still pretending you didn’t.
The next game was always going to be “Seven Minutes in Heaven.”
Of course it was. Shoko had that look in her eye—the one that meant chaos was coming, and Utahime was already halfway through a speech about boundaries and morals and how this wasn’t proper behavior for professional sorcerers.
Which was precisely when Haibara spun an empty bottle and it pointed straight at Satoru.
The room erupted in mock cheers.
“Oh wow,” Satoru drawled, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “I feel so honored. You all want me locked in a closet like some cursed artifact. Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, by the way.”
“Shut up and pick a card,” Shoko muttered, passing over the pile.
Inside each card was a name. The recipient was to take their fate and accept it with grace.
Satoru opened his card. Blinked and laughed. Of course it said Suguru.
“Looks like the universe ships us,” he said out loud, already bouncing to his feet. “Not that I blame it. I mean, look at us.”
Suguru raised a brow. “Pretty sure you rigged it.”
“I would never rig a game,” Satoru said, placing a hand over his heart. “I am a man of honor.”
“You swapped the card pile while pretending to sneeze,” Shoko muttered.
“Allegedly.”
Still, no one stopped them. The group jeered like it was a sports match, and someone (Nanami?) might have said “Please do not traumatize the closet”, but Satoru wasn’t listening. His head was buzzing, limbs loose and hot from the drinks, his mind screaming that this was a terrible idea while his body—his treacherous, needy body—was practically vibrating.
The closet was small. Cramped. Smelled like old uniforms and regret. They squeezed in, door slamming behind them with a triumphant click. Darkness. Breathless silence.
Then Suguru, cool as ever, said, “You gonna grope me immediately or wait for the countdown?”
Satoru snorted, leaning back against the wall. “Wow. Eager much?”
“You’re the one who swapped cards just to be locked in a closet with me.”
“Allegedly.”
Suguru stepped closer. The darkness meant Satoru couldn’t see him, but he could feel him—warm and tall and close enough that their legs brushed.
“So,” Satoru said, trying to keep his tone light, “are we supposed to kiss now? Or is it more of a ‘sit in awkward silence and pretend we’re not thinking about kissing’ situation?”
Suguru didn’t answer immediately. And that silence—it was louder than anything.
“...You’ve thought about it?” Suguru asked.
Fuck.
Satoru had to swallow. “Who hasn’t?” he said, laughing weakly. “I mean, look at you. You’re hot. In a very best friend kind of way.”
There was a pause.
Then Suguru said, voice low, “So do it.”
Satoru blinked into the dark. “Do what?”
“Kiss me.”
He froze. Something inside him short-circuited. This was a joke. It had to be a joke. This was Suguru, and this was Seven Minutes in Heaven, and this was absolutely—
Satoru leaned forward before he could think.
Their noses bumped. Awkward. Hesitant. But then his lips found Suguru’s, and for a moment, it was just lips on lips, breath shared, a little too soft to be a joke, a little too long to be casual. It tasted like beer and recklessness. Then Suguru’s hand rose, sliding up the side of Satoru’s neck, thumb brushing just behind his ear—and that was it.
Satoru lost the plot.
He groaned, low and desperate, pressing closer, kissing harder, suddenly starving for it. For him. For whatever this was. Suguru kissed him back like he’d been waiting, like he already knew the rhythm of Satoru’s mouth, like he wasn’t surprised at all.
It should’ve scared Satoru. It didn’t. It consumed him.
Their hips collided once, twice, and then Satoru couldn’t stop—he grabbed at Suguru’s shirt, pulling him close, rutted forward with a desperate grind that made him moan into Suguru’s mouth.
Not gay. Just, you know, really friendly.
Suguru’s hands found his hips, gripping hard, guiding him into a slow, maddening rhythm.
“Fuck,” Satoru whispered, breaking the kiss, forehead pressed to Suguru’s. “This is just... this is just what bros do, right?”
“Totally,” Suguru said, dry as bone. “All the time.”
Satoru laughed, breathless and shaking, even as he kept rocking his hips against him. Their jeans caught, friction rough but electric, and Suguru’s thigh pressed up at just the right angle.
Satoru whimpered. He was officially the most pathetic person to ever walk the earth. But Suguru didn’t mock him. Instead, he murmured, “That’s it, baby. Just like that.”
The world shifted.
The word baby short-circuited his brain, flipped something primal.
He gripped Suguru harder, grinding with zero shame now, chasing the friction, feeling everything coil tight and hot in his gut. Suguru’s breath hitched, low and guttural, and Satoru gasped against his jaw.
“I’m gonna come,” he said, horrified.
“Good,” Suguru whispered, kissing him again, deep and slow and filthy. “Let me feel it.”
