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egglain · 7 months ago

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Feel You (In My Bones) - The Party & The After Party

Rating: E (18+*) - mdni Pairing: Toji x reader, Choso x reader, Gojo x reader, Geto x reader, Gojo x Geto, Sukuna x reader, Nanami x reader Content: gender-neutral reader (you/yours pronouns), afab language used for reader's anatomy during the smut routes, Gojo party Halloween shenanigans, JJK men making moves (canon-accurate scary Toji & Sukuna), ShokoHime friendship, smut tags differ between endings Word Count: 3.3k/?

Summary: After avoiding it for years, your best friends Shoko and Utahime must bite the bullet; attend a Gojo Halloween party. As fate would have it, you'd fall into the care of a gaggle of ghouls; strangers at the party can't seem to get enough.

Trick, or treat?

Will you let them haunt your holes? Or will you leave the door unanswered?

A/N: welcome to the Egglain Halloween smuttacular! Each bolded phrase is a possibility, a chance to jump the bones of the men you bump into on your journey.

This part can be read on its own, or with any number of the endings; they each stand alone & are unconnected to the main ending and the other routes.

*while this part isn't explicit, the "routes" are. Routes will be posted as they are finished, in the order they appear in the fic; stay tuned!

Growing up, Halloween was good for two things and two things only—candy and costumes.

Candy had become less and less interesting as your frontal lobe developed, and with “adult money,” it was even less of a hot commodity. And costumes weren’t quite acceptable after you hit 14—at least not the same ones you wanted to wear.

So, Halloween evolved into something new.

Nowadays, it meant crowding around the TV with a big bag of popcorn, Shoko and Utahime putting on a scary movie for you to wind down to together. It meant slipping pajamas on early and huddling under thick blankets, lights off, as an anonymous killer pounced on a nameless protagonist. It meant falling asleep between your two closest friends, filling the hole in your heart that adulthood managed to whittle into its tender flesh.

You had grown fond of Halloween, in a new way—perhaps grown fonder of it than you were as a kid. It was no longer a short-lived rush of dopamine, dominated by consumption and the variable kindness of strangers. No, it was a celebration of your friendship. Of your new life. Of your family.

Which is why this sucked ass.

“Party?”

“Yeah,” Shoko took a long drag from the stubby cigarette between her lips, “a… friend’s. Haven’t seen him since high school, really.”

The way she was chewing on her words, speaking on a smoke-filled exhale, told you pretty much everything you needed to know about this friend.

“So why are you going?”

Utahime pinched the skin between her eyes, looking equally as unsatisfied. “It’s… complicated.”

“We’ve been skirting around him for a while now—but the thing about Gojo Satoru is you can only avoid him for so long… he’s like a disease,” Shoko murmured.

“Like a common cold—mostly harmless, but a pain in the ass. Now it’s time to bite the bullet.”

“So… no festivities?”

“Well… we were hoping you’d come along with us.” Utahime stalled, choosing her words carefully. “You don’t have to—it’ll probably be a lot of drinking and dancing and reminiscing on our high school years… probably some of Gojo’s bigshot friends. But you’d get to wear a costume!”

“And if any of Gojo’s freakzoid friends bother you, we’ll cut their dicks off.” Shoko flicked her cigarette to the pavement and crushed the dying butt under a heel.

You didn’t doubt she would.

Which is how you ended up here.

Firstly, Gojo Satoru’s house could put mansions to shame.

Secondly, this was not the “high school reunion” you were expecting.

Dozens of strangers filled the glass-paned main floor of the home, spilling out onto the well-manicured lawn with bottles and solo cups in hand. It was like a scene out of every shitty teen film—music blared from somewhere in the house, colourful LEDs illuminating the otherwise dark gathering. Skimpy devils and sexy cops hung off the arms of Ghostfaces and… an Elvis impersonator?

Shoko and Utahime on your flanks, you managed to push your way inside. They were skittish—on-edge almost. You weren’t sure who this Gojo Satoru was, aside from an old friend, but by the looks of it, he had to be important. If not for his seemingly endless wealth or his obscene amount of apparent social power, for this disease-like personality.

Nerves were understandable. But as Shoko and Utahime pulled away, whispering among themselves—as you lost them in the crowd—you felt less and less empathy.

Now, standing alone in the centre of a lofty living room, awkwardly swaying to the music in a sea of intoxicated bodies, you couldn’t help but feel a little resentment for this Gojo guy.

Dancers jostled you this way and that as you fumbled for your phone. With shaky fingers, you opened the group chat, trying to flag down your missing friends.

hey think i lost u guys

where r y’all?

hello?

