MANEATER
# SYNOPSIS : maybe getting too involved with a vampire case will get him... fucked by the vampire..?
content. 18+ MDNI!
note. I may have started this in January and forgot about it... MY BAD GUYSSSS. Props and credits to @sunseraphim for this fun idea!!
starring. satoru gojo (nerdjo)
credits! this work is owned by @k-aay on tumblr. please dont steal my work! (i do not proof read, sorry for any mistakes !!)
Satoru Gojo was not meant to be doing this.
He knew that in the abstract, academic sense. The same way he knew caffeine past midnight wrecked his sleep cycles, or that spiralling into unapproved research topics tended to end with academic probation and a disappointed email from the department head.
And yet—knowing all of this—at 2:37 a.m., he sat hunched on his dorm bunk-bed, back curved like a question mark, laptop balanced on a teetering stack of textbooks that smelled faintly of dust.
His glasses slid down his nose for the fifth time in many minutes. He pushed them back up with one finger, blinking hard at the blue glow of the screen. The room was quiet, except for the faint whir of his laptop fan and the ticking radiator, which he never really knew whether it was on or off.
Even his roommate, Geto, was passed out after another one of his frat parties. A stoner is what that man is.
But Gojo has been procrastinating. Again.
Originally, he’d opened his browser to skim a single journal article. Just one, he’d promised himself. It had somehow spread to six open tabs, three half-written notes, and one local news site he had absolutely no business clicking on.
The headline wasn’t even dramatic.
Male University Student Found Dead Near Campus — Cause of Death Under Investigation
Gojo’s cursor hovered. Normally, he scrolled past things like this. Tragic, sure, but distant. Murders just happened, so why was this one captivating?The thumbnail image beneath the headline made his hand still.
Yellow police tape stretched across a brick-lined sidewalk, which he recognized immediately. The south end of campus. Near the older dorms. Near the shortcut he took every morning because it took exactly three minutes off his walk.His stomach tightened, slow and unpleasant. He clicked.
The article was brief. No speculation or useful details. Just the bare bones: a male student, his age, was found unresponsive shortly after midnight. No weapon recovered.
Then his eyes shot to a single sentence.
Authorities noted two small puncture wounds on the victim’s neck. Their origin remains unclear.
Gojo let out a short laugh, scrubbing a hand down his face.
“Okay,” he muttered to the empty room. “Sure.”
Two puncture wounds. On the neck. That was… a choice.His rational brain immediately kicked in, lining up explanations like dominoes. Still, he didn’t close the tab. Instead, he opened another. By the time the sky outside his narrow dorm window had lightened from black to a bruised gray, Gojo had found something that made his chest buzz uncomfortably.
There had been others. Not many. Just enough to be missed if you weren’t looking. A student was found dead near the library two months ago. Another near the river path before that. All male. All are enrolled at the same university.
All reported on quietly, briefly, as if no one wanted to linger on the details. And every single one of them had died on the 13th.
Every other month. Same time frame. Same gender. Same wounds.
That wasn’t random. That was a pattern.
His heart thudded faster. Not fear, but something closer to excitement. The kind that made his fingers tremble, and his thoughts race ahead of themselves. He dragged his hands through his already-messy white hair, pushing it back out of his eyes as he leaned closer to the screen.
“Okay,” he whispered, more seriously now. “No way, this is just… crazy.”
He told himself very firmly that vampires weren’t real. They couldn’t be. That was ridiculous. Superstition. Mythology. Horror and Romance movie nonsense. He knew that.
And yet the puncture wounds didn’t line up with any common weapon. It was too clean. Too precise.
He thought.
He needed to run this past someone sane. Someone official.
THE NEXT DAY
You noticed the bags under his eyes before he even sat down.
Gojo slouched into the chair across from your desk later that afternoon, shoulders caved inward, hoodie wrinkled as he’d slept in it. His glasses were slightly crooked as he fumbled with the strap of his backpack.
You leaned back in your chair, eyes dragging over him with open assessment. “You look like shit,” you said mildly.
Gojo flinched, then laughed too quickly. “Uh—yeah. Thanks.”
“When was the last time you slept?”
“… Last, last night?”
