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Nine out of ten times, Gojo and his boyfriend are on the same page. Sometimes, they share a brain cell and things just click and make sense to them without having to say any words at all, but this is one of the times where they just didn’t agree.
Gojo had something in mind already for the two of them to wear to Utahime’s halloween party, having already bought his costume, finally feeling brave enough to wear the skimpy, black latex body suit. It shows everything, the small swell of his breast, the indentation of his abs, the meat of his pussy if someone is looking hard enough.
The whole thing was fully thought out; the fluffy bunny ears ordered, a small white tail to put right on his butt. A faux collar to adorn his neck and some cuffs to rest on his wrists. Along with some of the glittery eyeshadow he bought for the occasion, he would be the perfect playboy bunny; cheeky, vivacious, sure to be the best dressed in the room.
And his boyfriend was supposed to be the proprietor of it all, dressed in a velvet robe with a cigar hanging from his lips, his arm slung around Gojo’s waist, showing him off to everyone knowing they will never have someone as handsome as him.
It really would have been perfect if his boyfriend hadn’t gone and bought a stupid Ghostface mask with even stupider tattered robes.
Whatever.
Gojo can’t act like he isn’t annoyed, but he just lets it go, determined to have a good time even if their costumes aren’t complimentary.
At least he still looks good, the robes emphasizing his broad frame, the mask a good mix of terrifying and hot.
Hand in hand, they knock on the door to her home, a smile crossing both of their faces when Utahime opens it. Gojo’s ever so sensitive nose twitches, an assortment of smells automatically hitting him full force. There’s joy, excitement, but what hangs thickest in the air is lust.
He smells it coming off himself too.
“Come in, come in!” Utahime smiles, opening the door wider so both of them have space to come inside. “You can just throw your jackets in that corner over there. The closet's already full.”
Sure enough, there’s a mountain high pile of jackets on the floor, some dark, blending in with the floor while others have a few distinguishable speckles of color.
Obviously, his costume needed to be on display at all times, skipping the jacket and embracing the chill of the October air. His boyfriend on the other hand, opts to keep the thin black denim jacket on, thanking Utahime but telling her it’s okay.
“I’m going to get a drink,” his boyfriend whispers in his air, mostly to combat the loud music. “I’ll see if there’s something without alcohol, alright?”
Gojo just nods, waving him off, excited to find his other friends and get their reactions. His hips swivel as he makes his way through the crowd, a head high swarming from the sheer volume of people in here, drunk off the company. As he passes by, he collects compliment after compliment, some girls playfully grabbing his tails, some guys eyeing him up and down, asking if he wants to dance.
Clearly, the answer is no, his head whipping around trying to spot both his boyfriend and Shoko in the crowd.
He finds one of them, at least, spotting Shoko’s brown head of hair, the white doctor’s coat she’s wearing standing out amongst all the goblins and ghouls in attendance.
“You know,” Gojo jokes as he steps closer, her usual sweet scent calming her senses. For an alpha, she always smells so mild, not overbearing like so many others, even when she’s drunk and a bit out of control like she is right now. Even his boyfriend’s strong musk makes him want to gag at times. Her arms flair wildly as she dances, not even a drop spilling from her drink somehow. “I don’t think this counts as dressing up. Since, you know. You’re going to medical school and all.”
“Fuck off,” she laughs, pointing at some of the blood splattered along the sleeves. “Can’t you see? I made it festive.”
“Sure,” he laughs in return, shaking his head as she pulls him toward her, turning him around so his ass is against her front.
Well, with their height difference, it's more like his ass is on her stomach, but she doesn't seem to mind, playfully smacking his ass as she holds his hips.
He can never say no to dancing with Shoko, letting loose as he gyrates his head, letting the music seep into his brains and control all of his movements. The beat gets faster and faster, so loud he can feel every bone in his body vibrating, but he feels so alive, even amongst all the people who have decided to dress as the dead.
“Come on!” Shoko coos, outstretching her hand. “It’s a party! One sip won’t hurt!”
He looks down at the brown liquid in the cup, bringing it up to his nose, wincing as he sniffs it.
It smells absolutely vile, like sin in a cup, but he considers what he’s wearing.
Maybe a little bit of sin on a night such as this one wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, a little trip to the dark side.
Plus his boyfriend isn’t back, probably got a drink and fucked off to talk to one of his friends.
Because… well… aside from the minor disagreement with the costumes, things haven’t been the best between them lately. Argument after argument, mountains being made out of molehills for things so minor, Gojo can’t even bring himself to remember them all.
Fuck it.
Mentally preparing himself the best he can, he slams back the rest of the contents in the cup, automatically feeling his body convulse as the liquid makes its way down his throat, settling warmly in his belly.
“I don’t know how you do this,” Gojo gags, giving the cup back to her.
“There’s only one way to get used to it!” she beams, putting up a finger to say she’ll be back in a second, quickly reemerging with another cup filled to the brim of the demonic concoction.
If she could get that so quick, his boyfriend should have been able to do the same. He must really want to be on his own tonight.
What-fucking-ever.
Pursing his lips, bracing himself out more, he chugs down the drink in three big gulps, gasping for breath at the burn, fire lining every inch of his throat as he gives her the now empty cup.
“That’s the spirit!” she says, clapping her hand down on his shoulder. “Now we can really party!”
And party he does, letting his mind go blank as the beats possess him once again, his limbs moving with no coordination. It’s freeing, in a way, not being as rigid as he usually would be, letting loose, having the most fun he’s had in months.
He doesn’t even know how long he’s been dancing, song after song playing, the party showing no signs of slowing down. Only when the liquor starts to wear off, some of his senses—not all—coming back to him, does he realize he hasn’t seen his boyfriend the whole time he’s been here.
