Reiko_writes

MASTERLIST

ALL BOYS

Smau - I miss you

Smau - I'm pregnant

Tiktok trend - Smile if you want a new girlfriend

Tiktok trend - Fellas grab your lady if your lady fine

Tiktok trend - would you still love me if I was a worm

Tiktok trend - Bacon avocado

Tiktok trend - put a finger down

Smau - they text you after a breakup

Smau - they don't like you back

Smau - you ask if they can get you pads

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SATORU GOJO

Nerd!Gojo - NFSW

Canon!Gojo x Survivor!Reader - Angst/Fluff

Fuckboy!Gojo x F!reader - Angst/smut

Crush!Gojo x F!reader - Angst

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SUGURU GETO

Ghostface!Geto x reader - NFSW

Cult leader!Geto x reader - Angst

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

KENTO NANAMI

Husband!Nanami x reader - NFSW

Professor!Nanami x reader - NFSW

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

CHOSO KAMO

Stalker!Choso x reader - NFSW

Virgin! Choso x reader - NFSW

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

TOJI FUSHIGURO

Older!Toji x reader - NFSW

Masked!Toji x reader - NFSW

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

RYOMEN SUKUNA

Biker!Sukuna x reader-NFSW

Uncle!Sukuna x reader - Fluff

Uncle!Sukuna x reader (Halloween special) - Fluff

Canon!Sukuna x reader (Part 1)

Canon!Sukuna x reader (Part 2)

Canon!Sukuna x reader (Part 3)

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YUJI ITADORI

Virgin!Yuji x reader - NSFW

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MEGUMI FUSHIGURO

Bestfriend!Megumi x F!reader - Angst

Boyfriend!Megumi x F!reader - Angst

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TOGE INUMAKI

Crush!Toge x reader - Fluff

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

YUTA OKKOTSU

Frat!Sukuna x Girlfriend!Y/N

Trigger Warnings: Explicit sexual content, cheating, emotional abuse, gaslighting, graphic depictions of heartbreak and mental distress, suicide, death, strong language and toxic relationship.

When you find out Sukuna has been cheating on you.

Nerd!Gojo x Populargirl!Y/N

TW: Dubcon/Noncon, kidnapping elements,bondage, perv behavior, objectification, explicit smut, creampie, oral (both receiving), fingering, nipple play, light choking, spanking, dirty talk, obsession/stalking vibes, power imbalance.

Nerdy pervert Satoru Gojo wishes to Santa for his dream girl you naked and ribbon-bound under his tree.

༻༺

Satoru Gojo wasn’t like the other guys at Jujutsu Tech University. While everyone else was out partying, hooking up, or generally living the college dream, he was holed up in his dorm room, surrounded by stacks of manga, anime figurines, and a suspiciously large collection of “research materials” hidden under his bed. He was the ultimate nerd—tall, lanky, with those piercing blue eyes hidden behind thick, round glasses that he pushed up his nose every five seconds. His white hair was always a mess, like he’d just rolled out of bed after a marathon gaming session, and he wore oversized hoodies emblazoned with obscure references to quantum physics or cursed energy theorems he’d theorized himself.

But beneath that awkward, geeky exterior lurked a massive pervert. Oh, Satoru knew it. He embraced it in the privacy of his room, where he’d spend hours scrolling through forums, debating the merits of hentai tropes versus real-life feasibility. And his biggest obsession? You. Y/N L/N, the popular girl on campus. Captain of the cheer squad, always surrounded by a flock of admirers, with your perfect smile, those curves that made his brain short-circuit, and a laugh that echoed through the halls like a siren’s call.

He’d never spoken to you directly—God, no. That would require social skills he didn’t possess. Instead, he watched from afar. Peeking through the library stacks as you studied, “accidentally” bumping into you in the cafeteria just to catch a whiff of your perfume, or hacking into the campus security cams (ethically dubious, but hey, he was a tech whiz) to watch your late-night walks back to your dorm. It was creepy, sure, but in his mind, it was romantic. You were his ultimate waifu, the one he’d build shrines to if he weren’t afraid of getting caught.

Christmas break was approaching, and the campus was emptying out. Most students were heading home to families, but Satoru? His family was… complicated. Rich, distant, more interested in his “potential” than in holiday cheer. So he stayed behind, alone in his dorm, with nothing but his fantasies to keep him warm.

It was December 24th, Christmas Eve. Snow blanketed the grounds outside, twinkling lights strung across the buildings like a festive web. Satoru sat at his desk, hunched over a piece of paper, his pen scribbling furiously. He was writing a letter to Santa. Yeah, at 21 years old, he still did this shit. Not because he believed—come on, he was a scientist at heart—but because it was tradition. A childish ritual that let him pour out his deepest desires without judgment.

“Dear Santa,” he wrote, his handwriting neat and precise, like equations on a chalkboard. “I’ve been… mostly good this year. Okay, maybe not. I’ve skipped a few classes to binge-watch Evangelion reruns, and I might have ‘borrowed’ some lab equipment for personal experiments. But hey, entropy favors the chaotic, right? Quantum uncertainty and all that.”

He paused, chewing on the end of his pen, his mind drifting to you. You’d been at the campus holiday party last night—wearing that tight red dress that hugged your tits like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. He’d hidden in the corner, nursing a soda, watching as guys flirted with you, their hands brushing your arm. Jealousy burned in his chest, hot and irrational. Mine, he’d thought. She should be mine.

“But Santa,” he continued, his words turning feverish, “there’s only one thing I want this year. More than a new GPU or the limited-edition Gundam model kit. I want Y/N. Tied up under my tree, naked, ready for me. Like the ultimate present. Bows on her nipples, maybe some cute panties with a ribbon over her… you know, her special place. Unconscious at first, so I can wake her up myself. Make her see how much I adore her. Please, Santa. I’ve calculated the probabilities—it’s a one-in-a-billion wish, but if anyone can defy physics, it’s you.”

He signed it with a flourish: “Your faithful nerd, Satoru Gojo.” Then, folding it carefully, he placed it in an envelope and… well, he didn’t mail it. Instead, he burned it in a candle flame, watching the ashes scatter like snow. A silly superstition from an old anime he’d seen. “There,” he muttered to himself, adjusting his glasses. “Wish granted? Ha, as if.”