“All alone n’ without a drink?”

A gravelly voice woke you from your stupor.

A tall man—probably a good head taller than you— held out a hand. A silvery scar tugged at the stranger’s lips as he grinned, clearly in on some joke you weren’t.

Something about this man was predatory; he was dressed in simple clothes, a slutty gun holster strapped to his left upper thigh overtop of too-tight black jeans. The muscles of his quads strained against the fabric, as did the full pectorals framed by his compression tee.

“Leon Kennedy?”

“Who?” The stranger cocked an eyebrow.

You couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Your costume.”

“I’m a hitman.”

Taking in the gun and the way he composed himself—that arrogant mug, the bulging arms crossed over his fat chest—he played the bit well.

“Fitting.”

“Let me grab ya something to drink.”

You mulled it over.

“I’m good, thanks…”

“Aw, c’mon. I don’t bite.”

“Oh, no—no thanks.”

You really didn’t want to get on this guy’s bad side. The gun glinted as the LEDs faded to purple and he caught the way your eyes danced along the barrel. It had to be metal. Looked heavy enough, and very realistic.

“Ya like? It’s the real deal.”

Cold shot through your veins, and it took every fibre of your being to not falter at his words.

His grin didn’t meet his eyes. The empty way he was looking down at you left no room for interpretation—he was telling the truth.

You tried to laugh but the sound didn’t come out quite right.

You took a step back, bumping into someone behind you. You didn’t dare turn around. The man took a step forward, following your movement.

“Wanna touch?”

“Oh, no thanks.”

“C’mon—”

“No, man.”

Another voice. You turned around.

A guy—much closer to your age—wrapped a protective arm around your midsection. Deep brown eyes met yours, and the cold melted away inside.

The stranger looked terrifying. Long dark hair was pulled up into twin spiked buns. The pale column of his throat was constricted by thick leather collars, heavy with metal padlocks. He was slender—thinner than the other man—but the ink across the bridge of his nose, and down his arms and chest, made it clear he could handle his pain too.

However, there was one main difference between him and the other stranger—kindness. Dark eyeliner and purple bags rimmed surprisingly soft eyes. While he had wrapped his arm around you, his hand didn’t make contact with your hip.

“You okay, babe?”

Heat flooded your face. You opened your mouth to reply, but almost as soon as it began, his arm fell away.

“Sorry about that. The guy just seemed like he was bothering you, and I hate men who can’t seem to take no for an answer, and I wasn’t sure how else to—”

Looking behind you, the scary stranger from earlier had disappeared into the crowd. The man in front of you was scratching at the back of his neck, flushed in apparent shame. Something in your heart twinged.

“No, no—I owe you one. Thanks for helping… I wasn’t sure how I was gonna get out of that mess.”

The stranger seemed pleased with that answer.

“Anyone else would’ve done the same… no need to thank me.” He smiled down at his shoes—short black platform docs that were scuffing at the shiny tile. “But maybe we could… get to know each other better sometime?”

Your heart fluttered.

“I mean—I just sort of grabbed you, and I wouldn’t want a stranger to do that to me, so maybe um… we can stop being strangers?” He rushed to explain.

The panic in his eyes was endearing. That kindness in him was so painfully evident.

“I’d like that.”

The bright smile that spread across his otherwise sullen face could have put the sun to shame.

“I have to find my friends right now, but maybe I could give you my number?”

He was nodding so fast it was a miracle his head didn’t fly off.

You padded your number into a slim black phone.

“There. It’s nice to meet you…”

“Choso Kamo.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Choso Kamo.”

With that, and another brilliant smile, you were alone again.

You checked your phone. A “hi!” text from an unknown number—Choso, you assume—and two texts from Utahime lit up the screen.

out back by the pool

see u soon

You pushed your way through the crowd, on the hunt for your friends.

The backyard was an oasis—or, perhaps it would be, if it wasn’t packed full of half-drunk half-costumed partygoers. Utahime and Shoko stood at the marble edge of a too-blue pool, speaking with a tall Playboy bunny and… Pitbull?

Approaching, you could see the tension melting out of Utahime’s shoulders as you met eyes.

“This is Gojo Satoru—that friend we were telling you about.” Utahime’s well-manicured nails extended to the one in the Pitbull costume.

A jovial laugh—too youthful to match the bald exterior—filled the air as the man smiled at you. He was tall. Freakishly so. And startlingly pale. Long white lashes lined too-blue eyes, striking even through his tinted sunglasses.

“Oh please. Call me Mr. Worldwide.”

Shoko rolled her eyes.

Utahime’s hand extended to the man next to Gojo. “This is Suguru Geto. Another friend from high school.”