“I should find him,” Gojo slurs, straggling off the ‘dancefloor’, also known as Utahime’s living room. Shoko definitely says something behind him, but he’s already on a mission, pushing his way through the crowd, opening random doors to find someone that should be easy to spot.
Not in the bathroom. Definitely not in the too small pantry that only a child would be able to hide in. One door leads out to the garage, some partygoers are there, smoking and chatting. They pay him no mind, and he huffs as he closes the door.
Upstairs is his best bet.
Unless he fucking left. He better not have. He was his ride here and he’ll for sure break up with him if that’s the case.
He walks up the stairs, holding onto the bannisters for balance as he carefully moves one foot in front of the other.
Slowly, he makes his way down the hall, turning the first knob he sees.
No use, locked.
He tries another door, his heart beginning to race for some reason as he turns the knob. It gives way, but it’s just the bathroom, the sink filled with vomit. Utahime definitely isn’t going to be happy about that, but he doesn’t live here and it ultimately isn’t his problem.
A sense of dread embeds itself into his bloodstream as he makes his way down the hall, only one door left to try.
If he isn’t in there, he really left Gojo, didn’t deem him worthy enough to stick around despite their commitment to coming and leaving together. And yeah, things haven’t been the best, but the sword of betrayal stabs right into his heart as he puts his hand on the knob, taking a deep breath before he turns it.
Maybe it’s the thought of truly being alone that has him hesitating, his movements stuttering as he keeps trying to amp himself up to open the door.
“Open the damn door,” he tells himself.
A little test trial won’t hurt. He turns the knob, pushing open the door just a little bit to see if it’ll open.
It does, a sliver of light coming from the room. No sounds though. He’s probably just passed out in there.
Yeah, he’s in there for sure. He felt himself getting sleepy, made his way up the stairs, and let his body fall against the soft mattress rather than risk his head colliding with the floor from passing out, because he’s responsible like that.
Now all he has to do is open the door and get the confirmation he’s correct.
No need though, the familiar scent of his lover creeping into his nose, the underlying musk all alphas have, the hint of sweetness from the cologne he likes to douse himself in.
There’s something else though… something that has goosebumps starting to litter his skin, an imaginary exclamation mark appearing over his head, alerting him to danger.
He absolutely reeks of hunger, a desperate craving, like he can slaughter a cow with his bare hands and consume the meat, bones and all completely raw.
But this is him, so it’s fine. He pushes down the sudden bout of anxiety seeping into his pores and turns around, putting a smile on his face.
There he is, and it must be the liquor, because Gojo swears he looks a little bit taller and broader than usual. The mask is still on, and Gojo has to stop himself from gulping, reminding himself yet again that this is his boyfriend and there’s nothing to fear.
“Hey,” he greets, voice slightly shaky. “I’ve been looking for you for like, fifteen minutes.”
No answer.
“Did you even get that drink? You disappeared the second we got inside.”
Nothing again.
Except, he takes a step closer, the small action making Gojo far more nervous than necessary, instinctively taking a step back.
“Well, I’m ready to go if you are,” he says, slightly nervous.
For the third time, he doesn’t get a response and can only rationalize it by thinking his boyfriend is upset with him for some reason. Mad at him since Gojo was mad at him for the whole costume thing, possibly?
“I really don’t feel like arguing with you tonight.” Gojo crosses his arms over his chest, letting that sense of fear evaporate, irritation quickly taking his place. “Let’s just fucking go. I already had a good time.”
His boyfriend cocks his head to the side, the mask simply looking stupid as fuck with its mock shocked expression.
“You know what?” he scoffs, starting to walk past him, feeling stupid for feeling concerned, for even feeling at all nervous. “I’ll get a ride home from someone else. Fuck you.”
He doesn’t get far in the slightest, their forearms brushing before he’s quickly yanked back to where he was, pain instantly racing up the length of his arm. He hisses, not even able to get a word out before he’s pushed into the bedroom.
Doesn’t even get a chance to consider what’s happening when he hears the door slam shut, followed by the soft clicking of the lock.
That fear is back, hot and heavy, weighing him down, making him unable to move as his boyfriend stalks toward him, moving so slowly, all Gojo can do is cower, his tall frame absolutely useless.
Then he’s being pushed onto the bed, the contrast of the hard shove and the soft mattress making him a bit dizzy. The daze continues when the masked man—because he’s acting nothing like his boyfriend right now—climbs on top of him, partling his legs with his knee.
He leans in close, the cold plastic of the mask rubbing against his face. Gojo doesn’t even have room to turn his head, forced to be eye to eye with the soulless mask.
“You wanted to leave?” He sounds so utterly sinister, mocking Gojo like belittling him is his job. “I haven’t even had any fun with you yet.” Words get stuck in his throat, lips trembling as the masked man cocks his head to the side again, his gloved hand caressing the side of his face so gently, it almost feels like he’s in a dream, that he’s actually not at this party right now. “This pretty face of yours,” he murmurs. “I want to see it bleed.”
Immediately, his eyes widen, fright keeping him locked in place, hands unable to even curl into a fist as he watches the man reach behind his back.
“Red would look good on you.” This is the exact opposite of Christmas, Gojo filled to the brim with dread as the man ever so slowly reveals what he was hiding. Under the bright ceiling light overhead, the blade of the knife glints. He sees his reflection, terror swimming in his eyes as he lowers it, the sharp edge looming closer and closer to the side of his face. “Guess I’ll see for myself, hm?”
He’s experiencing levels of panic he’s never felt before, completely paralyzed and helpless to the blade, the weapon—real and terrifying, not some play thing filled with fake blood—moving at a snail’s pace, his heart getting ready to jump right out of his chest.
Might even be for the best if that happened, if he just died so he doesn’t have to face whatever sick mutilation this man is imagining.