That night, he jerked off to thoughts of you—imagining your body writhing under him, your popular-girl confidence shattered as you begged for more. His hand moved frantically under the covers, breaths coming in geeky gasps: “Oh, Y/N… your curves are like parabolic functions… maximizing my pleasure integral…” He came with a shudder, spilling over his fist, then collapsed into exhausted sleep, dreams filled with festive perversion.

Christmas morning dawned bright and cold. Satoru woke up groggy, the room chilly despite the heater. He stretched, yawning, and padded out to the small living area of his dorm suite. He’d set up a tiny artificial tree in the corner—pathetic, really, with a few ornaments scavenged from the dollar store. No presents underneath, of course. Who would buy him anything?

But as he rubbed sleep from his eyes, pushing up his glasses, he froze. There, under the tree, was… a body. Curled up on a red velvet blanket that hadn’t been there before, tied with golden ribbons around the wrists and ankles—loose enough not to hurt, but secure. Naked, except for… oh fuck.

It was you. Y/N. Your skin glowed under the twinkling lights, breasts heaving softly with each breath, nipples adorned with tiny red bows stuck on like stickers. And between your thighs, a pair of the cutest bow panties—sheer lace with a big satin ribbon right over your pussy, begging to be untied.

Satoru’s brain short-circuited. “Holy Schrödinger’s cat,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “This… this defies all laws of probability. Santa? Actual Santa?” He approached on shaky legs, his pajama pants tenting instantly at the sight. You were unconscious, lashes fluttering faintly, lips parted in innocent slumber. Magic? A prank? He didn’t care. This was his wish, manifested.

Overwhelmed, he dropped to his knees beside you, hands trembling as he reached out. “Y/N… my perfect specimen…” His fingers brushed your cheek first—soft, warm. Then lower, tracing the curve of your breast, peeling off one bow with reverent care. Your nipple hardened in the cool air, pink and perky. “Exquisite,” he murmured, like he was analyzing a rare artifact. “Symmetrical areolas, responsive to stimuli…”

He couldn’t resist. Leaning down, he flicked his tongue over the exposed nipple, sucking gently. You stirred slightly, a soft moan escaping your lips, but didn’t wake. Emboldened, he removed the other bow, palming both breasts now, squeezing with nerdy enthusiasm. “These… these are better than any simulation. Volumetric perfection.”

His cock throbbed painfully in his pants. He had to see more. Hands sliding down your body—over your stomach, hips—he hooked fingers into the bow panties. With a tug, the ribbon unraveled, revealing your bare pussy, already glistening slightly. “Oh, entropy preserve me,” he groaned. “Shaved? Or naturally smooth? Empirical testing required.”

He spread your thighs gently, the ribbons at your ankles allowing just enough movement. Dipping his head, he inhaled your scent—musky, sweet, intoxicating. “Hypothesis: you’ll taste like ambrosia.” His tongue darted out, lapping at your folds experimentally. You twitched, a whimper bubbling up, but still asleep. He grew bolder, parting your lips with his fingers, delving deeper, sucking on your clit like it was the last data point in the universe.

That’s when you started to wake. Eyes fluttering open, confusion clouding your pretty features. “Wha… where…?” You tried to sit up, but the ribbons held you, and panic set in. “What the fuck? Who—Gojo? That nerd from class? Untie me! This isn’t funny!”

Satoru lifted his head, lips shiny with your arousal, glasses fogged up. He pushed them back, grinning maniacally. “Shh, shh, my love. Don’t worry—you’re in good hands. Santa brought me what I wanted most: you.” His voice was nerdy, high-pitched with excitement, words tumbling out like a TED Talk gone wrong. “I’ve calculated the trajectories of our fates intersecting here. It’s destiny, Y/N. Quantum entanglement!”

You struggled, ribbons biting into your skin. “This is kidnapping! Let me go, you creep! How did I even get here? I was in my dorm last night—”

“Magic,” he said simply, as if explaining gravity. “Or perhaps a wormhole. Doesn’t matter. You’re my present now.” He crawled over you, pinning your bound wrists above your head with one hand. His free hand cupped your face, thumb stroking your cheek. “I’ve watched you for so long. Admired your… assets. Now, let me show you how a true aficionado appreciates art.”

You bucked against him, fear mixing with unwanted sparks from his earlier touches. “Get off! I’ll scream—”

He silenced you with a kiss—clumsy at first, all teeth and eagerness, but deepening as he moaned into your mouth. “Please, Y/N. Just… let me. I’ll make it good. Promise. Cross my periodic table.”

Despite your protests, his body pressed against yours, hard cock grinding through his pants. He was bigger than you’d expect for a nerd—long, thick, straining. Breaking the kiss, he trailed lips down your neck, biting softly. “Your skin… so soft. Like velvet under electron microscopy.”

You hated how your body responded—nipples pebbling, a traitorous heat building between your legs. “Stop… this is wrong…”

“Is it?” He whispered, fingers dipping back to your pussy, circling your entrance. “Your physiological responses say otherwise. Elevated heart rate, lubrication increasing… you’re aroused, Y/N.” He pushed one finger in, crooking it expertly—had he studied anatomy books for this? “See? Your g-spot, right here. Empirical evidence.”

You gasped, hips jerking involuntarily. “N-no… fuck you…”

“Oh, I plan to.” He added a second finger, pumping slowly, thumb on your clit. “But first, data collection.” He watched your face intently, noting every twitch, every moan. “Fascinating. Contractions starting already.”

Tears pricked your eyes—fear, shame, but god, it felt good. You’d always dismissed him as that weird guy, but now, helpless under him, his pervy intensity was… intoxicating? No, that couldn’t be.

He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth, sucking clean with a hum. “Delicious. Hypothesis confirmed.” Then, shoving down his pants, his cock sprang free—veiny, flushed, pre-cum beading at the tip. “Now, for the main experiment.”

“Wait—no!” You thrashed, but he positioned himself, rubbing the head against your slick folds.

“Shh, my love. Santa wouldn’t steer me wrong.” With a groan, he pushed in—inch by inch, stretching you. “Tight… like a black hole’s event horizon. Sucking me in…”

You cried out, the intrusion burning at first, but as he bottomed out, balls deep, something shifted. Fullness. Pleasure edging out pain. He stilled, glasses slipping down his nose, breathing ragged. “Y/N… you’re perfect. My ultimate variable.”

He started thrusting—slow, experimental, angling to hit that spot. “How’s that? Adjust for maximum output?” His hips snapped harder, skin slapping. “Yes… data suggests deeper penetration yields higher moans.”