And fuck, he did. Satoru came in his jeans like a teenager with a crush. Which, to be fair, he was. And it was humiliating and glorious and probably the most alive he’d ever felt. When they finally pulled apart—sticky, breathless, ruined—Satoru just stood there in the dark and said: “Okay. So. Still not gay.”
Suguru snorted, pulling him into another kiss. “Sure, Satoru. Whatever you say.”
Satoru Gojo may have dry-humped himself into a pathetic, trembling orgasm against his best friend in a closet during a party surrounded by half-drunk teenage sorcerers, but he was not going to be the only one.
He had standards and he had pride. He also had a suspiciously hard-on best friend who was trying to play it cool while still letting Satoru rub against him like a particularly desperate house cat. So, once he caught his breath—cheeks flushed, brain fried, hair stuck to his forehead—he tilted his head and grinned into the dark like a menace reborn.
“Alright,” he panted, licking his lips. “Your turn.”
Suguru huffed a quiet laugh. “Oh? You keeping score now?”
“Bros don’t let bros walk around with blue balls,” Satoru said solemnly, like he was reciting a holy text. “It’s basic friendship etiquette.”
“Sure. Is that what all your friendships are like?”
“Only the best ones,” Satoru said, fingers already drifting down to the waistband of Suguru’s jeans. “Don’t worry—I’m very generous.”
He popped the button open and dragged the zipper down one slow inch at a time, feeling every breath Suguru sucked in through his nose. Satoru’s hands were still shaking a little, the aftermath of orgasm and adrenaline and sheer stupidity. But he made it work. Slid his hand inside like he belonged there.
And fuck—Suguru was already hard. Hot and heavy in his palm, skin silky over steel, thick enough that Satoru had to bite the inside of his cheek just to keep it together.
“Okay,” Satoru whispered. “So, hypothetically… if I were gay, this would be a problem. But I’m not. I’m just an excellent best friend.”
“Mm-hm,” Suguru murmured, low and amused. “Doing this out of the kindness of your heart?”
“Exactly.”
He started to stroke. Slow at first. Teasing. Letting his thumb glide over the tip, collecting the slick there, using it to make his grip smoother. Suguru let out a breath, soft and strained, the kind that made Satoru feel like he’d discovered a new cursed technique: Hand Stuff, Grade One.
Satoru pressed closer, chest flush with Suguru’s, mouth brushing his jaw. “Feels good?” he asked, smug and already drunk on the sound of it.
“Yeah,” Suguru rasped.
“Good,” Satoru said, nuzzling into the space just beneath his ear. “That’s what friends are for.”
He kept working his hand, picking up the pace, watching Suguru’s composure chip away. Each tiny twitch of his hips, each grunt and breath and curse—it was addicting. Power in a new form. Not domination, not superiority—just knowing that he could make Suguru come undone.
But then, Suguru’s hand caught his wrist. “Satoru.”
That voice. That tone. Satoru froze.
Suguru leaned in, pressed their foreheads together. “You want me to come?”
Satoru blinked, nodding a little too fast. “Obviously. Why else would I—”
“Then stop teasing.”
Satoru was spun like a doll, back pressed to the wall before he could register it, Suguru’s body flush against his own. One hand pinned Satoru’s wrist above his head, the other shoved down his pants and wrapped around his own cock like he was just borrowing Satoru’s body to enjoy himself.
Satoru let out a noise—high and shocked and needy. “Okay,” he gasped. “So this is new.”
“You wanted a turn,” Suguru murmured, stroking himself with lazy precision right up against Satoru’s stomach. “Thought I’d make it interesting.”
“Interesting is one word,” Satoru breathed. “Illegal is another—”
Suguru shut him up with a kiss. A filthy, deep, open-mouthed kiss that tasted like heat and laughter and God I want you. Their teeth clacked. Their noses bumped. Satoru moaned into his mouth like he’d been made for it.
And Suguru fucked into his own hand between their bodies like he was using Satoru to come.
Which—he was. Which was insane. Which was hot. Satoru’s head thunked against the closet wall, stars behind his eyes. “You’re so fucking rude,” he mumbled, voice wobbling. “I was being nice. I was being—fuck—a good friend—”
“You’re being a brat,” Suguru growled. “And you like when I manhandle you.”
“I do not—” Satoru gasped, grinding down involuntarily. “I am not into this. This is strictly—this is a bro-based interaction—”
“Then shut up and let me finish.”
Satoru did. Because Suguru was close—he could feel it in the tension, the ragged breath, the twitch of his cock against his stomach. And when Suguru came, grunting against Satoru’s throat, hand slick and fast and perfect, Satoru swore the air got knocked out of him.