Your lips curved into a smile. “You’ve been flagged for burnout,” you continued, voice smooth. “Missed meals, extended lab hours… And now you’re pulling all-nighters for a project that isn’t even due… or assigned.”
He swallowed, throat bobbing. “I just— there’s something I wanted to run by you,” he said, pushing his glasses up again. “It’s probably nothing. I mean, it is nothing. But I can’t get it out of my head.”
You tilted your head slightly, an invitation.
He talked.
About the article, the dates, the pattern he wasn’t supposed to see. His words tumbled over each other, too fast and too eager, hands gesturing as if he could physically show the facts in the air between you.
You listened without interrupting, eyes never leaving his face. “That’s a lot of assumptions,” you said. “You’re pattern-matching.”
His shoulders slumped a little. “I know, but—”
“And you’re focusing on the most sensational explanation because you’re exhausted,” you continued calmly. “Two puncture wounds don’t mean anything on their own. You’re letting confirmation bias guide you. Y’know… the tendency to make up new evidence—”
“I know what confirmation bias means,” Gojo says sternly, as if he’s upset you didn’t believe his mad theory.
You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the desk. “If you really want to pursue this, you need to slow down. Look for human explanations.”
Human.
Gojo nodded, relief and disappointment tangling in his chest. Of course. Of course, you were right. You always were.
He went back to his room that night and rewrote his theories from scratch, chasing explanations that grew more complicated, more draining, more useless by the hour.
…
Gojo comes back to your office again this week, he’s running highly and strictly on caffeine.
Another day without real sleep. He knows this because he’s started counting in failed naps instead of hours. His hands shake when he presses the elevator button. His reflection in the metal doors looks wrong. Eyes too bright behind his glasses, pupils blown wide like he’s constantly surprised by his own thoughts.
Your door is already open when he arrives. You’re seated exactly where you always are, posture relaxed, expression unreadable. There’s a mug on your desk that smells faintly bitter and metallic. He doesn’t see you drink from it, but he sees red.
And you catch on.
“Wine,” you smile. “Want some?”
“At eight in the morning? I’m okay. Should you even be offering that to students?” You shrug in response, a smile still plastered onto your face.
“You’re early,” you say, glancing at the clock.
“I… I didn’t sleep,” he blurts, then winces. “I mean, I tried but—”
You lift a hand. “Gojo,” you say calmly, almost indulgently. “Sit.” He does. Immediately. The chair legs scrape against the floor, loud in the quiet room. He curls inward without realizing it, shoulders hunched, backpack clutched against his knees like a shield. You look at him for a long moment. “You look worse,” you observe.
He laughs, weak and breathless. “Yeah. I— your suggestions? About chemical sedation and post-mortem staging? I looked into it.”
“And?”
“They don’t work,” he says too fast. “There’s no injection marks, no residue—sorry, I know you said not to fixate, but—”
You click your tongue softly.
“There you go again.”
He freezes.
“You’re doing exactly what I warned you about,” you continue, folding your hands. “Discarding reasonable explanations because they don’t feel right.”
“But they’re not consistent,” he insists, voice pitching higher. “Every time I adjust for—”
“Every time you adjust,” you interrupt, sharp now, “you adjust in the direction you want.Silence drops heavy between you. Then,
“I just—” he exhales, scrubbing his face with both hands. “I can’t stop thinking about it. The timing, the victims, the way it keeps happening on the 13th—”
“Superstition,” you say flatly. “You’re a smart student, not a conspiracy theorist. Do you really want to throw your credibility away chasing folklore?”
“No,” he says immediately. “No, of course not.”
“Then prove it. Start over. Again. I want a full cognitive-bias audit,” you lean forward. “Every assumption you’ve made. Every pattern you think you see, tear it apart.”
“That’ll take weeks,” he whispers.
Your smile is thin. “Good.”
By the time Gojo comes back to your office the last time that week, he’s stubborn. Your office looks the same as it always does. Dim. Cool. Carefully controlled. The blinds are half-drawn, flashing the late-afternoon light into neat bands across your desk.
Gojo stands in the doorway for a second too long. You don’t look surprised when you see him. You glance up slowly from your desk, eyes flicking over him.