You bit your lip, trying to hold back, but a whimper escaped. “Fuck… Gojo…”

“Satoru,” he corrected, leaning down to suck a nipple, biting gently. “Call me Satoru, my waifu.”

The word was ridiculous, but in his nerdy voice, it sent a thrill through you. Your body betrayed you, clenching around him. “S-Satoru… harder…”

He froze, eyes widening behind glasses. “Affirmative?” Then, grinning like he’d won the Nobel, he pounded faster, one hand wrapping around your throat lightly—not choking, but possessive. “Good girl. Adapting to stimuli.”

The room filled with filthy sounds—wet squelches, your moans mixing with his geeky commentary: “Your pussy’s gripping coefficient is off the charts… friction optimized…”

He flipped you suddenly—untied your ankles just enough to bend you over, ass up, face down on the blanket. Ribbons still bound your wrists behind your back. “New position: doggy style. Better for depth analysis.”

Re-entering you from behind, he spanked your ass—sharp, stinging. “Naughty girl. Teasing me all semester with those short skirts.” Another smack. “This is your punishment. Or reward? Schrodinger’s spank.”

You pushed back against him now, chasing the pleasure. “Yes… fuck, Satoru, don’t stop…”

He laughed, triumphant. “See? Consent achieved. Now, for phase two.” Pulling out, he flipped you again, kneeling over your face. “Oral data required. Open wide.”

You hesitated, but lust won—parting lips, taking his cock in. Salty, musky, but you sucked eagerly, tongue swirling. He groaned, hips bucking. “Y/N… your mouth’s a vacuum chamber… sucking entropy right out of me.”

He face-fucked you gently at first, then deeper, hitting your throat. “Gag reflex noted—hot.” Tears streamed down your face, but you loved it, humming around him.

Pulling out with a pop, he moved down, spreading your legs wide. “My turn. Reciprocity theorem.” His tongue attacked your pussy—lapping, sucking, fingers joining to curl inside. “Flavor profile: sweet with tangy notes. Addictive.”

You came hard, vision whiting out, screaming his name. “Satoru!”

He lapped up your release, then climbed back up, slamming home. “Climax achieved. Now, mutual synchronization.” Thrusts erratic now, chasing his own end. “Gonna fill you… breed you like in those doujins…”

“Yes—do it!” You wrapped legs around him, pulling him deeper.

With a nerdy cry—“Eureka!”—he came, hot spurts painting your insides. Collapsing atop you, he panted, nuzzling your neck. “Best. Christmas. Ever.”

You lay there, spent, ribbons loose now. Strangely, you didn’t want to leave. “Satoru… that was…”

“Transcendent?” He grinned, untying you fully, pulling you into his arms under the tree. “Round two? I have hypotheses on anal dynamics…”

Fratboy!sukuna x Nerdshy!y/n

This will contain: major character death, cheating, graphic car accident, blood, extreme angst, no comfort, reader death, grief, detailed heartbreak.

you surprised your fratboy boyfriend at his party wearing the bracelet he gave you, he was already inside someone else, and the night ended with your blood on his hands instead.

༻༺

The bass thumped through the walls of the frat house like a heartbeat on steroids, vibrating the sticky floors and making the red Solo cups rattle on every surface. Neon lights flickered in erratic patterns, casting glowing hues over sweaty bodies grinding to the rhythm of some overplayed EDM remix.

Laughter erupted in bursts, mingling with the sharp scent of cheap beer, weed smoke, and something vaguely fruity from the jungle juice punch bowl that had probably been spiked three times over.

This was Sukuna’s kingdom. Ryomen Sukuna, the undisputed king of campus chaos, with his tattooed arms, sharp jawline, and that devilish grin that could make girls forget their own names.

You, on the other hand, were the polar opposite. Y/N, the shy nerd tucked away in the library stacks, buried in textbooks on quantum physics or ancient literature, glasses slipping down your nose as you scribbled notes in margins. Social scenes like this? They were your nightmare. Crowds made your palms sweat, loud music drowned out your thoughts, and the idea of small talk with strangers felt like pulling teeth.

But Sukuna… he was your exception. Your wild, unpredictable exception.

It had started innocently enough. You’d bumped into him—literally—in the campus coffee shop last semester. Your stack of books had toppled, scattering pages everywhere, and instead of laughing or ignoring you like most frat guys would, Sukuna had knelt down to help. “Watch where you’re going, nerd,” he’d grumbled, but there was a smirk in his voice, a spark in those crimson eyes that made your heart stutter.

From there, it snowballed. Late-night study sessions in his dorm that turned into make-out marathons. Him dragging you to quiet corners of parties just to steal kisses away from the noise.

You, teaching him bits of philosophy while he traced patterns on your skin with his fingers. He called you his “little secret,” his anchor in the storm of his reckless life. And you believed him. God, did you believe him.

The bracelet on your wrist was proof of that. A simple silver chain with a small charm—a tiny rose, thorns and all—that he’d given you on your three-month anniversary. “Like you,” he’d said, fastening it around your wrist with surprisingly gentle hands. “Beautiful, but with a bite if anyone fucks with it.” You’d blushed, hiding your face in his chest, but the memory warmed you every time you glanced at it. It was your talisman, a reminder that beneath the fratboy facade, Sukuna cared. He loved you. Or so you thought.

Tonight was different. You’d decided to surprise him. He’d been complaining all week about how you never came to his parties, how he wanted to show you off, even if it meant pulling you into a quiet room upstairs away from the chaos. “C’mon, babe, just once,” he’d texted earlier that day. “I’ll make it worth your while.” You’d hesitated, staring at your reflection in the mirror—oversized sweater, jeans, minimal makeup. Not exactly party attire, but you weren’t trying to blend in. You were there for him.

Heart pounding, you pushed through the front door, the wall of sound hitting you like a tidal wave. Bodies everywhere, laughter too loud, the air thick with humidity from too many people in one space. You clutched your phone, texting Sukuna: Here. Surprise! Where are you? No response. Maybe he couldn’t hear it over the music. You weaved through the crowd, dodging elbows and spilled drinks, your anxiety spiking with every step. “Excuse me,” you murmured to no one in particular, eyes scanning for that familiar head of pink hair, those broad shoulders.

Upstairs. He was probably upstairs, away from the main fray. That’s where he liked to retreat when the party got too rowdy—his room, or one of the lounges. You climbed the stairs, the music fading slightly, replaced by muffled giggles and the occasional door slam. Your bracelet jingled softly as you moved, a comforting sound amidst the unfamiliar.