The man—Suguru Geto—was almost as tall as Gojo Satoru. Silky black hair was tied half-up in a loose bun, the rest of his tresses spilling over his shoulder and plump chest.

And oh what a chest it was.

Soft fat tits spilled out over a low-cut black corset, jiggling like pudding as he laughed at Shoko’s unimpressed expression. The latex corset tapered off sharply, curvy hips and large thighs caged in loose-knit fishnets. Black bunny ears sat slightly askew on top of his head.

He looked delicious.

“You feeling alright?” Suguru asked, head tilting a little.

“Oh—me? Yeah, totally fine.”

“Are you sure…?”

“We can take you inside for some peace and quiet,” the bald man supplied, nudging Suguru.

Utahime and Shoko were giving you a look.

The kind that you’d learned to avoid.

The kind that said absolutely not.

Creep-o’clock.

Stay away.

“Oh—that’s very kind. But I think I’m alright. Thank you.”

You made a mental note to ask follow-up questions later.

Shoko put a hand on Gojo’s shoulder, long red nails digging into his shoulder. “Why don’t we go in? I could use some water.”

Gojo, Geto, Shoko, and Utahime exchanged looks, speaking a language in gazes that you couldn’t quite understand. Utahime nodded, shepherding the men back towards the house. Shoko lingered behind for a moment.

“They’re losers. Enjoy your night; we’ll keep ‘em busy a little longer.” She pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the front pocket of her costume—a white medical coat—and put one between her front teeth. “Give us a couple more minutes and then we’ll make up an excuse to head home, alright?”

You nodded, and she gave you a firm pat on the shoulder before disappearing into the crowd after the other three.

Once again, you were alone.

“Keep getting abandoned tonight, huh?”

Warm breath fanned over the shell of your ear, low rich voice cutting through the incessant buzzing of the party.

“That’s not what ‘friends’ do, is it?”

“How is that any of your business?” Spinning around to face the assailant, the words died midway.

He was tall.

Impossibly so—comfortably towering over the crowd.

“Telling me I can’t look at you?” He snorted, cracking his neck and knuckles.

And he was large.

Larger than the man with the scar, even.

A monster.

“Well—no…”

With the cocky way he was smirking down at you, he was aware of it too. His eyes, red, glinted with amusement as you fumbled the ending of what was supposed to be a witty comeback.

“Good. Then I think it’s my business.”

Confidence—he wore it well. It suited the hard planes of his face, the arrogant quirk of his lips accentuating the strength of his boxy jaw. Big inked arms flexed as he dug his hands a little deeper into the pockets of his orange prison jumpsuit. The top half was undone, sleeves fastened around his waist. A black wifebeater clung to the contours of a strong chest, tattoos creeping out from beneath the straps to trail over his shoulders.

He was the picture of a stereotypical inmate.

The only thing that stuck out, however, was the soft pink of his hair.

You couldn’t help but laugh.

The man quirked a slitted eyebrow.

“Somethin’ funny, brat?”

“No, no—sorry… just your costume.”

“What about it?”

“Just looks like you put a lot of effort into it, is all.”

He was looking at you—really looking. His gaze was weighted, and you could feel his eyes bearing holes into yours. He struck you as a rich boy; the type who were used to getting what they wanted, used to women throwing themselves onto him. So, if he was going to try to intimidate you, it wouldn’t work. You held his gaze.

“Put a couple years into it, yeah….” The words were slow, dripping in an innuendo you weren’t sure you wanted to understand.

You opened your mouth to move the conversation elsewhere, but with him looking at you so unabashedly—so intensely—it was hard to think. Hard to breathe, even.

Your neck twinged, aching from the way it was bent to look up at him.

Fuck.

When did he get so close?

“O-Oh yeah?”

“Mhmmm,” he drawled, stepping in even closer. The toe of his heavy boots bumped against yours, and you could once again feel the heat of his breath on you. “Wanna see it up close?”

“You’re really close already—”

“I meant off my body.”

Fuck.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

He was no good—it didn’t take a psychologist to see there was something fundamentally off about this guy.

His aura—malevolent—set off alarm bells through your entire body.

He carried himself with a deeply-ingrained confidence, a surety that had your heart racing and your stomach dropping… but seeing him up close, you weren’t sure how you had ever mistaken him for some pampered rich boy. No. His tanned skin was littered with little scars and burns, well-worn. He was a fighter… and from the looks of it, a winning one.

Ice spread down your spine. Your body tensed.

Fight or flight was activating—fight, however, would stand no chance against this man. Turning on your heel, you began to walk away.

