welcome to my blog! (literally take me months to come out with this) my account is mostly for the jjk community, but i also do most of my requests for other characters + shows :)
19, she/her, reqs open, feel free to talk to me whenever :)
instead of getting the girl, gojo just got her pregnant! how's he supposed to win you over when you only seem to see him as the baby daddy?
synopsis: when the frat president becomes the father of your daughter, the last thing you expected were his brothers to start bidding to be the step dad! can he prove that he's serious about starting a life together for the three of you - or will someone swoop in to steal both his girls?
pairing: frat!gojo x milf!reader x frat!geto (also starring frat!sukuna)
content: mdni!! fluff, angst, and smut, college au, unrealistic frat depictions, parties, drinking, accidental pregnancy, raising a baby, they all want to be the daddy, condoms breaking, one night stands and messy hookups, piv sex, pulling out, lots of pining, gojo being lovesick and stupid, denying feelings, jealousy, multiple povs, more tags will be found in individual chapters
based on this drabble
art cr: @zeilorene0 on x div cr: @/tsumiinum
chapter index
manchild ꕤ sugar talking ꕤ go go juice
taste ꕤ juno ꕤ don't smile
read your mind ꕤ already over ꕤ nonsense
COMMENT TO BE TAGGED!
series | latest oneshots | patreon
a/n: do i have like twenty other series to finish? yes. can i stop myself from starting new ones? no. apologies in advance :3 you guys just get what i have fun writing
He’s sprawled across the chair like he owns the place, long legs nudging yours under the table, a pen spinning lazily between his fingers. His notebook is open but untouched. Yours is… not. You’ve been trying, actually trying, highlighting lines, rereading the same paragraph five times because every thirty seconds—
“Hey.”
There it is again.
You don’t look up this time. “Gojo.”
He hums, unpleased that you said his first name. There’s a soft tap against your cheek, the end of his pen and you finally glance up, annoyed.
“What?”
His sunglasses are pushed up into his hair, like he’s pretending to be serious about studying, but his grin gives him away completely. “You’ve been ignoring me for…,” he checks an invisible watch, “three whole minutes. I think that’s a record.”
“You said you wanted to study.”
“I said I wanted to study with you. Big difference.”
You sigh, but your lips twitch, betraying you. “We have a test tomorrow.”
“And I have you right now,” he purrs teasingly.
Then he leans forward, elbows on the table, and suddenly he’s too close, close enough that you can see the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, like he’s let you in on something no one else gets.
“C’mon,” he murmurs, quieter now. “One break.”
“You said that ten minutes ago.”
“And I meant it every time.”
You try to hold your ground, you really do. You glance back at your notes, underline something that definitely doesn’t need underlining, and say, “Five more minutes.”
Satoru groans dramatically, dropping his head onto the table. “You’re killing me.”
“Toru—”
But then his hand finds yours under the table, fingers slipping between yours like it’s second nature, like it’s always been there. Your sentence falters.
“Five minutes,” he repeats, softer now, thumb brushing over your knuckles absentmindedly. “Then I’ll be good. Promise.”
“You’re never good.”
“Hey,” he lifts his head, mock offended, “I can be very well-behaved.”
You raise a brow.
He grins.
“…when I’m asleep or deep inside you.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself, and that’s that’s all the opening he needs.
“See?” he says, squeezing your hand. “You like me better when you’re not pretending to hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“Yeah?” His voice drops again, teasing but edged with something softer. “Prove it.”
You don’t get to respond.
He leans in like it’s inevitable, like gravity pulled him here, one hand coming up to tilt your chin just slightly.
The kiss starts soft, barely there, a brush that lingers just long enough to make your stomach flip. And then—because it’s Gojo—it deepens before you can even think about it, playful turning warm, his thumb tracing along your jaw like he’s memorizing you.
“Toru,” you whisper against his lips, half a protest, half something else entirely.
“Shh,” he murmurs, smiling into the kiss.“I’m Studying.”
“You’re—” you breathe out a quiet laugh, “—the worst study partner.”
“And yet,” he hums, pressing another quick kiss to the corner of your mouth, “you keep inviting me.”
“I don’t invite you, you just show up.”
He shrugs leans back just enough to look at you, really look at you, and for a second the teasing fades into something softer. He loves just being around you.
Then he grins again.
“Okay,” he says, sitting up straighter, grabbing his pen like he’s suddenly serious. “I’m ready. Ask me anything.”
You blink. “Really?”