And then you heard it. A low groan, unmistakably his. Your steps faltered outside a half-open door to what looked like a spare bedroom. Peeking through the crack, your world shattered in an instant.

Sukuna was there, pressed against the wall, his hands roaming greedily over a girl you didn’t recognize—some sorority type with bleach-blonde hair and a skirt that barely covered anything. She was grinding against him, their bodies moving in a rhythm that made your stomach churn. His mouth was on hers, devouring, tongues tangling in a messy, heated kiss. One of his hands fisted in her hair, pulling her closer, while the other slid under her top, eliciting a moan from her that echoed in your ears like a gunshot.

Dry humping, right there in the dim light, clothes still on but intentions crystal clear. He was practically fucking her with his eyes, his hips bucking against hers in a way that left nothing to the imagination. The girl giggled, whispering something in his ear, and Sukuna laughed—that deep, rumbling laugh you thought was reserved for you.

Your breath caught, a sob building in your throat. This couldn’t be real. Not your Sukuna. Not the guy who’d held you through panic attacks, who’d whispered “I love you” in the quiet hours of the night. But there he was, lost in someone else, oblivious to the door, to you, to everything.

Heartbreak hit like a freight train. Rage boiled up, hot and blinding—how could he?—mixed with disbelief that clawed at your chest. Sadness followed, a tidal wave that drowned you, making your vision blur with tears. You stumbled back, hand flying to your mouth to stifle the cry. The bracelet caught on your sleeve as you turned, and in your haste, it snapped off, clattering to the floor. You didn’t stop to pick it up. Couldn’t. You just ran.

Down the stairs, through the crowd, tears streaming down your face. People blurred into faceless shapes, the music a deafening roar in your ears. “Sorry,” you gasped as you bumped into someone, but you didn’t stop.

Out the door, into the cool night air that slapped your heated skin. The streetlights cast long shadows, cars parked haphazardly along the curb. Your vision swam, sobs wracking your body as you bolted across the lawn, toward the road.

You didn’t see the car. Didn’t hear the honk over the blood rushing in your ears.

One moment, you were running, the next—impact. Tires screeching, a sickening thud. Pain exploded through your body, sharp and all-consuming, before numbness set in. You hit the pavement hard, asphalt scraping your skin, the world tilting sideways.

Someone screamed. A witness, phone already out, dialing 911. “Oh my God, someone got hit! Call an ambulance!”

Inside the house, the party raged on. Gojo Satoru, Sukuna’s chaotic best friend and fellow frat brother, was lounging near the speakers, white hair disheveled, sunglasses perched on his nose even in the dark. He heard the commotion outside—shouts, a car horn—but it barely registered until someone burst through the door, panting.

“Dude, someone just got fucking run over outside! It’s bad!”

Gojo straightened, peering over the crowd. He shouted over the music, voice cutting through like a knife: “Yo! Someone got hit out front! Party’s over, or some shit—check if it’s anyone we know!”

Laughter rippled through the room, dismissive. Sukuna, still upstairs, had just disentangled himself from the girl—whatever her name was—wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He felt a buzz in his pocket, finally checking his phone. Your text: Here. Surprise! Where are you? His brow furrowed. You? At a party? A smirk tugged at his lips. Cute. He’d find you, drag you upstairs, make up for the boredom.

Downstairs, Gojo’s shout reached him vaguely. Someone got hit. Sukuna rolled his eyes, adjusting his shirt. “Probably some drunk idiot,” he muttered to himself, not bothering to rush. It wouldn’t be anyone he cared about. You were probably somewhere safe hiding behind a couch. His.

But as he descended the stairs, the mood shifted. Whispers spread like wildfire. “It’s a girl… she was running from the house… blood everywhere…”

Sukuna’s steps quickened, a nagging unease twisting in his gut. He pushed through the crowd, out the door, into the night. Flashing lights in the distance—ambulance? Police? A cluster of people gathered around something on the road.

No. It couldn’t be.

He shoved past them, heart pounding now. And there you were.

Y/N.

Lying in a pool of your own blood, body twisted at an unnatural angle. Eyes glassy, unseeing. The bracelet—his bracelet—lay a few feet away, discarded in the grass like trash.

Time stopped. The world narrowed to that spot, to you, broken and still. “Y/N?” His voice cracked, barely a whisper. He dropped to his knees beside you, hands hovering, afraid to touch. Blood soaked into his jeans, warm and sticky. “Baby? Hey, wake up. This isn’t funny.”

But you didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The paramedics arrived, pushing him back, but he fought them, snarling. “That’s my girl! Get the fuck off—let me—”

Too late. They checked for a pulse, shook their heads. “She’s gone.”

Gone.

The word echoed in his skull, hollow and final. Sukuna’s world crumbled. Rage surged first— at the driver, at the party, at himself—but it shattered into disbelief. This wasn’t real. You couldn’t be dead. Not you, his quiet, brilliant Y/N, who blushed at his teasing and held his hand like it was the most precious thing.

Sadness hit next, a black hole swallowing him whole. He screamed, raw and guttural, punching the pavement until his knuckles bled. Gojo pulled him back, face pale. “Kuna… man, I’m sorry…”

But sorry didn’t bring you back. Nothing did.

He’d cheated. Betrayed you in the stupidest, most selfish way. And now? You were gone, because of him. Heartbroken, running from the sight of his betrayal. The bracelet glinted mockingly under the streetlight, thorns without the rose.

Sukuna broke that night. Shattered into pieces that would never fit back together. No comfort. No redemption. Just endless, aching void.

The days blurred after that. Sukuna didn’t go to classes. Didn’t party. He locked himself in his room, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment over and over. Your text. The surprise. The betrayal you’d witnessed. God, what had you felt? Seeing him like that, with her. The pain in your eyes—he could imagine it, even if he hadn’t seen it. It haunted him.

Gojo tried to check on him, banging on the door. “Sukuna, open up! You can’t just—”

“Fuck off!” Sukuna roared, throwing a bottle at the door. It shattered, glass scattering like his sanity.

He found the bracelet later, picked up by some well-meaning witness and handed to the police, who returned it to him as “her belongings.” He clutched it like a lifeline, the metal cutting into his palm. Your blood had stained the chain faintly; he couldn’t bring himself to clean it.