“Not gonna smile for me?” the masked man murmurs, positing the very tip of the blade at the edge of Gojo’s lips, a light poke enough to pierce his skin, a few drops of blood dripping out. “I could make you smile, if I really wanted to,” he sighs dreamily—which is horrifying to hear—the point of the blade now dragging up in the position of a demented smile. “Could carve it right into you. What do you think?”
“N-no!” he shouts, finally finding his voice.
“Hm, I think you’re right,” he responds, bringing the blade to his chin, letting it slowly drag down his neck, and he tries his damned hardest not to gulp, too afraid of more of his skin being pierced. “I was wrong. Your face is far too pretty for that.” The knife stops right on top of the top of the body suit, and he taps it once, then twice. “But I didn’t bring this for no reason, I’m going to use it.”
“Stop!” he shouts, hoping for someone, anyone to hear him. “Please, I want to go home! Stop this. Stop—”
His protests fall on dear ears, the hands of the menace quick and precise, dragging the knife down in a perfect vertical line, leaving his bodysuit in two, perfect halves. It slices through everything, the thin, lacy clasp of his bra; the equal thin material of his matching panties. Immediately, he’s cold, desiring nothing more than to cover up, his nipples already pebbling in the air.
“Right here.” The knife is right under his breasts, the masked man—god, why is his boyfriend doing this—pressing it shallowly against his skin, using the same precise movement, leaving his left side with trickles of blood decorating his skin. All he can do is close his eyes, the sting of the blade making him hiss. “That’s better.”
He can’t bear to open his eyes, but definitely feels when the same thing is done on the other side, a strained, desperate whimper pushing past his lip when he’s carved into again, like he’s nothing but a piece of meat made to be owned and consumed.
A river of fear spills from his eyes when the knife returns to cut into his skin again and again, like the person is making tallymarks for every tear that’s fallen, for every time Gojo has begged him to stop.
He’s completely helpless, not even sure what he could have done to avoid being in his current predicament.
Is this punishment for being who he is? Is he being penalized for just wanting to spend Halloween with his friends? Is he truly being tortured for wanting to go home with his boyfriend? For wanting to wear this costume that he’s had in mind for the past couple months?
Really and truly, he doesn’t know, and all he’s able to feel is physical anguish, like someone just spoonfed him pain again and again, telling him it’s the only thing he’ll be able to eat for the rest of his life.
It tastes terrible, the metallic taste of the blood from his lip that was pricked earlier infiltrating his mouth as he cries out helplessly, his throat feeling absolutely raw.
“Aw,” the man above him says way too calmly, finally removing the knife from his skin. “You look so pretty right now. My bleeding angel, weeping for me.”
Definitely doesn’t feel like he’s an angel right now.
Unless he’s Lucifer after falling from grace, plummeting down to the earth, bloody and bruised and wings broken beyond repair.
There’s a clang that weakly makes him open his eyes, seeing the knife stained with his blood being tossed against the room. He dares to look down at himself, sniffling at the sight, his body marked up like a child just attacked a coloring book with a singular, red marker.
“I–” he hiccups, gasping uncontrollably, the man who’s acting like a complete stranger still burying his back against the mattress with his weight. “I want to go home.”
“When we’re done here.”
His lip trembles, watching the gloved hand pick up the robes enough to reveal his black pants, his belt buckle glinting just like the knife.
Then he pauses, seeming to think better of it.
“Please.” Gojo shakes his head. “Stop—”
It happens in the blink of an eye, the man getting off of him, giving him approximately five seconds to make a break for it.
The attempt he makes is absolutely pathetic, the man laughing as he pins him back down to the bed, laying him on his stomach this time, Gojo getting a face full of pillows. The only thing that manages to keep him the slightest bit calm is the scent of the lavender on the pillow.
However, it gets snatched from him so quickly, the sound of his belt buckle jingling ringing loudly in his ear, followed by a sharp pain on his scalp. It hurts even more than the knife, the grip tight, threatening to rip the follicles right out of his head.
His head is lifted to the heavens, eyes forcibly rolling back as the masked man looks in front of him, that stupid expression mocking him to no end. “Remember to smile for me, alright pretty boy?”
That’s the last thing he hears before he absolutely wails, a cock being shoved into him with so much force, he swears the tip is poking at his brainstem.
“Smile,” the man demands, pulling out completely before slamming back into him, his other hand gripping the front of Gojo's throat.
The pained grimace must be enough for him, a sadistic, muffled laugh coming from the mask as Gojo’s cunt is absolutely abused, not having been prepared in the slightest.
And of course he knows that his boyfriend is big, Gojo is too shallow to waste him time dating anyone too small for his liking, but he swears he feels even bigger, like he collected all of the blood from his skin to make his dick swell larger than it ever has.
It’s mangling his insides in the worst way possible, aggressively gliding against his tight walls, slamming in and out at breakneck pace.
Even worse is his body’s response to it all, slick leaking out, making it even easier for his attacker—because how could this be his boyfriend—to continue his wrongdoings. It’s coating his inner thighs, staining this man’s cock, only giving him the motivation to go harder, faster.
He’s always been okay with who he is, but he wishes he were an alpha or a beta, someone who wouldn’t be so inviting to a cock that shouldn’t be inside of them.
“I think you’d look good pregnant.” Those words have never sounded more terrifying, the man’s raspy breath hitting his ear. “Doesn’t make sense to waste a load when your pussy likes this.”
He’s too pained to speak, too defeated to argue as the man groans in his ear, sharp canines nipping at the shell of his ear as his pace begins to slow down.
“All that crying when you were so good for me,” the man taunts, slowly thrusting into him again, his breaths hot and heavy. “You take cock so well. Why were you acting all scared like you weren’t meant for this?”
He sniffles again, eyes widening at the feeling of his cock beginning to swell inside of him, desperately trying to move.