“There you are… you’re late.”
His gaze drifts to the mug on your desk. It’s there again. Whatever’s inside is still almost viscous, catching the light in a way that makes his stomach twist.
You follow his line of sight. “Oh,” you say lightly. “Don’t tell me that’s distracting you too now…”
He flushes, embarrassed. “No, I just—”
You lean back in your chair, folding your arms. “No?” you prompt. “Then why are you here, Gojo?”
His chest tightens. “No,” he says, voice unsteady despite his effort to keep it firm. “You don’t get to do that anymore.”
“Do what?”
“Act like this is just stress,” he says, words spilling out now. “Like I’m imagining things. Every time I get close, every time I talk to you, and suddenly I’m weeks behind in figuring this shit out again! You redirect me and complicate things! You make me… doubt myself.”
You rise from your chair slowly, heels clicking softly against the floor as you circle the desk. The mug stays where it is, untouched.
“So I’m the one to blame for your theories not working?”
“I’m serious,” he insists. “It’s always you. You’re always there when I change direction.”
“Oh, Gojo,” you laugh, shaking your head. “You really have exhausted yourself into something special.” The laughter fades into something cooler. “You’re accusing an academic advisor of manipulating a homicide investigation by a university student because you,” you tap a finger against his chest, “can’t accept that you’re wrong.”
His face burns. “I’m not saying you did anything,” Gojo backtracks. “I just think you’re wrong. About all of it.”
“You’re spiralling,” you say calmly. “And now you’re lashing out at the only person trying to ground you. How… ungrateful.” You sigh, disappointed. “Go home,” you say, gesturing vaguely towards the door. “Sleep. Drink water. And stop humiliating yourself.”
The words hit harder than he expected. “I just thought—” he starts.
“That,” you interrupt coolly, “was your mistake.” You lean against the front of your desk, hands at either side of your person. “You’re lucky I don’t report you. Your little breakdown is impacting your grades, which is putting your scholarship at risk.” You take a file that was on the wooden surface and hand it to him. “Read the report I wrote for you. If you can fix yourself within a month, I can change it. If not, the university will be notified about you not meeting the academic requirements.”
He takes the file with a shaky hand, opening it and skimming through it. You can see his eyes through the unclear glasses, scanning each word on the report. The reality crashed down on him. He didn’t know it had been this bad.
“Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
…
The file sits on his desk, which is crowded with other papers and photographs related to the case. But for the first time in forever, he wasn’t focused on that. Gojo’s attention remained on the report. His academic future was on the line because he got too attached to something that shouldn’t concern him. Something that he would’ve considered a disturbance. He was a university student, not a detective.
Ding!
He looked at the notification on his phone. A news article.Before he could put down the phone in retaliation for this case addiction, he read a familiar name.
New Male University Victim Found Dead Near Campus
The victim has been identified as Toji Fushiguro.
The guy who lived down the hall.
The phone drops from his hand as a bead of sweat runs down the back of his neck. He didn’t feel safe anymore. Gojo was conflicted about pursuing the case to put an end to it and minding his own business, so he’s not the priority target. He picks up his phone from the carpet, leaning forward at his desk while he scrolls through the article. Anything to give him a small hint? A push in the right direction.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Three taps on his door bring him out of his thoughts. If it were Geto, the knocking wouldn’t have happened. He had keys. And if he didn’t, he wouldn’t even be at the dorms. This was someone else entirely, and his gut told him that they weren’t good news.
Yet, he stood up, and with a careful sigh, he walked towards the door. A baseball bat was next to the door for emergencies that never seemed necessary until now. His hand reached for it, but didn’t grab it. Gojo’s other hand hovered over the doorknob, and after a quick mental speech to prepare himself for anything on the other side of the door, he quickly turned and pulled it open.
Nothing.
What?
A snicker and a few giggles were heard at the end of the hallway from a group of guys.
“Assholes,” he mumbles to himself. He closes the door and locks it. When he sits back down at his desk and rethinks what the past few weeks have done to him, he starts to feel uneasy. Like something is watching him. He smacks a hand onto his forehead. “Fuck this…” Gojo scoops everything relating to the case into a pile and slides it into the trash. It feels empty.