Suguru slumped forward slightly, panting. Satoru held him there. Breathing and processing. His shirt was wet. His pants were worse. The closet was humid and dark and filled with a scent he would now forever associate with bad decisions and home.
“Well,” he said finally. “That was educational.”
Suguru snorted against his neck. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Turns out friendship is magic.”
“Is that what we’re calling this?”
“Absolutely.” Satoru grinned, heart pounding. “Best friends, remember?”
The post-orgasmic silence in the closet was, for once in Satoru Gojo’s life, blessedly peaceful.
Warm bodies, sticky clothes, hearts hammering in sync. Satoru’s legs were jelly, his shirt was halfway up his chest, and there was a very questionable stain on the front of his pants that wasn’t exactly helping the dignity department. Suguru was still half-leaning on him, calm as a monk despite the fact that they’d just defiled a storage space and every law of heterosexuality known to man.
Satoru cleared his throat. “So…” he started, voice cracked like old paint. “Do we, uh… have a sock or something?”
Suguru grunted, already reaching into his pocket for what turned out to be a crumpled napkin from some on-campus ramen place.
Satoru stared. “You carry that around?”
“For emergencies.”
“Are all your emergencies jizz-related?”
“More often than not,” Suguru muttered, already pulling back to deal with himself like this was just another Tuesday. Satoru watched him for too long, then pretended he wasn’t watching, then made it worse by watching harder.
That post-nut clarity hit hard and mean. His brain screamed: You just made out with your best friend. You came on him. You made him come. And then, quieter, more dangerous: And you want more.
He accepted the napkin when Suguru offered it. Tried not to be weird about it. Failed. Tremendously. “Okay,” Satoru said eventually, wiping at himself like this was a routine car wash. “So maybe I was right.”
Suguru arched a brow, too composed for someone who just got jacked off against a wall. “About?”
“This,” Satoru gestured vaguely to both of them. “This whole thing. It’s a great way to handle stress.”
Suguru gave him a long, unreadable look. The kind that made Satoru’s gut twist.
“I mean, right?” he continued, trying to sound casual and not like he wanted to climb back onto Suguru’s lap. “We’re cursed users. High risk, high stakes. Lotta tension. Makes sense to, y’know... relieve it. Together.”
“Because we’re friends,” Suguru said, deadpan.
“Exactly!” Satoru pointed at him with the used napkin. “This is peak friendship. Mutual support. Healing. I’m basically your emotional support slut.”
Suguru hummed, clearly amused. “So you’re saying this should be a regular thing?”
Satoru blinked. “I mean, I wouldn’t oppose it.”
Suguru leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Interesting.”
Satoru’s heart did a thing. It flipped. It flopped. It turned into a cursed womb and tried to explode. “Look, it’s just logic,” Satoru said quickly. “We’re both always keyed up. Battle stress, cursed energy buildup, repressed emotions—this is the healthiest option. Safer than drugs. And not gay.”
“Not gay,” Suguru repeated.
“Right. Because we didn’t—” Satoru paused. “Nothing went inside.”
Suguru nodded solemnly. “Exactly. No insertion, no conversion.”
Satoru cackled. “Is that how it works now?”
“Those are the rules.”
“Yeah? Where’s that written?”
“Probably on Reddit.”
They both laughed—an awful, hysterical sound echoing off the walls of the tiny closet they had absolutely desecrated. But underneath it, Satoru felt it—that ache in his chest, that flutter of heat that wasn’t lust but something worse. Something dangerous. Something soft. He wanted Suguru inside him. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Physically. Which was definitely not best friend territory, no matter how many times he recited the Bro Code in his head.
But God, the thought of it—Suguru above him, inside him, stretching him open while whispering filth in that velvet voice—Or maybe behind him, holding his hips in that unshakable grip—Or maybe letting Satoru ride him, slowly, until he couldn’t breathe—Satoru nearly groaned. He caught himself at the last second and covered it with a cough.
“Are you okay?” Suguru asked, amused.
“Totally. Just thinking.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“Shut up.”
They both adjusted themselves as best they could, but it didn’t change the fact that the closet reeked of sweat and sex and whatever dignity they’d left behind on the floor. When the timer buzzed outside, signaling the end of their seven minutes, Satoru flinched like a criminal caught mid-act.
“We look fine, right?” he asked.
Suguru gave him a once-over. “You look like you got hit by a cursed womb and liked it.”
“Perfect,” Satoru muttered. “On brand.”
The door opened. Light flooded in. Shoko raised a brow and immediately pulled out her phone.
“If I find this on the internet,” Satoru warned, stepping out, “I’m suing.”
“You’re the one who came in your pants, Satoru,” Suguru strolled out behind him like nothing had happened.
Satoru followed, pretending he hadn’t just imagined being split in half by his best friend’s cock.
Just bros being bros.