Memories flooded him. The first time you’d met—your books spilling, him helping, teasing you about being a klutz. You’d looked up at him with those wide eyes, murmuring a thank you that made his chest tighten for reasons he didn’t understand then.

Your first date: not a party, but a quiet picnic in the park because you hated crowds. He’d grumbled about it being “lame,” but secretly loved watching you light up over the sandwiches you’d made, rambling about some book on existentialism. He’d kissed you under a tree, slow and sweet, nothing like the rough hookups he was used to.

The nights you’d study together, your head on his lap as he played with your hair. “You’re smarter than me, nerd,” he’d say, and you’d laugh, swatting his hand. “You’re just lazy, ’Kuna.”

The bracelet-giving moment: your anniversary, in his dorm. He’d been nervous—him, Sukuna, nervous—fumbling with the clasp. “Don’t lose it, yeah? It’s… special.” Your smile had been radiant. “I won’t. Promise.”

Broken promise. All of it broken.

He dreamed of you. Vivid, cruel dreams where you were alive, laughing, then turning away in disgust at his cheating. “How could you?” you’d whisper, tears falling. He’d wake up sweating, reaching for you, finding empty sheets.

The funeral was a blur. Your family, devastated. Friends from your classes, whispering about the “tragic accident.” No one knew about the cheating, the real reason you’d run. Sukuna stood in the back, uninvited but unable to stay away. He watched the casket lower, dirt clods thumping like accusations.

After, he wandered campus aimlessly.

The library felt empty without you. The coffee shop mocked him with memories. Even the frat house—his domain—felt tainted. Parties continued, but he didn’t join. Girls tried to flirt; he shoved them away, snarling.

Gojo cornered him one night. “You gotta talk, man. This isn’t you.”

“What’s there to say?” Sukuna spat, eyes bloodshot. “I killed her. Me. My fuck-up.”

Gojo sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It was an accident—”

“Bullshit! She was there because of me. Saw me with that slut. Ran because her heart was breaking. My fault.”

Silence stretched. Gojo had no rebuttal. “She loved you, you know. Like, really loved you.”

Sukuna’s laugh was bitter, broken. “Yeah. And look what I did.”

No comfort. Just guilt, gnawing endless.

Months passed. Sukuna changed. The cocky fratboy facade cracked, revealing a hollow shell. He graduated—barely— but the degree meant nothing. He moved off-campus, to a shitty apartment where echoes amplified his loneliness.

The bracelet stayed on his nightstand, a relic of what he’d lost.

Sometimes, he’d hold it, whispering apologies to the empty room. “I’m sorry, Y/N. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

Dad!Gojo x Mom!Freader

This will contain: FLUFF AND CRACK

When Gojo finds out his precious daughter is dating a GUY... and not just any guy but MEGUMI FUSHIGURO?!

༺༻

Your morning starts like all your mornings do with Satoru draped across your back like an emotional weighted blanket set to cling mode.

He’s sprawled across the bed horizontally, somehow taking up all the space despite his body having the same number of limbs as any other human. One leg is hooked over your hip. An arm is under your pillow. His face is in your hair. If he could fuse into your spine, he probably would.

“Don’t get up,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “Life out there is full of disappointment and responsibilities. Let’s just live in bed forever.”

“You have staff meetings in thirty minutes,” you remind him, patting his hand.

He lets out a long, war-torn sigh, like a soldier who’s seen too much.

“Why would you even say that to me,” he whispers, betrayed.

You laugh softly and finally peel him off your body. He flops onto his back dramatically, pale hair splayed like a divine corpse in a renaissance painting. The blinds aren’t even open yet and he is already at 110% theatrical tragedy.

You stretch, slip on your robe, and head toward the kitchen.

And that’s when you see her.

Your daughter, D/N, sitting at the table, hands folded, posture stiff. Sunshine child. Sweetheart. Kind. Gentle. Normally smiles in the morning.

She looks like she’s preparing for war.

You blink.

She blinks back.

“…hey,” she says gently.

“Hey,” you answer slowly, grabbing mugs for coffee. “You good?”

She inhales. Deep. Committed. Soulful.

“I need to tell you something.”

Oh. Oh no. Oh no.

You already know your husband is going to react to anything she says like she just told him she joined a cult.

“Okay,” you say kindly, sitting across from her. “What’s up?”

But before she can speak...

Satoru enters.

Half awake. Hair messy. Shirtless. Wearing pajama pants slung low enough to make you blush even after all these years.

And he is humming.

HUMMING.

The sound of a man who does not know devastation is coming.

“Good morning, my lovely familyyyy—” he starts sing-song.

Then he sees D/N's expression.

He freezes mid-step.

His eyes narrow like a suspicious cat.

“What,” he says flat, monotone. Already defensive. Already aggressive. Already planning a confrontation with the universe.

D/N looks between both of you like someone who has trained for this in the mirror.

“I… have a boyfriend.”

Satoru goes completely still.

Not a blink.

Not a twitch.

Not a breath.

Like someone unplugged his soul.

You, internally wince it begins.

Satoru, out loud.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice quiet, unhinged. “A what.”

D/N sits up a little. “A boyfriend.”

His lips tremble. “A human male.”

“Yeah.” He staggers back like he’s been shot.

“You—” he gestures at her wildly. “You’re a BABY. You’re my BABY. You were born literally three years ago. I remember. I was there.”

“You were also crying during the birth,” you add helpfully.

“I WAS EMOTIONALLY OVERWHELMED AND THE LIGHTS WERE REALLY BRIGHT!” he snaps.

D/N sighs, sweet smile returning because she has accepted her fate. “I’m eighteen, dad.”

“No. No you’re not. You’re five. I remember your first day of school. You held my hand and told me I was your favorite person. That was like… last week.”

“That was thirteen years ago.”

He makes a sound.

A wounded animal sound.

Something between a yelp, a sob, and an offended dolphin.

You pour him coffee.

He doesn’t break eye contact with the wall.

Finally, he whispers “Who is he.”

You brace yourself.

D/N braces herself.

The foundation of the universe braces itself.

“…Megumi.”

The mug hits the floor.

Shatters.

Your husband does not flinch.

He is processing the concept of betrayal.

Megumi. His student. His ward. His almost-son. The kid he raised. The kid he forced to eat vegetables. The kid he watched grow up. The kid who has glared at him every day for the past decade with the emotional energy of someone who was cursed to live near Satoru Gojo.