The next few minutes were spent watching ‘The Game Theorists’ and some old Digimon gameplay on his phone, until he just stared up at the roof of his bunk bed.
“You’re pretty boring for such a smart guy.”
Before his eyes could fully widen, it was too late.
You were on him fast, using one hand to pin down his with an unnatural strength that would leave bruises on his pale skin. He was struggling, but once he opened his eyes and saw who he was dealing with, it stopped.
“Can’t believe you listened to me when I told you that load of bullshit. So fucking stupid…”
Gojo was conflicted to say the least. A voice in his head tells him he’s terrified that there’s an intruder in his house. One that might not even be human. But the other voice—the louder one—is telling him that he was right all along. The “academic advisor” was setting him off his tracks, the culprit. He didn’t know why he was… turned on…?
Your mouth opened as you leaned down to his neck, but then paused when you felt something.
Something by your thigh… by his thigh.Your lips curved into a mean smirk. “God, are you in fucking high school?” His face flushed red as he started to struggle out of your grip again, this time out of embarrassment rather than fear.
“N-no—! It’s not…” Gojo couldn’t even finish that sentence. He had a 4.0 GPA, a full-paid scholarship to a top university and earned many academic awards, but he couldn’t come up with a single excuse for why he was hard at the sight of you almost killing him.
You let go of his wrists, one hand gripping and smushing his cheeks together. “You’re more pathetic than I thought, aren’t you?” Your finger trailed down his neck, then stomach, until it reached the belt of his jeans. “Need a hand?” He didn’t know why he wasn’t screaming for help or why he was agreeing to this. There was no rhyme or reason to his thought process other than you looked fucking amazing on top of him.
When you finish working off his belt and pants, your smirk grows wider at the sight of his cock. Or size.
“A…are you gonna—”
“Shut it,” you swiftly cut him off, emphasizing with you giving his dick a good stroke. You removed his hand from his face and gripped his collar instead. “You have no idea how fucking sick I am of your voice.” Gojo’s head tilts back when you rub your clothed cunt against his member as you speak. “Always whining and complaining. You ask way too many questions; it’s like you don’t know how to zip it.”
His hand finds your waist. “S-sorry, I—”
“I said shut. up,” you repeat. Your fingers wrapped around his neck, squeezing lightly. “You make a sound loud enough to alert anyone that you’re not alone, I kill you right then and there.” It takes an alarming amount of brain power to get his eyes open and nod his head, too high on the feeling of you. “Good boy.”
Oh God, he could cum this very second.
You managed to undress yourself quickly, teasing his tip against your entrance while your hand remained wrapped around his throat. Applying more pressure on your grip, you finally sink onto his length. The sound of his dick filling you up doesn’t go unnoticed in the quiet room.
“F-fuck…” you mumble, barely giving either of you enough time to adjust. Gojo’s expression is nothing short of overwhelmed. By you, the feeling of you and the overall situation of his life being on the line. You couldn’t help but get a kick out of it, wanting to test the waters with how far you could push him. You rise, pulling yourself almost completely off him before slamming back down with more pressure, a choked whine escaping his lips in the process.
“Mmph…! P-please—” he whispers, both hands holding your waist in a sad attempt to slow your pace down. Of course, you don’t. You work yourself towards the edge using him. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room in combination with his pathetic effort to keep quiet.
“T-that’s it…” You squeeze his neck tighter, his cock pulsing inside you in response. Gojo turns his head away, his arm covering his flushed face to hide himself from you. “Don’t you dare,” you warn. “Unless you want this to be painful for you.”
“I-I—hahh—can’t—! It’s—” You cup his cheeks together again, forcing him to look at you. His worthless expression is enough to get you over the edge as your pussy clenches around his member, cumming with a quiet moan. Your head lowers to his neck as you ride through your high.
But through instinct, you bite him.
Fuck. You bit him.
Your eyes widen as you feel ropes of cum flood your hole. But that’s not what has you surprised. No. It’s the look on his face once the two of you realize what you did. When your bloodied teeth are removed from his skin. You expected a worried and terrified look. Instead, you got…
an amused expression…?
END.
