Idc, normalize kink shaming. Cause y'all be using “don’t kink shame” and “it’s fiction” to excuse being into incest, pedophilia, cannibalism, etc. Like, be so fr, you ship a 14 year old with a 30 year, want to get railed by your dad and want to see two brothers f*ck each other. I don’t engage with things fictionally that I don’t like/wouldn’t want to do in real life. Yes, I’m judging you.
Toji had been crashing at your place more often than not these days, always with some bullshit excuse. "Megumi left his toys here again," he'd grunt while sprawling on your couch like he owned it, his massive frame taking up half the space.
Or "The kid forgot her stuffed bear—can't leave her cryin', right?" as if your shared daughter wasn't perfectly fine without it half the time.
Truth was, the man was glued to you, finding every reason to linger, his rough hands brushing your waist when he passed in the kitchen, or "accidentally" pinning you against the counter while reaching for a beer.
Annoying as hell, but there was that spark in his green eyes, the way his scarred lip twitched into a smirk whenever you shoved him off.
He wanted you—bad—but Toji wasn't the type to say it outright. Nah, he played it cool, hiding behind his cocky bullshit
Tonight was no different. Your daughter was giggling on the living room floor, stacking blocks with Megumi, who was half-heartedly supervising while scrolling on his phone.
Toji lounged nearby, shirt clinging to his ripped torso, those black sweats slung low on his hips. You emerged from your bedroom, dressed to kill: a tight black dress hugging your curves, heels clicking, hair and makeup on point.
Heads turned. Megumi barely glanced up, but your daughter's eyes lit up. "Mommy pretty!" she squealed, clapping.
Toji's gaze snapped from the kids to you, raking over every inch like he was starving. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening. "The fuck is this for?" he drawled, voice low and edged with something dangerous, sitting up straighter.
You ignored him, scooping up your daughter for a quick hug and kiss. "Be good for Toji and Megumi, okay baby? Mommy'll be back soon."
She nodded, chubby arms around your neck. Megumi just mumbled a "Yeah, bye," already back to his phone.
Toji stood, towering over you, arms crossed over his broad chest. "Oi. Where you goin' lookin' like that?" His tone was casual, but his eyes flicked to your exposed thighs, the dip of your cleavage, jealousy simmering under the surface.
"A date," you shot back breezily, grabbing your purse. No need to explain yourself to your annoying baby daddy.
His smirk faltered for a split second, replaced by a scowl. "A date? You don't need some punk-ass date, doll. What, you bored or somethin'? I got everything you need right here."
He stepped closer, big hand grazing your hip possessively, thumb digging in just enough to make your breath hitch.
You swatted his hand away, heart racing despite yourself. "Watch the kids, Toji. And don't wait up." With that, you blew a kiss to the little ones and strode out the door, heels echoing, leaving him standing there fuming.
The date was a disaster from the jump. The guy was late, then spent the whole dinner talking about himself, barely asking about you. His touches were slimy, his jokes lame, and when he leaned in for a kiss at the end? You dodged, muttering an excuse about a headache and bolting.
By the time you pulled into the driveway, you were pissed, makeup smudged from frustrated tears, dress rumpled. All you wanted was a shower and bed.
The house was quiet when you slipped inside—kids tucked in, Megumi probably crashed in the guest room. Toji was in the kitchen, shirtless now, muscles flexing as he cracked open a beer, He didn't even look surprised to see you back so early.
"Rough night, mama?" he rumbled, smirking as he eyed your disheveled state.
You kicked off your heels, flopping onto a stool at the island with a groan. "God, yes. The worst. Guy was a total douche—kept bragging about his car, wouldn't shut up. Tried to grope me in the parking lot like some caveman. I should've just stayed home."
Words tumbled out, venting the frustration, not noticing how Toji's grip tightened on his bottle, knuckles whitening.
He sauntered over, towering behind you, hands landing heavy on your shoulders. His thumbs kneaded the tension there, rough but soothing.
"Told ya. Don't need that shit. Some loser touchin' what's mine." His voice dropped, breath hot against your ear.
You shivered, but rolled your eyes. "Yours? Last I checked, we're just co-parents, Toji. Not—" Your words cut off as his hands slid down your arms, then gripped your waist, yanking you back against his crotch.
His cock was already rock-hard, thick and insistent through his sweats, grinding against your ass.
"Just co-parents, huh?" he growled, nipping your earlobe. "Then why you always lettin' me hang around? Why you get wet every time I touch you?"
One hand dipped between your thighs, fingers pressing against your soaked panties under the dress. "Fuckin' drenched already. That prick couldn't even get you this worked up."
Heat flooded your core, pussy clenching at his touch. You should've pushed him away—kids were asleep down the hall—but god, you needed this. Needed him. "Toji..." you whimpered, arching back.
He spun you on the stool, hoisting you up like you weighed nothing, big hands cupping your ass as he carried you to the couch. "Gonna show you what you been missin', doll. Fuck that date outta your head."
He dumped you down, ripping your dress up over your head in one yank, leaving you in just panties and bra. His sweats hit the floor next, cock springing free—thick, veiny, the fat head leaking precum.