“Yeah.” He nods, confident. “Hit me.”
You narrow your eyes, suspicious, but flip a page anyway. “Fine. What’s the main concept of—”
He leans in again, quick as ever, stealing another kiss mid-sentence.
You freeze.
He pulls back, satisfied. “Sorry. One more. Now I’m ready.”
“…you’re unbelievable.”
“But you love me.”
You stare at him.
He just smiles, softer this time, like he already knows the answer.
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˵)
megumi x female!reader, nsfw, aged up!megumi, boyfriend!megumi, all the first times in a relationship, shorts smut series, sex, piv, unprotected sex, oral sex, fetish, phone sex, fingering, face sitting, anal play, anal, breath play, dry humping, thigh riding, semi-public, edging, emotional sex, saying i love you, college!au, no curses!au, or basically discovering through the progression of your relationship that your stoic and shy boyfriend is actually a freak, mdni
first time…
જ⁀➴ …meeting each other
જ⁀➴ ...going on a real date
જ⁀➴ ...making out (and he asks you to be his girlfriend, officially)
જ⁀➴ ...dry humping
જ⁀➴ ...sleeping over at his place (and he uses his fingers on you)
જ⁀➴ ...waking up to him
જ⁀➴ ...having sex
જ⁀➴ ...eating you out
જ⁀➴ ...face sitting
જ⁀➴ ...going down on him
જ⁀➴ ...thigh riding
જ⁀➴ ...matting press
જ⁀➴ ...doing it raw
જ⁀➴ ...doggy style
જ⁀➴ ...riding him (and breeding kink full out)
જ⁀➴ ...breath play (and he tells you he loves you)
જ⁀➴ ...edging (and you say 'i love you' back)
જ⁀➴ ...having car sex (on your sixth month anniversary)
જ⁀➴ ...having sex on your period
જ⁀➴ ...having phone sex
જ⁀➴ ...reuniting after some time apart
જ⁀➴ ...cockwarming
જ⁀➴ ...being restrained
જ⁀➴ ...using a toy
જ⁀➴ ...having semi-public sex
જ⁀➴ ...having shower sex
જ⁀➴ ...having bath sex
જ⁀➴ ...using ice
જ⁀➴ ...using candles
જ⁀➴ ...having to be quiet
જ⁀➴ ...squirting
જ⁀➴ ...anal play
જ⁀➴ ...spending your birthday together (and full anal)
જ⁀➴ ...spending his birthday together
Fuck around and find out (quite literally). Y/n meets a random guy at a random bar and has a one night stand with him that will soon evolve into a friends with benefits kind of relationship. Though feelings are involved, because they always are.
status: on going
pairing: suna rintarou x reader
cw: mdni, fem!reader, kinda nerd!suna, fwb (no explicit smut), suggestive, lowkey obsessed suna, smoking and drinking, college au, commitment issues, characters probably ooc, jealousy, situationship, do not mind the timestamps, happy ending
𓐐𓎩 hybrid smau, fem reader, modern and restaurant au, multiple love interest choices, inspired by bistro huddy & my fantasy of being a waitress, fluff and angst, Owner!Gojo, Co-owner!Geto, Manager!Nanami, Bartender!shoko, Headchef!Sukuna, linecook!Choso, hostess!Utahime, server!reader more tags to be added!
rin - he goes ice cold when you push too far. no yelling, no cursing, but that sharp stare and clipped voice. “strip. bed. now.” he ties your wrists, edges you with a vibrator until you’re begging, then calmly says “quiet. you don’t get to finish until you apologize properly.” if you keep being mouthy, he’ll just keep going, completely unmoved by your tears …until you’re hiccuping out “i’m sorry, rin, i’ll be good.”
reo - he pretends to stay cheerful, but it’s all fake sweetness. “aw, you wanna act like a spoiled princess? okay, princesses get locked up.” he’ll use a remote-controlled toy, slipping it inside you before dinner or even while you’re out. every bratty comment earns you a higher setting and he’ll smirk every time you squirm. when you’re desperate, he’ll bend you over and take you apart slow, murmuring, “gonna behave for me now, yeah?”
shidou - pure chaos. he loves when you’re bratty. it’s an excuse to go feral. he’ll pin you down, laugh in your face and overstimulate you with a wand or his fingers while taunting, “keep talkin’ princess, lemme see how long that attitude lasts when your legs won’t stop shakin’.” shidou doesn’t stop when you’re crying. that’s his cue to keep going until you’re boneless and gasping. he’s not taming you so much as breaking you into a mess.