Satoru opens his mouth—

And screams.

Not a normal scream.

A full-on the world is ending, open the Seven Seals, summon the Horsemen scream.

You calmly take a sip of coffee.

D/N rests her chin on her hand.

“Dad—”

“How DARE,” he wheezes, pointing at the door as if Megumi is standing there (he is not), “HOW DARE HE DO THIS TO ME. I FED HIM. I BOUGHT HIM SOCKS. I TAUGHT HIM ABOUT TAXES—”

“You didn’t,” you remind him.

“—I WOULD HAVE IF HE ASKED!”

He grabs your shoulders suddenly.

“Did you KNOW?!”

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

He gasps like you stabbed him.

“How long?”

“Four months.”

“FOUR MONTHS?!.”

He puts the back of his hand to his forehead like a dying Victorian widow.

“I cannot believe the treachery that lives under my roof. Judas. Brutus. MEGUMI FUSHIGURO.”

D/N, soft as a feather:

“I was going to tell you sooner, but—”

“But what?” he snaps.

“You’re you.”

He opens his mouth to argue.

Stops. Thinks. Nods slowly.

“…Okay. Valid.”

You rub his back. He melts into it, dramatic but accepting physical affection like a cat having an emotional crisis.

“Sweetheart,” you say gently, “they’re both adults. They care about each other.”

He looks genuinely heartbroken.

“But she’s my baby.”

D/N reaches across the table and squeezes his hand.

“I’ll always be your baby. I just… also love him too.”

He sniffles. Real sniffle.

She sniffles. You sniffle.

It’s wholesome… for exactly 2.5 seconds.

Then Satoru whispers“I’m going to kill him.”

“No, you are not,” you say, voice firm. “I’m not,” he agrees immediately.

“I just want to talk to him.”

“No, you do not.”

“I just want to show him something.”

“No showing him anything.”

He pouts. D/N stands, ready.

“He’s waiting outside. Please be normal.”

Satoru stands.

“Oh yes. I’ll be normal.”

He walks to the front door.

Opens it.

Megumi stands there, hands in pockets, expression neutral, affect calm, aura thick with the tired wisdom of a man who has seen every version of Gojo’s nonsense and survived.

Satoru stares at him.

Megumi stares back.

Silence.

Long silence.

Tension.

Emotion.

History.

Family.

And then Satoru says, very quietly.

“You absolute traitor.”

Megumi sighs.

D/N facepalms.

You drink your coffee. And that is how your morning begins.

Older jujitsu Kaisen boys x F!reader

Smau - No nut november

Boyfriend! Sukuna x Girlfriend!Freader

This will contain: FLUFF AND CRACK

Halloween special y'all trick or treat

Part 1 ➡️ Sukuna asking you out

Part ➡️ Sukuna killing your childhood teddy

༺༻

Jujutsu High, October 31st, 5:30 PM

Mission: Trick-or-Treat or Die Trying (of Sugar Overload)

Location: Common Room, 5:30 PM

Atmosphere: Glitter, panic, and the faint smell of Yuji’s protein shake.

The common room looks like a Spirit Halloween exploded in a JoAnn Fabrics. Bolts of purple satin, green felt, and black faux fur are strewn across every surface. A sewing machine whirs in the corner (courtesy of Maki, who left with a muttered “never again”). Yuji stands on a chair, arms spread like a deranged fashion designer, holding up a Fred ascot that’s more orange than a traffic cone.

“BEHOLD!” he bellows, voice cracking with excitement. “THE SCOOBY GANG: CURSED EDITION!”

You’re knee-deep in red wig curls, trying to pin them into a Daphne Blake updo that won’t fall out when you run from curses (or Yuji’s sugar rush). The purple mini-dress clings to your curves, the hem barely reaching mid-thigh, and you’ve already tripped over the green scarf twice.

Choso sits cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by Shaggy costume pieces. His long black hair is already in a messy ponytail, and he’s holding the green T-shirt like it’s a sacred relic. His blood mark glows faintly in the dim light, and his eyes—wide, earnest, ancient—are fixed on a Scooby Snack box he’s labeled “Blood Pills” in Sharpie.

Sukuna looms in the doorway, two arms crossed, two eyes narrowed to slits. He’s already in the King Scooby suit—black fur so plush it looks like he murdered a shadow and wore it, four glowing crimson eyes stitched into the hood, a tiny gold crown perched between fake ears. His cursed energy tail swishes irritably, knocking over a lamp.

Yuji leaps off the chair, landing with a thud. “COSTUME CHECK!”

Yuji (Fred): Orange ascot tied in a perfect Windsor knot, blue bell-bottoms, white sweater with a hand-drawn “F”. He’s practically vibrating.

You (Daphne): Purple dress shimmering under the fairy lights, red wig bouncing with every step, green scarf draped like a runway model.

Choso (Shaggy): Green shirt hanging loose, brown cords sagging, actual goatee (he grew it for authenticity). He’s clutching the Blood Pills box like a security blanket.

Sukuna (King Scooby): Black fur swallowing his frame, four eyes glowing, crown tilted rakishly, tail menacing. He looks like if Scooby-Doo joined the Yakuza.

Yuji snaps a selfie. The flash catches Sukuna’s snarl—all teeth and cursed energy. The camera cracks.

Choso tilts his head, voice soft and solemn. “Is Halloween where we sacrifice something to the Halloween God?”

The room freezes.

Yuji’s jaw drops. Your wig slips. Sukuna’s tail stops mid-swish.

You recover first, adjusting your scarf. “No, Choso. It’s where we get free candy.”

Choso blinks. “Do they have human organs in them? Turned into candy?”

Yuji wheezes, clutching his stomach. “NO, BRO.”

Choso’s shoulders slump. “…Oh.”

Sukuna growls, low and dangerous. “Enough. We depart. Now.”

The four of you storm the neighborhood like a cursed spirit task force. Yuji leads, Fred ascot flapping, pillowcase already half-full. You follow, Daphne heels clicking, leash attached to Sukuna’s collar (he insisted—for “authenticity”). Choso trails behind, Shaggy pants dragging, clutching his Blood Pills like a talisman.

The porch light flickers on. An elderly woman in a witch hat opens the door, bowl of fun-size Snickers in hand. Her eyes widen at King Scooby—six feet of black fur, four glowing eyes, tail lashing like a whip.

“Oh my,” she coos, voice trembling with delight. “What a big dog!”