“Hey! Where you goin’?” His gruff voice called after you, but you didn’t dare turn back.

Beelining it back to the house, you sought out the kitchen. The place was a maze, but picking up the trail of partygoers with drinks in hand, you eventually found your way.

Shoko and Utahime stood around a large marble island with Gojo and Geto, huddled in to chat amongst themselves. Catching the movement in the corner of her eye, Shoko did a double-take upon your entrance. You communicated with your eyes in that secret language now; let’s go. Now.

With a tug on Utahime’s sleeve, the two were pulling away from the men.

“Wait—what’s happening?” Big blue eyes peered out from over the goofy sunglasses. “Leaving already?”

You couldn’t help but feel a little bad for this Gojo guy; not seeing his friends in a long time, partially because of you, and now having them torn away early because you made some poor choices with the wrong guy.

“Sorry, Gojo—I just… don’t feel well.”

Gojo looked between you and the two women, cogs turning in his mind.

“Nanami can take you home. He’s a good guy.”

“We’re leaving together.” Utahime spoke with no room for argument, hand on your shoulder.

You brushed it off, shaking your head. “It’s okay, ‘hime. Enjoy your night.”

Gojo clapped his hands together, too-white grin spreading across those too-white cheeks. “Then it’s settled! C’mon, let’s find him together.”

While you probably didn’t need the escort, you appreciated Gojo’s guiding hand, if not for anything but his lanky limbs and ability to part the crowd. It was a nice bonus that it gave some semblance of security against that inmate. Though, seeing the size of that guy, it was hard to imagine scrawny Satoru standing a chance against him.

In the living room, Gojo clasped a large blonde man on the shoulder, startling him from where he was chatting with a jovial brown-haired guy you didn’t recognize.

“Nanamin!.”

The blonde man sighed, turning around to eye Gojo warily. He was chiseled. The hard set of his lips matched the low seat of his brows as he met the host’s eyes.

“Gojo.” His voice was stern. Unimpressed.

“I need a little teeny weeny favour—could ya do one for me?”

The blonde man sighed, and he rubbed his forehead in a way that reminded you of Shoko. He clearly felt the same way about Satoru Gojo. Weirdly enough, it relaxed you.

“What is it?”

“I need you to drive someone home.”

Gojo dragged you between them by the shoulders, thrusting you towards the stranger.

Nanami smiled down at you sympathetically.

“Should have started with that, Satoru.”

“Oopsie. Noted! Well, I’m leaving things to you, Nanamin.”

Gojo released you, opting to wave his goodbye as the blonde man guided you to the front door.

Nanami, as you’d soon find out, was a gentleman.

Definitely too good for Gojo Satoru.

You’d also find out that he was a collector of old cars; ones which he cared for well, and ones with doors he opened for you. You’d learn he was the designated driver for all the parties he attended, as he had never found interest in social drinking, but appreciated a glass or two of whiskey alone. You’d also learn he was very single—the main reason why Gojo dragged him to every party he threw. Which he allowed, as it was his way of repaying his old friend.

Surprisingly, he went to high school with Shoko, Utahime, Gojo, and Geto as well—though he was a year younger than them (something you would have never expected from his visage alone).

(Gojo had aged him, apparently).

He drove you home with light conversation and soft jazz on the radio, a refreshing break from the mind-numbing bass of Gojo’s party playlist. He offered you water from a closed bottle—the expensive stuff—and rolled down the windows so you could get some air. It did wonders for your condition, although it was never much of a physical one.

Pulling into the driveway of your shared housing complex, he killed the engine and hopped out to grab the door again.

“Thank you, Nanami… you really didn’t have to do that.”

He raised a hand, stopping the thought.

“It was my pleasure. Thank you for the excuse to get some air; I don’t know if I would’ve survived otherwise.”

He smiled, soft and genuine, as he helped you up the steps. Unneeded, but appreciated. You didn’t have the heart to shoo him away.

“I wish we could have met under better circumstances,” he breathed as you reached the front door, fumbling for your keys.

“Me too… would you like to come in for some tea, maybe?”

Nanami chuckled, loosening the spotted tie around his neck. Business-casual looked good on him… though you weren’t sure you understood the costume.

“I should head back; someone has to keep Satoru in check.”

You nod, swallowing the disappointment.

“But I’d enjoy seeing you again. May I grab your number? If it’s alright with you, of course.”

***

Once again, you had grown a new appreciation of Halloween— maybe not a stronger one than the one you had for cozy movie cuddles with your best friends, but it was something. A celebration of the good friends you had. Of the new friends you’d made. Of the new adventures you could share together.

And oddly enough, you were looking forward to the next one.

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