Toji grabbed your ankles, shoving your legs up and apart, folding you in half. Your knees hit your shoulders, ass lifted off the cushions, pussy exposed and dripping. The mating press—deep, brutal, claiming.
His scarred chest pressed down, trapping you beneath his bulk, green eyes boring into yours with feral hunger. "Look at this pretty cunt. All mine to breed. No more dates, mama. You're takin' my cock from now on."
"Toji—fuck—yes," you gasped, nails digging into his biceps. He lined up, fat cockhead nudging your slick folds, then slammed in.
No mercy, bottoming out in one savage thrust, stretching your walls to their limit. You cried out, back arching as he filled you completely, the angle letting him hit so deep it bruised your cervix.
"That's it," he grunted, hips snapping forward relentlessly. Pound. Pound. Pound. His balls slapped your ass with every ram, the wet squelch of your pussy echoing obscenely.
"This what you needed? Daddy's cock rearrangin' your guts? Forget that limp-dick loser—I'm the only one who fucks you like this."
You were a mess already, tits bouncing in your bra, thighs quivering against his shoulders. "Yes—oh god, Toji! Harder—fuck me harder!"
He obliged, pistoning faster, the couch creaking under the force. Sweat slicked his abs, dripping onto your stomach as he drilled you, pubic bone grinding your clit with each brutal plunge.
"Greedy little pussy," he snarled, one hand pinning your thigh, the other snaking between you to rub your swollen clit roughly. "Milkin' me so tight. You want my cum? Gonna knock you up again, make sure you know who owns this hole."
His thrusts turned punishing, cock dragging along your g-spot before slamming deep, head kissing your womb. You sobbed in pleasure, walls fluttering, so close.
"Toji—gonna cum—please!" Your orgasm crashed over you, pussy convulsing around his shaft, squirting messily onto his abs.
He didn't stop, fucking you through it, grunts turning animalistic. "Fuck yeah—squeeze me, mama. Milk that load right outta me."
His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as he buried himself balls-deep, roaring low. Hot cum erupted inside you, rope after thick rope painting your walls, flooding your womb. He ground against you, ensuring every drop stayed put, cock pulsing as he bred you deep.
Minutes passed in heavy breaths, him still plugged inside, softening slowly. He kissed you filthy, tongue claiming your mouth, tasting your moans.
"No more dates," he murmured against your lips, finally pulling out with a gush of cum leaking from your wrecked pussy. "You're mine, doll. Kids need a family, right?"
You nodded weakly, spent and sated, pulling him down for more kisses. For once, his annoying ass felt like home.
pale visitor!sukuna x survivor!reader
'no, i'm not a human' AU
☣︎ part 1 ⟶ part 2 series masterlist
SYNOPSIS: Stay inside. Lock your doors. Close your blinds. Only let humans in and eliminate all visitors. When the apocalypse happened, the rules seemed simple- but as the nights tick by, you find yourself scrambling to survive. And every time you turn him away, you're left questioning how much you really know about yourself and this new world.
WARNINGS: dead dove- post-apocalyptic au, descriptions of death & violence, blood, guns, unreliable narrator, somewhat follows the gameplay/dialogue of no, i'm not a human, strong language, extreme guilt/shame, emotional conflict, emotional manipulation, depression, anxiety & paranoia, strangers/enemies to lovers, eventual smut -> dub-con, true-form sukuna; more tags to be added
A/N: art creds @/decay_int on insta & x, other images from NINAH gameplay.
You hardly believed it when your neighbor came by, rambling on about how "something was coming."
He couldn't provide many more details than that, just eerie warnings about the sun exploding and 'visitors' crawling up and out of the ground. You dismissed it as the paranoid delusions of a survivalist who'd done nothing but think about the apocalypse for years. You always thought he was a bit odd, but as far as neighbors go, he was far from the worst.
So you listened. You let him go on and on about his theories and everything he'd heard from his friends, his cousins, anyone he could get to talk to him about it. You nodded along, gave an "ooh" and an "aah" every couple of lines to show that you were paying attention.
He offered advice that you thought you'd never seriously need, but he insisted you internalize it. Advice on how to survive in whatever would become of the world, how to keep yourself not just alive but human, in a time when those around you might be anything but.
TV and radio are good for the news— but neither is better than the information you can collect with your own two eyes. Stock up on food and keep important phone numbers on hand. Rest when you can because preserving energy is crucial, and you never know when you'll find yourself needing it. Lastly, it's good to be skeptical, but be careful toeing the line between skepticism and paranoia. Your neighbor urged, implored even, that you don't let yourself succumb to your inevitable spiraling thoughts.
It may feel like isolating yourself is the best move. After all, most think that you won't get harmed, betrayed, killed, if you're alone. But having company may just be the one thing that saves you.
When you crawled into bed after his visit, you laughed to yourself about how serious he was, about how improbable an apocalypse was. You were tucked under the covers, blissfully unaware that it was both the last time you'd get a full night's rest and the last time that you'd see the sun.
But you had to hand it to your neighbor— he knew his shit. He didn't let anyone's judgment or mockery sway him, and when you turned on the news the next morning, you felt a whole lot more grateful to know him.
