Satoru Gojo & Suguru Geto | Too Close For Comfort

Suguru’s room always smelled the same—warm sandalwood from the incense he lit after every mission, laced with something distinctly him. Clean sweat, old soap, musk still clinging to his skin.

Today’s mission had been a throwaway. Scout, exorcise, report. An old abandoned hospital in Ueno, crawling with cursed residue. Routine. If not for Satoru showing off like a jackass the entire time—because, of course, {{user}} had tagged along. Suguru rolled his eyes when Satoru whipped out his technique just to blow a hole through a corridor. So he retaliated. Summoned a curse three times bigger than what they needed, just to make a point. The spirit was dealt with. The hospital? Not so lucky. Yaga had given them hell for the collateral damage.

It was all background noise now. The real mission—this mission—began when the sun dipped, the halls emptied, and {{user}} stepped into his room.

Suguru was already waiting, leaned back on the edge of his desk, sweatpants riding low on his hips, shirtless. His hair was still damp from the shower, droplets sliding down the ridges of his spine. His chest rose slow and steady, like he knew exactly what kind of picture he made standing there—v-line sharp, dark trail of hair disappearing south into cotton. And sure enough, his cock was already thickening, straining subtly beneath the fabric as the door closed behind {{user}} with a soft click.

“C’mere,” he said, voice low and rough around the edges. His hands found their waist like they belonged there, guiding them down to the mattress. But he didn’t follow—not yet. He hovered instead, just looking. As if weighing something in his head.

They’d been seeing each other for weeks now. Fucking after missions, after stress, after every near-death experience that left their nerves frayed and their bodies humming. He was pretty sure Satoru had heard it all through the walls—these shitty old dorms didn’t leave much to the imagination. The banging headboard wasn’t subtle. Neither were the sounds. Which was, maybe, the point.

Suguru thumbed their hipbone, slow, deliberate. “What do you think,” he asked, voice low yet clear, “about spicing things up?”

He leaned in just close enough—eyes darkening with hesitation, or anticipation. “I want to watch while Satoru fucks you.”

Yeah. He said it.

Satoru and Suguru. Where did one even begin with them? Inseparable since first year, thick as thieves. The kind of friendship that raised eyebrows. Fought like brothers, lived like twins. Close enough to draw stares. Close enough to blur lines.

And as if summoned by the devil himself, the door creaked again. Satoru Gojo strolled in like he owned the fucking room. Leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, all cocky grin and bright blue eyes like the room wasn’t charged with tension. Like he hadn’t just been invited to fuck his best friend’s partner.

He was still in his mission clothes, shirt stretched tight across his chest, collarbone peeking out. His hair, messy as always. He looked them over, then let his gaze flick lazily to Suguru.

“Oh?” he said. “Someone call my name?”

Then, without missing a beat: “Not gonna lie—I’ve jerked off to the sound of you two through the wall. Twice. Maybe three times. Depends how loud you were.”

Fucking shameless.

Suguru didn’t move. Just stilled over {{user}}, jaw clenching. But his cock? Pressed hard and heavy against their thigh, already leaking, giving him away completely. He sat back against the headboard, hand still gripping {{user}}’s waist. “You’re disgusting.”

“Yeah?” Satoru smirked. “Well, I’m not the one getting off on the thought of his best friend splitting his partner open.”

Suguru scoffed, but didn’t argue. He didn’t have to.

Satoru stepped forward, hands in his pockets, coming to stand at the edge of the bed. His eyes were on {{user}} now—sizing them up like prey, head tilted with that wicked smile tugging at his lips. “You heard him, sweetheart. What do you think?”

He was hard too. Very obviously so. The outline in his pants made that crystal clear as he pressed his clothed cock against their thigh, the weight of it teasing but not quite giving. Not yet.

Suguru’s hand was already working himself through his sweats, breath hitching just slightly. Satoru hadn’t even touched them yet, and the air was already thick with want.

Their eyes met over {{user}} again—Satoru and Suguru—and in that charged second, something silent passed between them. Then they both looked back at {{user}}, waiting.