isagi - he hates being harsh, but he won’t let you run wild either. “you’re really testing me today, huh?” he’ll sigh, pull you into his lap and use a small bullet vibrator on you while kissing your neck. “no cumming until you calm down.” it’s torture because he’s so soft about it. whispering, praising you, holding you close until you’re trembling and whining apologies against his shoulder.
hiori - he treats brattiness like a puzzle to solve, not a battle to win. he ties you down, but only to stop your squirming while he teases you with slow, precise touches. “why are you fighting me so much today?… let’s figure out what you need.” it’s less punishment, more carefully controlled overload. a mix of pleasure and whispered questions that makes you melt without realizing you’ve given up.
nagi - lazy but dangerously effective. he won’t even sit up straight when he pulls you over his lap with a little groan and spanks you slow, steady, almost bored. “so noisy… gonna chill out now, or do i have to keep going?” then he’ll shove a toy in you, set it low and go back to gaming while you’re forced to grind on his thigh, whining for attention he pretends not to hear.
˖ ࣪૮₍ 𝓑.𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐉𝐎 𓂃 ⭒ finds out you developed a nasty little kink after your last encounter
⤿ ꒰ he's always seen you as nothing but a stupid, pretty girl, but now he can't get you out of his head :: college au :: slight angst :: smut :: mean!satoru :: degradation :: fingering :: heavy dumbification :: overstimulation :: semi-public sex :: lovesick reader ꒱
˖ ࣪꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ couldn't get you out of his head after you whimpered those three, devastating words. I love you. he'd always paged you as the stupid type— but that has got to be the most idiotic thing that has ever left your mouth. you? falling in love with the man who used to snicker beside you whenever you were both handed out your test papers in highschool maths class? the guy who used to tell professors that you were a lost cause? the same fucking boy who told you to your face at least once a week that you were just some bimbo trying to make it through your astrophysics course on daddy's money and a ditsy mind? you really were an idiot.
. . . but why couldn't he stop thinking about it?
˖ ࣪꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ was so agitated at himself. whenever he'd close his eyes he'd see your glossy ones blinking up at him and your quivering lips whispering that stupid confession while you bounced on his dick all pitifully. you were cockdrunk, he tells himself. so fucking stuffed with him that it drained whatever little coherent thought you had. you were too focused on the way he smooched your cervix. how he thumbed on your clit. how you clenched and squirted and messed his desk chair.
he finds himself looking back at it. the stain you left behind. he cleaned off what he could but your evidence remained. another thing that pissed him off. until it became the perfect site to relive memories when his cock ached hard in his pants.
strike three to the frustration game. that. every time he let his mind drift off, you'd occupy that space. what a pesky lump of atoms. just invading the free space and making it yours. making him think about how soft your tits felt up against him. how much softer your thighs were quivering on his hips. that sweet, sweet taste of your pussy. how it spilled and fluttered for his tongue.
he found himself thinking. were you a virgin? or just inexperienced? had no one tonguefucked that pretty little cunt like he did? did no one stuff that gorgeous—
˖ ࣪꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ groans out loud and slumps back into his chair. shoving his foggy glasses up into his hair with one hand and throwing his textbook across the table with the other. he can't do this. can't focus like this. not when you're running laps in his head like you're trying to rewrite the theory of relativity.
“why can't I get that stupid girl out of my fucking heaaadddd. . .” he groaned. almost whined as he rubbed a hand down his blotched face roughly.
he grumbled. looked down at the bulge rising up to greet him. mock him. for fucks sakes. just calling you a stupid girl had him all hard and throbbing. fuck. guess there's no helping it huh?
˖ ࣪꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ hated himself for how he just had to shove his pants down and squeeze his fingers tight around his cock. hated himself even more for how his head threw back and the chair squeaked as he slumped into it while he jerked off his already spilling dick. but he hated himself most for how he grunted your name through gritted teeth and fogged glasses. how he whimpered it when his arm ached but kept desperately pumping at his now cum-stained cock as he bucked his hips up into his own palm.
fucking himself. he was fucking himself to the thought of you. to the memory of how you squelched and splashed around him. to those glossy eyes and drooling lips.
to that. . . stupid little way in which you said you loved him.
that's what really made him squirt ropes so high he accidentally smeared his glasses.