“Just take it,” he coos, letting go of his hair just to shove his face back into the pillow, placing his other hand on the small of his back to keep him in place. “This is going to feel good.”
One of the biggest lies he’s ever heard, sobbing into the pillow as he feels his pussy being flooded with hot cum, the knot growing inside of him, the man letting out a sigh as he pushes into the very hilt.
For the first time in his life, the slick isn’t nearly enough, pain eating away at him as the knot continues to inflate. He continues weeping, seemingly waiting forever for the knot to finish growing, his legs convulsing when he thrusts in one more time, the knot finally complete.
This doesn’t feel good, the tip prodding at his cervix, the bulbous knot stretching him uncomfortably open.
Even worse when his body betrays him again, clenching around his cock, coming against his will with the length deep inside him.
“Good boy.” Praise has never felt worse, the words sounding sticky and slimy from something he thought he loved, someone he thought he could trust, someone who he was willing to work things out with because at the end of the day, they know each other better than anyone else. The words are acid to his ears, splashing against his skin and leaving painful burns.
He isn’t even sure how much time has passed, seconds turning into minutes morphing into what seems like hours of being stuffed against his will, his toes and fingers twitching, waiting until they can finally be separated.
It’s agonizing, the massive weight on top of him feeling so cold, so sinister, so unlike the warmth he’s used to.
Whoever his boyfriend has become, he never wants to be involved with him again.
A century passes before he feels the pressure inside him retreating, more praises falling from this stranger’s lips as he begins to pull out, leaving Gojo a soaked, trembling mess on the bed. Curling into himself, he keeps his eyes shut, wondering if his judgement has always been this bad, if his now ex-boyfriend has really been capable of doing this all along.
It’s sickening, maddening to think he could have had these intentions their entire relationship and choose to unleash tonight, for whatever reason.
“Enjoy the rest of the party.” He unlocks the door, and closes it behind him as leaves.
Gojo is angry, disgusted, ashamed, an entire slew of emotions he doesn’t know how to compartmentalize, all of them mixing together and streaming down his cheeks as he sobs again, trying to regain some strength to stand up and leave.
Does he file a report? Tell the police that his ex assaulted him?
Would he retaliate?
He doesn’t know, he really doesn’t, and his mind is still spiraling as he finally stands, coming to the realization that his clothes were cut off. He has nothing to wear, not even his undergarments intact.
Sniffling, he pathetically opens one of the drawers, relieved that this is Utahime’s room—yet horrified that he’ll have to tell her what happened, that he was forcibly fucked into submission in her room, staining her sheets with his tears and blood.
Struggling to breathe, he riffles through her shirts, finding something that's oversized enough to fit him comfortably, not wanting anything to cling to his still raw skin. He does the same for the bottoms, settling on a pair of sweatpants, rolling over the waistband so they don’t fall off him.
Shoes abandoned in the corner of the room—his ex must have taken them off and he was too scared to even register it happening—he slips them back on before taking a look at himself in the vanity.
The ears on his head are askew, eyeshadow completely ruined from all the crying, and he absolutely reeks of exhaustion, feeling like his body was put through the absolute wringer.
In his new outfit, he leaves the room, slowly making his way down the stairs.
“Gojo?” It’s Shoko, her voice a bit slurred, but the moment she sees him, her face sober a bit, looking him up and down. “Is there a reason you have on my girlfriend’s clothes right now?” Yes, there is. “What happened to your costume?”
His throat closes up, lips pursed tightly as he just shakes his head, only thinking about heading out the door and going home to scrub his clean even, and tending to what will be his permanent scars.
“I have to go,” he murmurs without looking her in the eye, pushing past her to get to the door.
No surprise he gets some odd looks, the grand entrance he made before is a stark contrast to the hasty exit he’s making now, but he doesn’t care, only concerned about himself right now.
“Gojo!” Shoko calls behind him, following him outside once he makes it to the door. “Gojo, what the hell is going on with you?”
Quickly, he whips around, tears already brimming in the rim at the eyes at the prospect of telling her what happened, of revealing a moment of weakness, of pure vulnerability that was completely taken advantage of.
“Satoru!” another voice calls, making a chill run down his spine, a voice that somehow sounds so concerned despite what he just did. He doesn’t even know if he wants to turn around, not wanting to be face to face with that mask again, but unprepared to face who he thought the person under the mask was.
Hesitantly, he takes a step back.
But he’s coming closer, seeming to be coming from his car, which makes Satoru simply scowl. At least the mask is nowhere in sight. To think he did that and was planning to leave. “Satoru!” he shouts again, making him take another step back, shaking his head.
“Stay back!” Gojo yells, taking a step back, ending up bumping into Shoko, but neither of them seem to mind. “Get away from me!”
“Satoru,” he says, voice much softer this time. “I went to get your drink and I…” He blinks, pushing a hand through his hair, cheeks still flushed. “I don’t know what happened. I was looking for you and—”
“You don’t know what happened?” Gojo’s voice is deathly low, his shoulders shuddering as he speaks, in disbelief that he has somehow managed to pull the sympathy card to play, like he’s really supposed to wholeheartedly believed he blacked out, or whatever his fucking deluded mind has conjured up. “Are you fucking kidding me? You fucking rap—” he cuts himself off, not even wanting to say the word aloud.
But he has to admit it to himself, and the facts of the matter won’t change even if he fails to be honest with himself.
A tear slips down his cheek, taking another step back, Shoko’s comforting scent surrounding him as she squeezes his shoulder, clearly not knowing what’s going on, but ready to support him anyway.
“You raped me.” His voice is shaky and uneven, instantly hugging himself, feeling Shoko’s grip tighten on his shoulder, her scent growing strong, a definite indicator of the rage growing steadily inside her. “You fucking psycho. You cut me up and raped me! Now you want to play fucking dumb like you’re not a complete sicko.”