He was right about everything.
Reporters on every channel were covering the same story. News outlets not just in your city, state, country, but all around the whole world, were providing everyone with the same information.
Scientists recorded a massive solar flare, larger than anything that could have been predicted, and the cause was unknown. But as a result, it was no longer possible to go outside during the day. Global temperatures reaching a record high and still rising, they advised everyone to not only stay indoors during the day, but to keep the curtains shut, or even better, board up their windows.
Because the sun and the heat weren't the only things that were threatening to creep into your home. Reports of human-like creatures crawling out from the dirt spread like wildfire.
It was a little unbelievable just how accurate your neighbor had been with his intel, but you hardly had room to complain. You were able to keep your panic at bay knowing that you were at least somewhat mentally prepared for all of this.
You moved quickly, using whatever you could to cover the windows and barricade the doors until your house was shrouded in darkness, eerily silent. You'd repeat your neighbor's words in your mind, over and over, they served as a distraction when you felt the claws of anxiety starting to dig into you.
You clung tight to the counsel he offered you before everything went to shit, treating his word as gospel. Well, most of it.
You were still alone.
The first few days, your mind was only able to focus on the present, taking things one step at a time lest you collapse into a depression. You'd lost the daylight, the inexplicable catastrophe creating a world where you had to hide inside while the sun shone, careful not to catch a glimpse past your curtains.
It was difficult, your daily routine not just being flipped upside down, but disintegrating completely. You wandered aimlessly up and down your hall, fighting the urge to look out the windows during the day.
No one alive really knew what it was like outside from the hours of 7:00 am to 7:00 pm. Anyone foolish enough to chance a look, or worse yet, leave their house, was left with their eyes scarred and blind, their beings reduced to ash. You could only speculate that they were met with a blazing white heat, too bright for our sensitive human eyes, too hot for our soft flesh.
So you resisted the urge and just plopped yourself down on the couch instead, letting your thoughts run wild. You thought about how in just a day, Earth was flipped on its axis.
Around the world, lives were taken, and if not, they were left in ruins. Money no longer meant anything, nor did the previously commonplace rules of society.
You thought about the stories of families turning on one another, with shoddy alliances being formed instead. Relationships were held together by mere necessity, and once someone outlived their usefulness, you couldn't predict what would become of them.
But you also thought about how, in a way, you were lucky.
You lived alone in the countryside, just outside the city, which meant that when things were in chaos miles away, it remained relatively quiet for you. You had time to prepare. Barricading the doors and windows, ensuring your backup generator was working properly, and stocking up on food and water.
Others were left scrambling, trying to create a place for themselves in this new era even though the last one was already much too crowded for them. You heard it all on the news— bodies turning up at alarming rates, friends attacking one another out of desperation, suspicion, individuals finding themselves homeless after their apartments became a cesspool of bloodshed.
And you knew they weren't exaggerating. Not when you started getting knocks on your door in the middle of the night— the only time that humans and those alike could move freely anymore.
You were too scared at first to let them in. Keeping the door blocked and shouting through the worn wood that they ought to move on to the next house if they knew what was best for them.
But your neighbors words would ring out through your mind each time you turned someone away. You couldn't completely ignore the urgency in his voice when he told you not to stay home alone.
You were never one who particularly enjoyed keeping company, and you much less enjoyed it during the apocalypse when everyone seemed to be losing their senses. Not to mention the fact that any one of them could be a visitor, and it would be up to you to figure out who. So days went by and you remained by yourself, your house empty and quiet.
It was foolish to think that you'd be able to ride out this catastrophe all on your own.
You see that now.
This morning, you'd woken up and crawled out of bed like every other time, getting ready to survive another pointless night. Sometimes, you found yourself wondering why you kept trying so hard, why you felt a life like this was even worth it.
But truthfully, you just hope that things will get better. You know the government is still active, some jobs are still being done. So, you hold out hope that eventually society will rebuild itself at some point during your lifetime.
You'd trudged down the hallway as you always did, towards the kitchen for breakfast— if it could even be called that at 8:00 pm. You'd checked the windows, a new habit, pulling the curtains aside to peer out through the dusty glass with your own two eyes.
Your fingers gripped the moth-eaten fabric, tugging gently to expose the view to your tired eyes. You expected the same scene as always. The drooping, scorched skeleton of what was once a fruitful wheat field and a beaten-down path leading off towards the city.
Much like your home, the scene was always empty, always quiet.
The view outside your house causes you to still, your body rigid and muscles tense while you let out a shaky breath. Silently, you urge yourself to shut the curtains and replace the wooden planks you'd just taken off the other day, to push the couch across the front door again. You tell yourself to just move.
But you can't. Frozen, you remain glued to your spot, eyes locked on the figure standing just a few meters from your window.
He's tall, unnaturally so, and broad. He's clearly strong in a way that makes you question whether wooden planks would even be sufficient protection should he wish to enter your home.
Intricate black tattoos decorate his pale skin. But those aren't even the most eye-catching things about him. You can see them from where you stand— the deformities. Four muscular arms protrude from his torso and there's a hardened mask that covers half of his face. His skin rippling oddly, like it doesn't fit him properly, you can see that little about him is human.