˖ ࣪꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ was convinced he'd be happy if you never spoke to him again. if you never looked his way in class nor asked him one of your silly questions ever. again.
until you did just that.
hold on— were you avoiding him?
sure, you've avoided him before. he has been your worst nightmare since highschool after all. but this was new. you were actively ignoring him. he should be grateful. this is what he wanted, right? this was the only way he was gonna get you and your pretty little moans out of his head.
but with every passing day, every wasted minute, every little second you weren't looking at him. weren't asking him questions. were trying your damned hardest to get out of every single assignment you were both paired for. . . satoru felt himself lose it just a little more.
˖ ࣪꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ officially snapped, however, when he saw you flashing that pretty smile and batting those adorable lashes at jock!kuna. he was well on his way to his next lecture when he spotted it. the ice hockey captain with his hip propped against the railing— and you right in front of him, mimicking him.
satoru could only describe it as coy.
he's not sure he'd seen you like this before. all bright smiles and confidence. that part of him that hated you wanted to go over and shatter the new pride you'd worked up.
but another part of him. a deeper voice that he shoved into the depths of his gut so it rattled his heart, told another story.
just a few weeks ago you were on his dick. whining his name. telling him that you loved him and now. . . what? you suddenly decided you preferred jocks?
˖ ࣪꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ didn't know what jealousy was. not really. he had it all. the brains, the looks— but seeing you with sukuna that day? seeing the way that the bastard walked off after brushing some of your hair back and the way that you smiled up at him as if you knew what he wanted? his blue eyes flared green. so did his mind. so did his heart that he often claimed didn't exist. shouldn't anger be red? shouldn't this feeling be dark? no. just an ugly, festering, clawing. green.
˖ ࣪꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ wasn't quite sure what came over him. all he knew was that when he spotted you in the library the next morning, he acted on instinct. two seconds.
two. seconds.
that's all it took before your back was shoved into shelf and a forearm slammed right above your head. rattling the books and your heart while he was at it.
satoru's wispy bangs framed his glasses that slipped off his nose as he zeroed in on your face. jaw tight. eyes sharp. you'd recognised that sneer. but what you didn't recognise?
that grip on your waist.
“so you can bounce on my cock for hours but now you can't even look at me?”
he didn't need to raise his voice. he was always so articulate. crisp and curt. sharp and to the point. it's what made a valedictorian.
he watched your face intensely. watched your eyes flit. watched your lips part to say something. watched as you put your hands on his shoulders with a hushed, “satoru we're in public.”
but what really caught his attention above all.
was the way your thighs flushed together. tight.
˖ ࣪꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ understood in that moment. the once scrambled pattern set into a precise equation line. all from the tremble in your thighs and the bunching of your skirt.
as much as you'd been avoiding him, he'd been doing the same. not an insult, nor a jab, not even a sly look when your assignments were handed back. it was out of routine.
at the start of the semester you at least used to give him a little greeting. a small smile. some pitiful, hopeless little interaction that would get his tongue lashing out whatever harsh comment he had. but you kept trying. and he kept dishing. it was natural. the push and pull of you and him. positive and negative.
now you were avoiding him. right after he had you riding him like a stupid slut. after he spanked your pussy and called you his silly girl.
icy blues darkened and dilated. the scowl slowly crept into a smirk. he leaned in. voice dropped. smooth and low against your burning ear.
“oh?“
he loved the way you sounded when his hand shoved against your thighs. his large palm crumpled your skirt and cupped your cunt. rough and careless.
his grinning teeth grazed your lobe.
“looks like someone found a new kink and doesn't know how to deal with it, huh?”
˖ ࣪꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ ground the heel of his palm up into you. rutting into the quickly dampening fabric and grinning at the way your hips immediately rocked into his hand. like a fucking sleeper agent awoken by just a bit of friction. or maybe it was the insults?
“is that what you needed?” he grunted. “seriously? just needed me to be mean to you? not interested if not?”
satoru's free hand snatched your jaw. squishing your face between the gaps of his fingers as he watches you ride his hand like second nature. he watched you crumble. watched you whimper and whine as he shoved you further into the shelf. held your face steady and loomed in with an irritable, taunting grin.
his tongue clicked. his croon low and condescending.
“what a fucking freak.”
˖ ࣪꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ knew he couldn't get you all squirming and squirting in the library. not with the way you gripped his shoulders and tried to hide your moans in his shoulder. not with the way it hasn't even been a few minutes and you were humping his hand like it was gonna get you extra credit— you'd get the both of caught. so despite his better judgement, he yanked you off and shoved you into some supply closet. face first in the wall. one hand clamped over your panting lips while his other jerked into your skirt. gripping the garter of your wet panties and yanking up. so that he ground the soaked fabric into your already quivering clit.
his breath was heavy. a tremble in his knuckles and his voice as he felt you buck back into him. trying to chase the hot curve of his bulge flushed against your ass.