“What the fuck?” Utahime’s voice this time, him and Shoko turning their heads to see the host standing in the doorway, completely enraged as she makes her way down the stairs. “Get the fuck away from my house,” she spits, phone already in hand.
“I didn’t—” his ex stands there, looking dumbfounded for some reason, eyes bouncing between the three angry people before him, still taking a step closer, as if he has something to argue his case. “Satoru, I would never do that! We can figure this out together. You know—”
“Fucking leave!” Utahime shouts—and whoever is on the other end must be deathly afraid of her right now, her voice reverberating for miles, seeming to make the tree shake as birds flee from the branches. “Or you can wait until the fucking cops get here. Your choice.”
For a reason completely unbeknownst to him, his ex doesn’t heed her warning, still trying to talk to him, a pleading look in his eyes that he definitely isn’t falling for. “Satoru, I love you. I—”
“Get the fuck away from him.” Shoko moves without fear, doesn’t even care that she’s a half foot shorter than them both, standing in front of Gojo and pushing her hand against his ex’s chest. “Fucking weirdo. I knew I never liked you.”
“Satoru,” he pleads, easily looking around her and staring back at him. “Please, let me talk to you.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Utahime shouts at him. “Yes, that’s correct. A young man wearing a Ghostface assaulted my friend,” she says into the receiver. “Yes, Minato-Ku, my address is correct. Thank you.” It almost looks like she wants to fold the phone in half, aggressively tapping the screen to end the call. “Since you want to talk so bad, stay until the cops get here, asshole!”
“What the fuck’s going on?” a deep voice asks, Gojo warily turning around to see who it is, really not wanting an audience any bigger.
“Geto!” Shoko shouts, and Gojo has definitely seen him a few times before, smoking with her. They’re pretty close as far as he knows. “Come hold him down until the cops get here.”
He does so without question, leaping down the steps and grabbing his ex by the collar of the robes, reeling his fist back and slamming it into his face. Gojo jumps, positive he hears his nose break, watching in shock as Geto continues punches him, keeping a grip on him even when his ex’s knees buckle and he falls to the ground.
“He’s not going to stop unless you tell him to,” Shoko laughs, trying to make light of this situation.
Gojo can’t bring himself to care, watching his face get pummeled until he hears the sirens and sees the flashing lights in the distance.
“Geto!” Utahime scolds, like he’s a dog that needs direction. “Get off him. We don’t want you getting in trouble.”
He seems to consider it for a moment, looking down at Naoya like the filth he is before letting go, wheezes and pathetic puffs of air coming from him, Geto walking away just in time.
“Stay with him for a moment,” Shoko pretty much demands, the broadness of her friend’s body shielding him from almost everything that’s happening the moment the authorities swerve in front of her house. Luckily, his few inches of height on him helps him see the cops picking up his limp body, Shoko and Utahime animatedly telling the cops some story that they seem to have no qualms with believing. Naoya is picked up, cuffed, and hauled off in the back of the car in a matter of seconds.
Geto turns to face him, his eyes and smile gently—a little sheepish even. “Sorry about that.” A hand lands on the back of his neck. “I might have gotten a little carried away, but I’m sure he’ll be fine.” He considers his words for a moment, his perfectly shaped eyebrows furrowing. “Well, if you care anyway.”
“I don’t,” Gojo laughs weakly.
“Good.” Geto nods, reaching out to rest his hand on Gojo's shoulder, but the light amusement on his face drops and he takes a step back, eyes wide and weary like a spooked deer. “Sorry, sorry. But everything is going to be okay, alright? If they won’t let you get hurt, neither will I.”
The reassurance doesn’t quite calm him down, still feeling jittery from the attempted touch, but the way he so easily backs off, the manner in which Shoko—the friend of his that’s naturally skeptical about everyone she meets before she dares to let anyone chip at her impenetrable wall—but her trust in him, even if it’s just for less than a minute, begins to settle him.
“Thanks.” He looks down at his feet, the only part of his clothing that happened to stay intact tonight, still embarrassed at this whole thing happening. He looks back up, trying to think about a singularly bright spot, another weak laugh coming from him. “I always told him someone was going to beat the shit out of him someday. Guess I should have dressed as a fortune teller instead.”
Geto looks like he doesn’t know if he should laugh, but Gojo gives him a bit of encouragement, playfulling slapping his forearm. This seems to give him the permission he needs, chuckling as Shoko and Utahime make their way over to him.
“Gojo, I’m so fucking sorry,” Utahime apologizes, her lip wobbling when she looks up at him with glossy eyes. “Geto, get everyone out my fucking house right now. This party is over.”
Obedient dog he is, nodding quickly and reentering the house and his two close friends surround him with their warmth, standing off to the side as they hug him tightly.
Must be some kind of superpower, an insane skill he solely possesses, because in what has to be seconds, everyone is filling out of the house, making themselves sparse, running like ants to their vehicles. Doesn't even seem possible that this many people were in her home, but he guesses anything can happen when a bunch of college students hear free booze.
Geto physically shoves the last person out, the drunk kid in a banana suit almost tripping over his friend as his friend grabs him and pulls him to the car. Looking like the best bouncer a club could offer, Geto says, “Alright. Everyone is gone,” giving them the clear to come back inside.
“God, it fucking reeks,” Utahime complains the second they come back inside, Gojo scrunching his nose at all at the mix of different smells; the sweat from everyone being packed so tightly together, the lust in the air, the liquor that seems to have embedded itself into the walls. “Uh, Shoko, maybe we should go to yours for the night?”
“I live closer,” Geto chimes in.
“True, my roommate might be home,” Shoko sighs.
“You can all just come to my place,” Gojo offers softly, eyes bouncing between all three of them. “At least for tonight, please.”