From where you are, you can tell he's staring right at you. The weight of his gaze sends shivers running down your spine, bringing goosebumps to your skin because you can feel it boring into you.
You no longer want to be alone.
With trembling hands you draw the curtain shut and turn until your back is against the wall, legs buckling as you slide down to the floor.
Knees pulled into your chest, your forehead rests upon them, your back rising and falling rapidly with each too-small breath that you take. Not enough air is filling your lungs as an overwhelming feeling of dread courses through your veins, being pumped to each and every part of your body and leaving your chest tight.
You don't want to check if he's still there. You think you know the answer anyways.
You're not sure how much time passes while you're there, sitting on the dusty hardwood with your face tucked away. But you don't move until the trembling subsides, until there's oxygen flowing into your lungs once more and you can finally think straight.
Only then do you rise to your feet, smoothing down your pants as you take one more steadying breath. Because hiding away and panicking on the floor will do nothing to help you, that much you're sure of.
It's unclear what exactly he wants. He's obviously different from the visitors that have been mentioned on the news which were described as creatures that looked and acted just like humans.
The most rational assumption is that he wants to kill you, of course, but then you're not sure why he didn't. Instead he just stood there, waiting and watching without moving a limb.
Ultimately, you suppose it doesn't matter. For whatever reason, he's still outside and you're still inside— alive. And you know now that it's time to follow that last piece of advice that you've been ignoring.
As if on cue, the knocking comes.
Three short raps on the door. Once irritating, the sound now comes with a wave of relief as you move to look through the peep hole.
You let them in that night, two of the three people who found themselves on your front porch. You talked to them as much as you could through the door, tried to vet them as visitors and see if their stories were suspicious or inconsistent— but there was only so much you could do without first letting them in.
Tomorrow, you'd have to test them for signs of being a visitor. There was information on the TV about some things you can do to check if someone's a visitor, but to be honest, you were skeptical about them.
On the first report, they had talked about 'perfect white teeth' being a sign, but their theory had only been corroborated by one story before they were broadcasting it all over the news. You're no scientist, but the confidence with which they were spreading this information had you very skeptical.
Not to mention, what if someone had just been to the dentist? What if they had really white veneers? Or used a lot of whitening strips before the whole world fell apart?
The other signs weren't solid either.
Red eyes? They claimed that visitors were more sensitive to the sunlight, which may be true, but aren't humans sensitive enough? And as if everyone hasn't been crying, wired off energy drinks, or high out of their minds lately.
Dirt under the fingernails? That was supposed to tell you if they'd recently climbed up out of the ground, and you couldn't help but roll your eyes and scoff at the TV when they said that. If a visitor crawled out of the ground, then all they'd have to do to cover their tracks was find a working sink and get to scrubbing. Also, it's the apocalypse. Chances are pretty fucking high that there's regular humans out there that haven't been able to keep up with their hygiene and have dirty hands because of it.
You sigh, a hand coming to pinch the bridge of your nose in an attempt to ease the throbbing between your eyes. Aside from the death and destruction that only seemed to worsen with each passing day, you were starting to find the most stressful thing about this whole catastrophe to be the uncertainty.
Each day it felt like you had more information forced down your throat, and with each addition you were left feeling like you knew less than before. Everything was said with utter conviction, despite the fact that it never made that much sense— sometimes completely contradicting something you'd heard another day.
It's exhausting, feeling like you're stuck in limbo, trapped in some middle ground where you're fighting to find any sort of footing.
And the worst of it was FEMA. The new Federal Emergency Management Agency.
They're the ones peddling all these theories about visitors, always urging viewers to "help their cause," though you have a feeling they don't even know what that cause is.
They talk about how they're conducting research on visitors. And despite the fact that they go door to door abducting people from homes to "experiment," you feel like they've collected no concrete evidence. But of course, they act like they have.
They claim they're eliminating visitors, using those "signs" to identify them— as if those really mean anything— when you know the truth. You heard it from your neighbor, the way FEMA has started rounding up whoever they can, dragging them out to the country and just shooting. Unloading clip after clip into the crowd until everyone's laid out on the ground, lifeless or almost there, their bodies resting until the sun takes what's left of them.
That doesn't quite seem like something one would do if they had a way to pick out the imposters.
This whole epidemic shows no signs of stopping, and quite frankly you'd rather that they just be honest about the gravity of the situation. Instead, they're still pretending that they have shit under control when it's clear that they don't.
The pounding in your head only gets worse with each uncontrollable thought. Still, you hope you're at least able to get a couple hours of sleep before the sun rises as you climb into bed, ready for a night of tossing and turning.
At least your guests were quiet. Without the energy to test them tonight, you let them take up residence in different rooms in the house before locking yourself in your bedroom— you can only hope everyone is still alive when you wake up in the morning.
The house stands still, you can hear the wind whistling outside, an owl somewhere in the distance.
And the next morning, you receive the first piece of information since the cataclysm that feels certain. The bug-eyed reporter's confirmation of a gut feeling that you haven't been able to shake since you let the curtain fall last night.
"…if you see this man, do not open your door. Do not tell him that you are alone."