Sukuna looms, voice a gravelly rumble. “TRICK OR TREAT, WITCH.”

She gasps, then laughs, dumping the entire bowl into his pillowcase. Sukuna’s tail wags—just once. You bite your lip to hide a smile.

A kid in a Spider-Man mask tries to double-dip. Yuji materializes like a cursed technique.

“ONE PER CUSTOMER, BRO.”

Spider-Man: “MAKE ME.”

Yuji grabs him by the web-shooters and suplexes him into a pumpkin display. Candy explodes like confetti. You gasp.

“YUJI!”

“CANDY JUSTICE!” he roars, stuffing his pillowcase.

Choso watches, head tilted. “…Is this the sacrifice?”

Choso rings the bell. A man in a vampire cape opens the door, smirking.

“Nice Shaggy, kid.”

Choso bows, voice solemn. “Where is the Halloween God? I brought tribute.”

He offers a bag of gummy worms.

The man pales. “Uh—”

Choso: “DO YOU REQUIRE A GOAT?”

The door slams. Choso blinks at the closed door, confused. “…Rude.”

The alley is narrow, lit by flickering streetlamps and jack-o-lanterns grinning from windows. You’re adjusting your Daphne wig when three college bros—dressed as zombie frat boys—lean against a wall, sipping spiked punch from red Solo cups.

Bro #1 whistles. “Yo, Daphne! Lose the dog and come party!”

Sukuna stops. The air drops 20 degrees. His four eyes glow like cursed lanterns. His tail lashes, knocking over a trash can.

You grab his leash. “Sukuna, no.”

He growls, low and guttural. The ground cracks. His shadow grows teeth.

Bro #2 stammers, “Chill, man, it’s a joke—”

Sukuna steps forward. His voice is death wrapped in velvet.

“RUN.”

The bros scream and bolt. One drops his phone. Sukuna crushes it under his paw, plastic crunching like bones. The alley echoes with their fleeing footsteps.

You kiss his snout, fur soft against your lips. “My hero.”

He grumbles, tail wagging despite himself. “No one disrespects my Daphne.”

The park is a Halloween wonderland—fog machines, strobe lights, kids in costumes running wild. A tall figure in a black suit, no face, stands under a streetlamp. Slender Man cosplayer.

Choso gasps, eyes wide with reverence. “THE MURDERER WE WORSHIP.”

He drops to one knee, holding out a Reese’s Cup like a sacred offering.

The cosplayer freezes, tentacle props trembling.

Choso “I brought tribute.”

Cosplayer “Uh—”

Choso “DO YOU REQUIRE A GOAT?”

The cosplayer screams and runs, tentacles flapping. Choso blinks, confused, Reese’s Cup still extended.

“…He forgot his candy.”

Yuji wheezes, clutching his stomach. “Bro, you’re a menace.”

Sukuna snorts, tail wagging. “Effective.”

Back at the dorm, you dump five pillowcases of candy on the floor. The haul is legendary—Snickers, Reese’s, Sour Patch Kids, candy corn (Choso’s “bone candy”).

Yuji lunges for the Sour Patch Kids. Sukuna slaps his hand with his tail.

“SHARE.”

Choso sorts the candy into piles: “Blood-flavored” (cherry), “Bone-shaped” (candy corn), “Sacrifice-worthy” (chocolate).

Sukuna feeds you a KitKat with his mouth, chocolate smearing your lips. Yuji gags. Choso takes notes in a tiny notebook: “Human mating ritual: chocolate transfer. Effective.”

The city sparkles below, jack-o-lanterns glowing like cursed spirits. You’re all sprawled on blankets, candy wrappers fluttering like confetti.

Yuji, mouth full of Skittles: “Best. Halloween. Ever.”

Choso, hugging his Slender Man Reese’s Cup: “I like… family.”

Sukuna pulls you into his lap (still in Scooby suit), four eyes soft. “Next year, I’m the Mystery Machine.”

You laugh, kissing his snout. “Deal.”

He nuzzles your neck, purring like a cursed engine. “My Daphne.”

Yuji snaps a photo. The flash catches Sukuna smiling—four eyes crinkled, tail wagging.

Choso whispers, “The Halloween God is pleased.”

Word count - 3500+

Smau - you text them if they can get pads

Smau - they reject you

Masked!Toji x F!reader

This will contain: knife play, pet kink, degradation kink, mating press, PIV, boot licking, blowjob, titjob, rough sex, choking, spitting, cum play

This is based of the wonderful fan art you can see above (but icl I lowkey don't like this but oh well)

༺༻

The warehouse smells of rust and old blood. Moonlight slices through broken skylights, painting silver scars across the concrete floor. You’re on your knees before you fully register the sound of his boots—slow, deliberate, the heel grinding grit into stone.

Toji doesn’t speak at first. He never does. The black balaclava clings to his skull like a second skin, only his eyes visible: predator-green, narrowed, amused. The left side of his mouth is exposed where the fabric’s been torn, a jagged grin smeared with someone else’s blood. A serrated combat knife spins lazily between his gloved fingers.

“Look at you,” he rasps, voice gravel dragged over glass. “Already drooling like a bitch in heat.”

Heat floods your cheeks, but you don’t look away. You can’t. The pet collar around your throat—black leather, silver ring—feels heavier tonight. He gave it to you weeks ago, after the first time he carved his initials into your thigh. The scab’s still tender.

He stops an inch from your face. The knife’s flat presses under your chin, tilting your head back. Cold steel kisses skin.

“Strip.”

One word. You obey. Fingers tremble as you peel off the oversized hoodie—his hoodie—then the lace bralette beneath. Cool air pebbles your nipples. He watches, unmoving, the way a wolf studies a rabbit that’s already decided to stop running.

When you’re bare except for the collar and the thin silver chain connecting your wrists, he crouches. The knife traces the hollow of your throat, down between your breasts, circling one stiff peak.

“Color?” he murmurs.

“Green, Sir.”

The blade flicks. A shallow line blooms across the swell of your breast—hot, stinging, perfect. You whimper. He licks the bead of blood away, tongue rough, teeth grazing.

“Good girl.”

He straightens, boot nudging your knees wider. The sole presses against your cunt, leather slick with your arousal already. You rock instinctively, chasing friction.

“Greedy.” The knife taps your cheek. “Mouth open.”

You part your lips. He slides two gloved fingers inside, pressing down on your tongue until you gag. Saliva pools. He fucks your mouth slowly, knuckles bumping your teeth, eyes never leaving yours.