And that’s all it takes, Utahime running upstairs quickly to pack some clothes for her and Shoko, Geto saying he’s fine sleeping in his mime costume—makeup and all. They walk out to Shoko’s car, all of them letting Gojo decide where he wants to sit.
He chooses the backseat.
“Geto, you can drive,” Shoko says as she and Utahime sit on either side of him, each of them holding one of his hands, giving a gentle squeeze. It’s just what he needs right now, Shoko instructing Geto where to go, a nice and easy drive until they arrive.
When they get to the door, he pales. Obviously, unless he planned on shoving them up his pussy, there was nowhere in his costume to allot space for keys.
“I don’t have my keys…”
“Geto.” Shoko snaps her fingers—and he really must be their lap dog of sorts, no opposition to a single thing either of them have said tonight—and he’s in front of the door, letting his hair out of the bun it's in. It’s a mesmerizing sight, watching his silky locks flow down his back, using a bobby pin that was keeping his hair in place to pick open the lock in about a minute. “Don’t tell anyone he knows how to do that.”
Gojo’s lips are sealed as they pile inside for the night.
“We can blow up the air mattress and pull out the futon. Sleepover in the living room.” Gojo smiles weakly, and everyone agrees.
He’s taken upstairs, Shoko and Utahime giving him the agency to undress himself while Geto stays downstairs like the watchdog he is. They run him a bath and gently scrub down his body. Their touch is soothing, like a mother cradling their newborn and calming them down for the first time.
Then, with his permission, Shoko tends to his wounds the best she can; cleaning it, applying antibiotic ointment, dressing them with the emergency medkit she keeps in the car.
It’s been such a long night, his body still sore all over, but Geto took the liberty to set up all the arrangements for them. He opts to take the futon, Shoko and Utahime on either side of Gojo, feeling utterly protected as he slowly but surely drifts off.
Days bleed into weeks, the whole period of time being a blur since that night.
Lucky for him, he’ll never have to see Naoya again.
Usually, he despises the influence his family has, but he’s never been happier to be born a Gojo.
It was painful, recalling the story to his parents, even more mortifying telling it to their family lawyer and showing off his scars, but thanks to that bravery, Naoya’s life is over before it really even got a chance to begin, sentenced to fifteen years in jail.
Still, even with the expedited case and the knowledge that he could never break out of prison, Gojo still finds himself looking over his shoulder; waking up in the middle of the night screaming his lungs out because that wretched night has yet to leave his memory.
Shoko and Utahime are a huge help with everything, driving him to and from his classes, making sure he eats, giving him company when he wears he’s fine.
But Geto makes things so much better, makes him feel even more seen than his three times a week therapy sessions.
He loves the girls, no denying that, but something about Geto was magnetic from that very night, a magnetic pull he eventually gave into no matter how many times his consciousness convinced him he needed to resist.
Because Geto is nothing like Naoya; he’s compassionate and agreeable, never mocking Gojo for things his ex did, like wanting to eat some dessert before dinner. He’s always calm and composed, never daring to raise his voice, managing to always keep his temper in check, unlike Naoya who would fly off the handle if he spotted a speck of dirt on his shoes.
Most important of all, he’s patient, because after the case wrapped up, he spilled his guts, admitting how much he likes him even though the voice in the back of his head was screaming no one would ever want to be with a victim.
And without him even knowing, that little voice spilled out to reality and there was no time to bite his tongue, to take back his words.
“But you aren’t one,” Geto reassured him with that gentle smile, the one that makes the corner of his eyes crinkle. “You’re a survivor, so much stronger than anyone I know.”
Since then, they’ve been taking it slow, working their way up to things all at Gojo’s pace; long hugs where Geto’s rubs his nose all along Gojo’s neck, leaving him giddy when he goes out and he smells like he belongs to someone. Shy kisses where Gojo is always the first one to stick his tongue in Geto’s mouth, always giving his lip a gentle bite to let him know it’s okay for him to do the same. Sleepovers nearly every night—at this point, he’s moved into Geto’s place, plagued with too many memories of his ex at his old apartment—where he buries his head into Geto’s chest, and he’s held delicately like a porcelain doll.
It takes months for him to build up the confidence to do it, but he eventually takes off his shirt, bare breasts and scars on display. Geto never treated it as a spectacle, never looked at him any differently.
He just asked to kiss them, and even though it took Gojo a while to be comfortable with that, it quickly became a part of their routine.
Every single night, even when Geto is exhausted and wants nothing more than to pass out, he asks Gojo if it’s okay, and presses his lips to every inch of his marred skin. Could be his delusions, but he swears the scars start to fade.
Nothing further than that, not even a tongue swiping along his folds or lips latching onto his nipples, but Geto is fine with that, and Gojo can’t ask for anything more than his affection and understanding.
It helps him finish his senior year, all of them standing side by side at graduation, ecstatic smiles on their faces as they go out to celebrate after.
He thought his life would be over after that night, that he would become nothing more than a shell of himself, hoping to find that spark of life again.
Geto’s proven to be the ignitor to his flame, giving him something to wake up to every single morning and a reason to fall asleep with a smile on his face every single night.
The same reason they’re officially moving in together, a quaint apartment right on the outskirts of Tokyo, close enough to all the exciting happenings, but far enough to see the stars instead of a bunch of overly bright billboards at night.
“You have so much shit in this closet!” Gojo shouts, humor in his voice as he continues rifling through Geto’s things. There’s a lot of consolidating to do before they’re set to move in two weeks, and he refuses to wait until the last minute. “Would be nice if you helped me!”
“If I don’t make lunch, who will?” Geto shouts back from the kitchen, also amused.