He's there, on the TV screen.
The man they're calling the "pale maniac." A shoddy police sketch version of him, sure, but it's all there. The piercing stare, disfigured face and ornate tattoos, more limbs than what's normal— a graphite representation of eye witness testimonies.
Sukuna:
It's all a giant, steaming pile of bullshit. That was Sukuna's first thought when he saw the news report alleging that there was a solar flare and people were crawling out from the ground.
That's what news reporters did, they hyped up things to be more exciting than they really were, because otherwise no one would care to watch. So surely, this whole fiasco was being blown out of proportion. He was certain that he'd go to sleep, wake up the next day and see people still able to go about their daily lives.
He's never been more wrong in his life.
Sukuna doesn't even make it until the morning, woken up in the middle of the night by the screaming. A raucous, piercing sound spilling through his too-thin walls from the apartment beside him. Curious as he is, he doesn't move, doesn't make for the door to see what's going on or if everyone's alright.
Would another person check in on their neighbors if they heard what he did? Probably. But Sukuna isn't that kind of person.
He's never been the neighborly type. He keeps to his own— goes to work, the gym, back home, repeat. In all honesty, Sukuna thinks if he shows up next door, whoever is there might end up even more scared. He knows he doesn't have the most approachable appearance, and judging by the old types he's seen around the building, they'd probably shit their pants if someone like him just popped up in their doorway.
So he stays put. With his eyes shut and ears straining, he's able to pick up on a few words here and there underneath all the shouting.
…dead now…
…had to…
…visitor…
His brain is working overdrive to piece together the rest of the puzzle— though his gut is already telling him the situation.
Either the news is true and there was one of these "visitors" next door, or these reports have gotten everyone jumpy and paranoid, leading to an accidental death.
Sukuna wonders if this has happened anywhere else. Surely, it has. And considering that it's been less than 12 hours since the first report aired, he can only imagine how much worse things are going to get if this situation doesn't slow down.
He supposes that even if the news are exaggerating, it might still be best to lock himself inside his apartment for a while. Slinking to the kitchen, Sukuna opens the fridge and pantry to take stock of his food situation— he can afford to stay home for a few days at least, before he'll have to get some more groceries.
Perhaps by then things will have settled down.
Sukuna tries to reason with himself, tries to get the rest of his body to believe his brain when it says that everything is going to be fine. But the muffled sobbing that's replaced the screaming, coupled with the ringing in his ears and the shaking in his hands betray him.
They betray the fact that, ultimately, he can't ignore the feeling that this is just the beginning.
Sukuna doesn't sleep the rest of the night. Just sits alone in his apartment with the lights low, the TV playing in the background with endless news reports on the global crisis. He's tried to call people— Choso, Yuuji, Toji, even Satoru— but he hasn't heard back from anyone.
Before too long he's ripped from his worrying thoughts by incessant knocking on his door.
He tries to ignore it, thinking that whoever it is might just go away. But when it becomes clear that they plan on sticking around until he answers, Sukuna sighs, stretching as he stands before making his way to the front and peering through the peep hole.
It's an elderly couple, their eyes darting around, huddled close to one another.
"The fuck you guys want?" Sukuna barks through the door, trying to ignore the slight pang in his chest when he sees the woman flinch at his harsh tone. But a slight pang is all it is.
Maybe he should feel worse, be a little more compassionate— but he's having a hard time finding it in himself to care about that right now. With all the shit he's seen on the news as the night trudged on and the chaos he can hear from the streets below his window, Sukuna's certain that it can't hurt to be a bit more jaded.
Plus, he's seen enough zombie movies to know how things end when you're too trusting during the apocalypse, and this is starting to feel like an apocalypse.
Satoru was always pushing those films on them. Sukuna remembers the way his eyes would light up at any mention of zombies or anything of the sort, always looking for an excuse to talk about his hyper-fixation. The white-haired man had some sort of affinity toward the topic. Not exactly in the way that preppers did— Sukuna was almost certain that Satoru had no real plans for how to deal with a disaster like this— he just loved to talk about different theories he had, usually theories that he came up with after watching another movie.
Sukuna wonders where Satoru is right now. Thoughts drifting from the couple on the other side of the door as he holds his phone out once more, a frown tugging at his lips at the sight of the empty screen. He's sent so many texts already, to the whole group. Some delivered, some didn't. Though he supposes that just because a text was delivered, that doesn't mean someone will actually see it.
"Please sir, we've got no where else to go." The old woman's voice is small through the door, weariness laced in her tone as she pleads with Sukuna one last time. "We'll only stay a couple days, then we'll be out of your hair. We're just tired and need a place to sleep."
He has to say no. Or he thinks he does. Too scared to say yes but even more scared to admit to himself that he really doesn't know what to do. Stuck in a world he hadn't believed possible and faced with dilemmas he'd only heard of in fiction, the current situation is leaving his mind racing and his back sweating.
And even with all the unexpected circumstances, still, the least predictable thing must be how much he wishes he could talk to Satoru. Now that, was something Sukuna never thought he'd experience.