“fuck— maybe I was right about you.” his foggy glasses nudged your temple as he pressed his face into it. inhaling the scent of your hair as a unholy riiiipppp! tore through the air.
“maybe you really are just a stupid slut. maybe—” he rutted his dick up into your ass, his jaw tight. “maybe you like being just that. huh?”
˖ ࣪꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ had your ripped panties pooling round your wobbly knees. soaked through and sagging from the absolute filthy mess that two of his fingers fucked out of your squelching cunt. knuckles humped on your spasming slit while the tips rubbed and fucked into all the spots that sent your eyes rolling back.
you were squirming. rutting into his hand. arching with every rabid pump of his hand. slick dripping down his wrist and soaking the sleeve of his cardigan. but he didn't care. couldn't— not with the way you were whining. not with how he was panting.
feral. very few things made him this way. an academic rival. an exam that made him work for it. maybe an equation that took him more than ten seconds. but you? oh you weeded this messy, mean side of him just by existing. by being a dumb girl who spilled all over his hand and rolled your glossy eyes back when he called you stupid.
you were loud. terribly so. moans and whines and little sobs muffled against his hand that squished firm against your cheeks.
satoru squeezed you harder. flicked his wrist and jammed his thumb up against your clit to rub on the poor bud until you were whimpering. a muddled attempt at his name from what he could make out.
“so fuckin' loud.” his hand yanked out. gooey strings webbed all over. your protest rumbled on his palm—
spank!
and his other gave a dirty smack up against your throbby cunt. "listen to that dumb pussy. gonna get us caught with how loud she is. that what you want? want someone to see how you're better off as a stupid slut?“
wet, and sharp. once, twice, five more spanks before his fingers flattened on your clit and rubbed cruel circles until you were arched and limping. squirming and spasming. sobbing.
the hand on your mouth relented. two fingers shoved into the drooling mess and flushed against your tongue. pressing against the back of it so all you could do was splutter. whimper. slump into him and rock your hips into the third orgasm that squirted all over the supply closet floor.
“messy thing.” he tsked. delivered one more sharp spank. and then shoved you back into the wall. humping on your ass to relieve some of the pressure on his aching erection since you seemed too dumb-fucked from his hands alone to actually help him out.
his heavy grunts and groans fanned your ear. arms crushing you against him. he wasn't gentle. didn't care to be. he's sure you didn't want that either. not with how you were whispering his name like a fervent prayer and pitifully trying to grind your sopping cunt back onto him. smearing his crotch in your creamy cum.
“this 's how it's gonna be,” he panted, ragged. hands squishing your thighs as a release built in his gut.
“gonna bring you back here between classes. fuck these pretty thighs. maybe that stupid face too. cause you're into that, huh? hah— into being treated like a stupid girl.”
his hand slipped up. trapped your face again and forced it back on his shoulder for his hot mouth to press into yours. tangled with your tongue and high on your saliva as he lost himself. lost all that prestige. all that stature. every inch of perfection shattered. all because your body drove him wild.
maybe he was just as much of a freak as you were.
˖ ࣪꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ knew the second he took you back to his dorm and fucked you into his sheets until you were all teary and babbling— that something shifted for him. something dark. something dirty. there was something about the way you looked up at him with glassy eyes. about the way you clung to him. with your arms strewn around his neck and your little sobs in his ear. as you begged for him to fuck you deeper, fuck you harder.
there was something about the way you whimpered "I love you" that stirred something deep within him.
and as you laid there in his arms. limp and out cold. an absolute mess of cum, sweat and bites. he asked himself a simple question as he stroked a thumb on your cheekbone.
did he love you?
his heart stopped. panicked.
no.
he didn't love you. he didn't know what love was. didn't have a heart. all he ever needed was his mind.
it was that very mind that you kept occupying. he told himself he didn't love you, but he couldn't quite get you out of his head either. so maybe this was a nice in between.
he didn't love you. but you loved him. he needed a release. and you needed someone to make you feel stupid.
so maybe he could just stay fucking that pretty body of yours and keeping you wrapped around his finger if it meant maintaining his sanity?
yeah. sounded like a plan. his mind said that it didn't want your heart. but it sure as hell wanted your body.