Gojo just shakes his head, separating his polos from his button downs, folding his jeans and slacks and putting them in respective boxes. Gojo thought he was the one with a shopping addiction, but this wouldn’t be the first time Geto surprised him.
He continues sorting through everything, stomach growling with the growing scent of their lunch, but he’s determined to finish, quickly pulling everything out, organizing them in the way that once makes sense to him.
There’s just one thing left, his stomach nearly touching his back as he picks up the black shirt, eyebrows furrowing when his fingers meet something hard. “What?” he laughs to himself. “Is he hiding a fleshlight in here?”
Not that he would ever have a reason to own one, but his heart starts to beat a little faster upon realizing that this definitely can’t be what he thinks it is, the surface too wide and for sure not cylindrical.
It’s probably nothing, but the curiosity is eating away at him even more than his stomach acid.
Carelessly, he flips it over, ready to just take a look and then tell Geto to put it wherever he deems best.
His heart though, completely plummets, jaw hitting the floor as he stares at what’s in his hands.
“Satoru, come eat!”
His appetite vanishes, there one second and gone the next as he keeps looking at what’s in his hands, memories that weeks of therapy and affectionate rehabilitation helped to push away aggressively coming back to the forefront of his mind.
“Babe, I know you’re hungry! I’m making your plate for you.”
This doesn’t make any sense, clamping his eyes shut before he opens them again to confirm what he’s seeing, pressure building up in his tear ducts when he confirms this is reality and not just some bad dream.
“You didn’t hear me calling you?” Gojo practically leaps out of his skin, the deplorable thing still in his hands as he whips his head around, heartbeat pounding in his ears, downing out everything else. “I said lunch is done, come on.”
“Suguru.” Gojo doesn’t even recognize his voice, rising on shaky legs as he looks down at the thing again—the same mask from that night. “What… What the fuck is this!”
Immediately, his face goes from lighthearted to serious, taking steps toward him, forcing Gojo to take steps back, feeling cornered like he did that night.
“Satoru, baby,” he whispers, persistent in his movements, not even caring that Gojo’s back is up against the wall.
“Stop,” Gojo cries, shutting his eyes, still trying to get away from this nightmare. It feels like the walls are closing in on him, leaving him with no space to breathe, getting crushed beneath the weight of his own anguish. “Get away from me!”
“Satoru, listen to me.” And this is the only time Suguru has invaded his personal space, continuing to close the distance, cupping the sides of his face with warm hands. Alarm bells are blaring in his mind, alerting him that he needs to run, that he needs to leave right fucking now. Desperately, he holds on to the flicker of hope in his heart, the smallest glimmer that tells him to listen to his words; the voice that has never led him astray. “I know why you’re scared, but I already had that. It was from when I was in high school, I can even show you the pictures.”
There’s nothing but sincerity in his voice, in his scent, and even in his eyes when Gojo finally opens his own. A thumb dabs at his eye, wiping his salty tears, giving him that same reassurance he always does.
“It’s so old, I forgot about it. You see how much shit is in there, baby,” he murmurs, continuing to wipe away his tears. “I never even looked for it again. I had no idea it was there. I thought it was lost during my moves.”
Well, that makes sense, probably got mixed up with his things from his transition from high school to university. God only knows how much stuff he swore was missing turned up in the place he least expected it.
“Look, I can throw it away right now.” He snatches the traumatizing mask from his hands, ready to walk out the door when Gojo latches on to his wrist, terrified, but not ready to be alone yet. “Come with me.”
Gojo stays silent as Geto links their hands together and leads him out the room, passing the kitchen where their food is patiently waiting to be eaten and unlocking the front door. Making sure to keep one of their hands connected, he opens their garbage pin and throws the mask inside, not sparing it another glance.
“See? That thing is nothing to me.” He’s led back inside, Geto washing his hands before cupping Gojo’s face again. “You are everything to me, and I’ll do anything to show you that. Please, baby. Believe me.”
He does.
Because Naoya was only acting confused as a cover up.
Geto wouldn’t treat him like a plucked flower, nurturing him with a gentle hand, if he ever had ill intentions.
He wouldn’t have risked going to jail for beating Naoya to a pulp if he were guilty or anything at all.
“Suguru,” Gojo says softly, gripping his face in return. “Do you love me?”
“So much,” he answers immediately, no doubt or hesitation. “I’d do anything for you, Satoru. I would never hurt you.”
Gojo looks him in the eye, searching for anything at all amiss, but he finds nothing even though the angel on his shoulder is sending him warning after warning, some part of his subconscious refusing to believe the truth right in front of his eyes.
Ignoring his brain and following his heart, he wraps his arms around his neck, breathing in his scent as Geto nuzzles his cheek,
Geto loves him, and would never do anything like that. He said it himself.
“Sorry,” Gojo murmurs in apology, hugging him tighter, cementing their bond—this promise, this commitment.
“It’s okay, baby. It’s just your mind worrying you again.” His hands begin to rub his back, calming him down. For some reason, it feels all too familiar for the wrong reasons, but he swallows it down, focusing on the present. “You’re mine. There’s nothing to worry about ever again.”
Geto’s biggest mistake was thinking he is a better man than Naoya.
It’s not like he’s ignorant to Naoya’s arrogance, his affinity for thinking he can say and do whatever he wants because his father donated a shit ton of money to their university, justifying his consistently atrocious attitude by claiming the only reason people are able to study is because of the library boasting his family’s surname.
He’s witnessed with his own eyes the man berating other students for this reason, calling them broke and worthless as if he contributed a single thing to his family’s fortune, all while Gojo hung off his arm, looking too timid to say anything.
It always made the little green man simmering beneath the surface grow in size, always wondering why he of all people was gifted with someone so beautiful, someone so much more demure than him. Someone who looks like they were kissed by an angel being with such an ogre of a man who probably treats him like shit anyway.