But he seriously can't help but wonder, when he's left feeling conflicted and lost, if that stupid friend of his might have some sort of guidance to offer— probably baseless guidance, pulled from old movies with bad acting— but guidance nonetheless.
Instead, Sukuna is left with nothing but his own judgment when he makes the decision to turn his visitors away.
And as the hours tick by, they trickle into days spent locked away inside his apartment. Thankfully, delivery services are still running— if Sukuna had to go to the grocery store at a time like this to get food he'd probably just starve to death.
The elderly couple never completely left his mind. Sukuna still found himself thinking about them when the news ended and his apartment was drowning in silence. The lights low and the air chilled, he sits on his couch nursing a drink— one of the only good things left— and recalling their faces as he turned them away.
With a light shake of his head and another swig of the amber liquor in his glass, Sukuna pushes the memory from his mind. No use dwelling on what's been done.
Sukuna rummages through his pocket for his phone. The notifications are empty. He was half looking for any missed texts, and half looking to track his delivery order, an old habit he hasn't been able to shake.
There's no delivery tracking anymore. Such a simple thing that you don't realize you'll miss until it's gone. Sukuna had to call the delivery service directly and tell them what he wanted, and they just replied with a an estimate of when someone might come by and hung up the phone.
It leaves Sukuna feeling antsy, his leg bouncing with repressed energy as he waits for his food to arrive with no knowledge of how long that'll even take.
So when that knock finally comes, he's acting on impulse. Nearly jumping to his feet and heading straight for the door, Sukuna only reins himself in at the last second to quickly look through the peephole— an action that's become commonplace, necessary even.
He's expecting some weary delivery man on the other side, standing on his odl welcome mat with a large bag on his back and an order in his hand. But there's no face. No tired eyes and dark circles, just the yellow plastic and rubber of a hazmat suit.
Shit.
Sukuna knows what this means. He knows who is at his door. Even though he hasn't left the house since the solar flare, he's watched TV and listened to the radio. He's heard the whispers from down the hall and the conversations through his bedroom wall.
FEMA.
At first, he tries to ignore them. Stupidly pretending that no one's home even though everyone is home right now. The only people that aren't are those that are dead or had to relocate— and after the fifth knock something tells Sukuna that FEMA knows exactly who is where.
Relenting, he reaches for the doorknob. Fingers wrapping around the cool metal as he cracks the door open an inch and peeks his head out.
"Good evening, I'm from FEMA." The man's voice is low and muffled through the suit, but its commanding nature shines through. "We're making our rounds in this neighborhood, there's been a mandatory evacuation notice."
Sukuna's brows knit together, confusion morphing into his features. Since when was there an evacuation notice? "I never heard anything about that."
"Don't worry. It's for a routine assessment, but you'll be informed when you're able to return to your residence in the future."
There's hesitation in Sukuna's reply, born from the vagueness in the masked man's reply. "What assessment? Never heard shit about that either."
"That's really none of your business," the agent snaps. His tone curt and irritated, a sense of unease begins to settle within Sukuna, a feeling that only grows stronger with the longer he looks at the man at his door. Hidden from view by his uniform, there's really nothing that gives any indication of who he really is. "Just pack what you need and come with me."
Sukuna inhales deeply, trying to undo the knot forming in his chest. "Is everyone evacuating?"
There's never an answer to that question, the FEMA agent choosing to instead respond by barking at Sukuna to go pack a bag and prepare to evacuate, lest he continue to impede their work.
Sukuna moves swiftly through his apartment. Phone, phone charger, t-shirt, food, boxers, toothbrush. He grabs whatever he can fit into his backpack before finally heading back to the front door.
The FEMA agent still awaits him in the doorway, stoic and silent before turning, wordlessly commanding Sukuna to follow.
It's surreal— the entire situation.
Packing whatever he can of his life into a single bag before leaving his home with no one but a mysterious man whose face he hasn't even seen.
The only reassurance comes when Sukuna makes it to the street outside his building and sees some of his neighbors there too. They seem to be in a similar state as him. A little frazzled, but primarily worried as they clutch a fraction of their belongings and look to one another for guidance.
They shuffle in place, sweat beading on their foreheads from the heat despite the sun long having set. They wait for instructions from the hazmat suits and Sukuna stands in silence, his mind racing with endless questions as he glances at his phone once more.
He's not expecting to see anything new, but his lasts texts delivered at least.
And it's not much at all but it's something. It's a sign that at least his friends' phones are still on, still connected to a cell tower somewhere that's providing enough data to at least receive a message. Now he just has to hope and pray that he gets a response.
Shoving the phone back into his pocket, Sukuna looks up once more at the crowd around him. His neighbors, their friends and family, they surround one another with chatter, conspiracies and questions sprouting from their conversations and Sukuna can't help but eavesdrop, his own unspoken questions starting to rise.
"I heard they're relocating us to another neighborhood."
What's wrong with ours?
"Yeah, there's another building across town that has space for us."
Where did that space suddenly come from?
"I heard they're building houses in the country for the city folk to stay in."
And how the hell would they get a bunch of houses built so quickly in a time like this?
"No, that's not it— they said people have been staying in houses in the country because of all the chaos in this cities."
Now that is plausible. Intuition tugging at the corner of his mind, Sukuna can't help but feel like that piece of information will become useful eventually, his thoughts drifting back to his friends.
It's not like the countryside has ever been known for having lightning fast cell service.
He's brought back down to reality when the constant buzz around him dies down. Words that were on their way out are sucked back in and saved for another time, another conversation, when the men wearing yellow approach the crowd.
If Sukuna's ears could perk up, they would right now. Straining to focus on the muffled voice coming from in front of him as he awaits what are sure to be instructions on where to go—
"The sun will be rising in roughly six hours. To improve your chances of finding a place to shelter during the day, we suggest you disperse now."
That's it?
The uproar is immediate. Every individual, man and woman, old and young alike erupt into shouting— and rightfully so. These agents went door to door, telling residents that they had to leave behind everything they owned, everything they knew, at the drop of a hat, and they had no plan for what to do afterwards?
No shelter set aside for the evicted. No food, no water, no transportation.
Not even a measly suggestion of where to start looking.
These guys were fucking ridiculous.
And as fucked up as it all was, the most fucked up part was the fact that there was no use even arguing at this point. Any time and breath spent yelling at those responsible would be wasted when it could be used to begin searching for a place to stay— and those who didn't find one would become nothing more than melted flesh and scorched bones atop a bed of dirt.
With that, Sukuna turns his back on the individuals he shared a residence with for the last couple years of his life, and he retreats. His stomach flipping with unease, his gaze rests upon the expanse of land that stretches out before him and he reminds himself that he has no other option.
Hours that feel like days trudge by, slower than the dragging of Sukuna's feet along the unpaved road he's been following aimlessly. He has yet to find a house, an shed, a trailer, that's willing to take him in.
His tongue sits heavy and dry in his mouth, leaving a sour taste as he pants softly, the exertion beginning to catch up to him. He can't even imagine what this would be like for the others.
He's always been on top of his physique, eating healthy, working out regularly. And he knows that not everyone shares the same level of discipline as him— not everyone can. Like people with disabilities, people that are sick, or maybe too busy, or just too old.
Sukuna's mind wanders to the elderly couple that had stopped by his door. Shaking his head, he tries to push the image of their faces from his mind, swallowing thickly.
His throat is scratchy from inhaling the dry dust around him.
It was never this dry where he lived but he supposes this is what happens when the earth practically gets air fried. Water sources start to dry, moisture gets sucked out of the ground and leaves the air stale and the land a desert. Humanity is living in a place that's quickly becoming incapable of sustaining the life it once did.
Fuck, this is depressing.
Sukuna's pulled from his thoughts when he see the tell-tale glimmer of a porch light in the distance, just barely blocked by some trees at the entrance of a sparse forest.
His destination.
Turning on autopilot, he re-routes his path to head toward the home, silently praying for entry. It's worn down, the paint peeling off the walls and the windows dirty as he approaches the house. Wooden planks creak beneath his heavy feet, tired with age, they fight to support his weight as he raises a fist to the door and knocks.
Once. Twice. Three times and then he waits.
There's some shuffling just behind the door before a gruff voice calls out, "what do ya want?" His accent is thick, southern, and his tone is skeptical. There isn't a peep hole on the door but one look to the side and Sukuna sees a curtain fluttering closed.
"Just tryin' to find a place to sleep," Sukuna replies, voice loud in an effort to be heard clearly through the barrier. "Sun's gonna be up soon."
"I know that, boy. You ain't gonna find what you're lookin' for here."
Sukuna tries to put on his best face, whatever that might be, before he responds. "There's no room for me in there?" He knows he's not the most conventional looking man. Riddled with tattoos and piercings, pink hair, not to mention his size. He got used to the stares a long time ago— but he knows some people never got used to him.
Usually older folk, those who have more traditional views on what a man his age ought to look like.
When he'd seen there was no peep hole on the door he was relieved. But that relief was quickly swept away when Sukuna realized that the owner of the home had been eyeing him already through a window near the entrance.
He sighs, long and tired as a hand comes to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Look, I've been walkin' for hours and I just need a place to hole up for a day. I'll leave right after, I swear."
And he really means it. Sure, it would be a pain in the ass to set out on foot once more to find another place to stay, but he also wasn't going to force anyone to let him hang around where he wasn't wanted. So, one day— that's all he's asking for.
But even that he can't get. The old man in the home is firm on his decision, his voice unwavering each time that he tells Sukuna to get off his porch. Until finally, he stopped replying and Sukuna got nothing but silence from him. The man had ceased to continue even listening to Sukuna as he pleaded for shelter.
With the disappointment comes exhaustion. Sukuna's last ounce of hope begins to die out, leaving him all too aware of the way his body aches. His skin is sticky with sweat and dusted in a layer of dirt, his muscles straining and joints stiff as he starts walking again. Step after step, he drags himself forward despite having no real direction.
He's going to die out here.
That's the one thought he can't escape now. The gravity of his situation hits him like a semi-truck as he sees the color of the sky changing. No longer a deep black speckled with white, he can see it morphing, lightening as a deep blue hue begins to creep in.
He's going to die out here and fuck, it's going to hurt.