That’s why he didn’t think much of it when he saw them part ways at the party, dragging Naoya out through the back door, knocking him out cold and leaving him shivering in the dark while he took his clothes.
Didn’t even cross his mind to treat Gojo with an ounce of care when he finally crossed paths with him.
Oh, how badly he wanted to carve his initials into his porcelain skin, brand him for a lifetime, reminding him that he should have chosen someone better from the start.
And trust Geto, he knows they share the same letters for both their given and surnames, the possibility of him ever being caught would be zero.
Exactly the reason he was able to slip away so easily, redress the barely lucid Naoya and return to the party, unconcerned.
Except, something happened that he hadn’t even considered, a foil in what would be his perfect plan: Naoya having compassion.
Honestly, was he really supposed to think the man who had even insulted him for simply standing in the doorway of a shared classroom and paraded Gojo around like an accessory actually gave a fuck about him?
He should have known that no one is exempt from being kind to Gojo, no matter how they treat other people.
Minor flaw in judgement, whatever. Things happen.
At least he got to brutally beat Naoya for the second time that night, each draw of his fist filled with the frustration of him being wrong, of him being the first person to treat Gojo in a matter so malicious, he had no choice but to beg and cry before surrendering to the treatment, questioning why all of that had to happen to him.
Geto was able to come to a quick conclusion, witnessing the fallout of it all, the downfall of Noaya Zenin and his relationship with Gojo: No one believed him to be above the heinous act.
Not Shoko, who always had more than colorful words when talking about her best friend's boyfriend, not Utahime, who was waiting for the day she wouldn’t have to see him and be forced to hang out with him because of his association with Gojo.
Not even his dad, the prestigious Naobito Zenin, seemed to doubt what his son was capable of, only sighing when they were in court, resigning to the dismal fate the judge bestowed upon his heir.
And yeah, Geto laughed the next day when it was announced he was disowned, left to fend for himself in prison, no one there to help him again.
So really, Geto wasn’t wrong.
He was only doing what Naoya would eventually do, speeding up the inevitable.
Thinking back, as he lays here, cradling Gojo against his chest, running his fingers along his spine and feeling the steady beating of his heart, the only mistake he made was trying to keep a trophy to remember his victory. He should have thrown it far away. Give the thing an acid bath and watch it disintegrate into nothing; throw it into an incinerator and watch flames dance around it as it melts away from existence.
Quick on his feet, he saved himself from being written out of Gojo’s life.
Because ultimately, he isn’t flawed.
He’s Gojo’s savior, protecting him from anyone and anything wanting to harm him; giving him peace of mind when he’s at his most distressed.
He saved him from Naoya, from anyone that would treat him with an ounce of irrationality.
Without him, Gojo would be nothing.
The following days, it’s like nothing has happened at all, continuing to pack, moving into their new place together until Gojo comes to him, looking down at his feet, asking if they can talk.
“Of course.” He practically throws his phone across the room, patting his knee, an invitation to Gojo to sit in his lap if he chooses to do so. His steps are hesitant and careful, but he does—another small step they’ve taken lately that he absolutely adores. His ass lands on one of Geto’s strong thighs, his lips wobbling as his face is caressed. “Since when do you have to ask? Talk to me.”
Geto knows this look on his face, when his mind is moving faster than his mouth would be able to, contemplating his words before saying them aloud—but he loves Gojo’s word vomit, thinks it’s adorable when he stumbles over his words and only Geto’s reassurance can coax something sensible out of him.
“I’m pregnant.”
Huh?
Well, he did kind of, sort of fill him up with cum, but it’s not like anything happened after that.
So he just blinks, his mind working overtime to figure out this timeline of events.
They haven’t had sex… to Gojo’s knowledge, at least. And he knows Gojo isn’t with anyone else, his angel always stuck to his side twenty-four seven. If not him, he’s with the girls, and he knows for damn sure they would tell him if he even dared to look at another guy when they hang out.
“Please don’t be mad,” Gojo pleads immediately, his breaths starting to get frantic as he grips the sides of Geto’s face with his trembling hands. “I mean, I haven’t missed any periods and it’s not even like I’ve gotten fat! But when you took me to the gynecologist last week for my regular check up, she told me,” he hiccups. “She said it’s really rare, but it happens,” he whispers.
He fucked Gojo pregnant. Fucked him so hard the unborn child is too afraid to show itself growing in his womb.
That shouldn't be as hot as it is, doing his best to keep his expression neutral as he rubs his hand along his back, something Gojo likes, something he always leans into.
“I…” He hiccups again. “I know it’s his,” he says with disdain in his voice. The only bad thing here is that Geto has to reel in his possessiveness, can’t reveal that the unborn child is certainly his, because it’ll blow his entire guise. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything earlier. I just… I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t know what to do, and she said I’m due in two months.”
This news makes him gulp hard, the concept of being a father in such a short amount of time making him panic, just a little bit.
“Baby,” Geto whispers against his lips. “You can do whatever you want. I’m going to be here no matter what.” Instinctively, his eyes flick down to his stomach, slowly reaching out to rest his palm against it, giving it a slow rub. “If you want to have it, we’ll raise it together. If you want to give it up for adoption”—there’s a bitter taste in his mouth at the thought of his child going out into the world, cold and alone without their parents by their side, but this is the role he needs to play right now—“we can do that too. It’s your body. I just want to support you however I can, and that’s how it’ll always be.”
Because that’s what a savior does, they pull angels out from the pits of despair and watch them rise above the rest.
Just like what’s doing right now, a small smile crosses Gojo’s lips as he leans into him, mumbling sweet nothings, thanking him for always being so kind.
A violent urge pops into his mind, to pin him down and fuck baby after baby into him until Gojo has no choice but to stay with him forever. But he’s already halfway there.
He’ll resist.
For now.