Being burned alive is quite possibly the last way he thought he'd go out.
With a sharp exhale and a groan, Sukuna decides he's done walking. It's getting hotter, his feet are throbbing in his sneakers, and he simply cannot find it in himself to keep going as dawn draws nearer.
Shrugging off his backpack he lets it fall to the ground with a thud before slinking down and settling under a tree. Obviously he's not expecting the shade to do much, but it's nice to have a place to rest, his head falling back against the trunk.
Crimson eyes drift along the horizon as they search for the East. That one spot where the blue above him will soon begin to be replaced with violet and tinges of orange and pink.
It's odd, how he seems to have skipped the 'panic' phase that he always assumed people go through when they realize they've met their end. Instead, he's only been met with an initial wave of dread, and then disappointment.
Disappointment that he will die under a scraggly tree in the middle of nowhere, all alone during the god damn apocalypse. He's not even getting killed by a zombie, 'visitor', whatever.
Talk about lame.
Chest rising and falling deeply, Sukuna's breathing slows with acceptance as his eyes flutter shut. Things really come full circle— he supposes this is his karma. In another universe, perhaps he would have opened his door, welcomed those in need into his home with open arms, and maybe that would have saved him.
Snap!
Sukuna's eyes fly open. They scan the scene around him, rolling slowly over the landscape as a bead of sweat trickles down his temple.
He can feel it.
A presence he hadn't even noticed before. Now overwhelming, Sukuna is pinned in place by the mere awareness of his proximity to whatever is there. The energy radiating from It burns into his side, leaving his hair standing on end, goosebumps littering his skin.
Where did it come from?
How had he not sensed it earlier?
The air is barely reaching his lungs as Sukuna twists his neck, head slowly turning to the side, finally moving to look at what he knows is right beside him. And nothing he has seen before, nothing he could even imagine, comes close to what awaited his gaze.
With no face, no legs, It drags itself forward on two arms.
It's body is pitch black, lacking any definition that comes from shadows and highlights, and yet there is more to It. The essence of what lies beside Sukuna is something to be understood, rather than to be seen— and now Sukuna is much less certain that the sun will be what causes his demise.
His legs are made of lead as he tries to stand or simply back away. A wave of nausea courses through his stomach as he feels the bile rising in his throat which he fights to swallow back down— he's already dehydrated enough.
A silly thing to care about in this moment, but his thoughts are scrambled. He's unable to focus his thoughts as his body finally registers the panic that it seemed to bypass earlier, and all that is rational becomes secondary.
A limb reaches forward, outstretched in Sukuna's direction before landing roughly on the ground a few feet away. Digging into the dirt, the creature pulls itself forward, inch by inch. The putrid smell of burnt flesh fills Sukuna's nose, causing him to gag. He's smelled it before, when he stupidly opened his window on one of the first nights after the cataclysm.
It's a scent he'd never forget.
Sukuna opens his mouth to make a sound, maybe to scream, to cry for help or beg for whatever is approaching him to turn around. But when the hot air hits the back of his throat, any words die in the dry heat as nothing but a small cry escapes him.
Each expansion of his chest is too shallow and his heart is beating too fast as he finally scrambles backwards. Shuffling in the dirt and kicking up dust as he fruitlessly tries to get away.
Thinking back, he's certain he's never felt this way before.
Memory after memory plays in Sukuna's mind, only reminding him that he's lived a comfortable life, one where he's always been bigger than most people, stronger. He'd walk alone at night and sleep with the door unlocked sometimes. He'd watch horror movies alone in the dark and not once would his heart rate increase in the slightest.
And here he is— probably about to have a fucking heart attack with the way the poor organ is hammering in his chest.
An incessant ringing in his ears makes him clutch his head in his hands, eyes squeezing shut and even with them closed he can see It. In his mind the image is clearer, something he can't escape even if he were to claw his own eyes out, and with each passing second he fears he might.
The longer that Sukuna is stuck in this being's presence, the more he finds himself praying for death to visit him.
His hands feel numb, tingling slightly as the oxygen in his body is cut off from them, rerouted to more important parts of his body— the ones fighting pointlessly to help him survive.
Tears that were forming in his waterline begin to fall, little streaks appearing in the layer of dirt on his skin. Then, Sukuna's blurry vision speckles, a grainy film settling over the scene before him as black begins to seep in from the corners of his periphery.
Has It already started to kill him?
Or is this an effect of the sun beginning to rise?
Maybe his body has started to shut down from the rising temperature. Is this what a heat stroke is like?
It's difficult to think.
Each thought dissipates as quickly as it forms because Sukuna can't focus on anything but the shuddering in his chest as he struggles to take in another breath.
He can feel the water on his cheeks and taste the salt on his cracked lips but his vision is black when he slumps forward. With his head between his knees, Sukuna collapses to the side, a cloud of dust kicking up around his limp body.
likes, comments, reblogs always appreciated ! i have more works here ♡
A/N: yay finally starting this series :p again ty for the patience on this! i really don't want to rush it, and i might even end up writing 5 parts instead of 4. anyways i hope yall enjoyed, would love to hear your thoughts (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)
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