“Gonna ruin every hole tonight, pet. Start with this one.”

He withdraws, wipes your spit across your cheek like war paint. Then he’s hauling you up by the collar, spinning you, bending you over a rusted metal table. Your chained wrists clatter against the surface. Cold bites your nipples.

The knife returns—this time between your shoulder blades, tracing the knobs of your spine. He slices your panties away in one clean motion. Fabric flutters to the floor.

“Ass up.”

You arch. He kicks your feet wider. The blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance—no warning, no prep beyond your own dripping want. He sinks in to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

The stretch burns. You cry out, fingers scrabbling for purchase. He doesn’t pause. One hand fists your hair, yanking your head back; the other plants between your shoulder blades, pinning you.

“Take it.”

He sets a punishing rhythm—hips snapping, balls slapping your clit with every stroke. The table screeches across concrete. Your tits bounce painfully, nipples scraping rust.

“Sir—please—”

“Please what?” He leans over you, breath hot against your ear. “Please stop? Or please harder?”

The knife appears under your throat again, edge kissing the collar. “Answer.”

“Harder, Master—fuck, harder—”

He growls, satisfied, and obliges. The angle shifts—he’s deeper now, battering your cervix. Your legs shake.

He pulls out abruptly. You whine at the loss, but he’s already dragging you down, forcing you to your knees again. His cock glistens with your slick, veins pulsing.

“Clean it.”

You lick a stripe up the underside, tasting yourself, salt, iron. He watches through the mask’s slits, chest heaving. When you swirl your tongue around the head, he fists your hair tighter.

“Titjob. Now.”

You press your breasts together, enveloping him. He thrusts lazily, the knife now resting against your cheek—a reminder. Precum beads, smears across your skin.

“Look at you,” he sneers. “Tits painted like a whore. Bet you’d let me carve my name right here.” The blade taps your sternum. “Between these pretty fuckhandles.”

You moan around his cock as he shoves it back into your mouth, using your breasts as leverage. Drool and precum drip down your chin, pooling on the floor.

He pulls out with a wet pop, hauls you up, and throws you onto a pile of old mats in the corner. Before you can orient yourself, he’s on you—knees forcing yours to your ears, folding you in half. Mating press.

The knife pins one wrist above your head; his free hand wraps around your throat.

“Beg.”

“Please, Master—breed me, use me—”

He slams home. The angle’s obscene—every thrust punches the air from your lungs. Your cunt flutters, overstretched, ruined.

“Gonna fill this sloppy hole,” he grits. “Mark you inside out.”

You’re babbling now—yes, Sir, please, own me—tears streaking your temples. He spits in your open mouth, then kisses you viciously, teeth clashing.

The knife leaves your wrist, trails down to where you’re joined. The flat side presses against your clit. You jerk, oversensitive.

“Come.”

One word, and you shatter—vision whiting out, walls clamping around him. He follows with a guttural snarl, flooding you, hips stuttering.

He doesn’t pull out. Stays buried, grinding lazily as aftershocks ripple through you. The knife clatters to the floor.

Slowly, he unfolds you, easing your trembling legs down. The mask comes off—scarred cheek, sweat-damp black hair, eyes softer now.

“Toji,” you whisper.

He presses a kiss to the cut on your breast, gentle. “Color?”

“Green,” you breathe. “So green.”

He scoops you up, carries you to the corner where he’s laid out a blanket and water. The collar stays on, but his touch is careful as he cleans you—warm cloth between your legs, fingers massaging sore muscles.

When he spoons you, mask discarded, he murmurs into your hair, “My good little pet.”

You smile, drifting, the taste of blood and cum still on your tongue.

Word count - 4500+

Boyfriend!Sukuna x Girlfriend!Freader

This will contain: fluff and crack

When your newly boyfriend burns your favorite teddy.

Part 1 ➡️ (Sukuna asking you out)

Part 3 ➡️ Halloween special

༺༻

The common-room couch still smells like smoke.

Not the cool, sexy kind of smoke that lingers after Sukuna flexes his cursed energy. No. This is the sad, charred-fabric-and-broken-dreams kind of smoke. It clings to the cushions, to your hoodie, to the single surviving ear of Mr. Fluffernutter III, your childhood teddy bear who has now been reduced to a crispy, one-eyed husk.

You are furious. You are also crying.

And Sukuna—Sukuna Ryomen, King of Curses, Heian-era warlord, currently stuck in a two-armed, two-eyed human vessel because the higher-ups are “monitoring his behavior”—is hiding behind the vending machine like a scolded cat.

“Y/N,” he tries, voice low and actually nervous. “It was an accident.”

You whirl around, clutching the remains of Mr. Fluffernutter III to your chest. “AN ACCIDENT?!” Your voice cracks. “YOU SET HIM ON FIRE BECAUSE HE WAS SITTING ON MY LAP!”

Sukuna’s crimson eyes dart left, right, anywhere but your face. “He was smirking at me.”

“HE HAS A STITCHED-ON SMILE, SUKUNA.”

“IT LOOKED SMUG.”

You inhale. Exhale. Count to ten. Fail. “That teddy has been with me since I was five. He survived Gojo using him as a shield in training. And you—” Your voice breaks. “You murdered him.”

Sukuna opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “I will buy you a new one.”

“YOU CAN’T REPLACE MR. FLUFFERNUTTER III!”

Step 1: Operation “Fix the Girlfriend” (Yuji’s Dorm, 2:14 AM)

Yuji’s room is a disaster zone of manga, empty Calpis bottles, and one Jennifer Lawrence poster he refuses to take down. Sukuna barges in, slams the door, and immediately starts pacing like a caged tiger.

Yuji sits up in bed, hair sticking up in seventeen directions. “Dude. It’s two in the morning.”

“Your king requires counsel,” Sukuna growls. “I have… incinerated Y/N’s beloved plush toy. She is devastated. Fix this.”

Yuji blinks. Once. Twice. Then cackles. “YOU JEALOUS-BURNED HER TEDDY BEAR?!”

Sukuna’s eye twitches. “It was taunting me.”

“IT’S A TOY.”

“IT HAD A MONOCLE.”

Yuji wipes a tear. “Okay, okay, focus. First rule of girlfriend repair: grovel. Like, legendary grovel. Second, replace the irreplaceable. You can’t buy a new teddy, so you make one. Third, grand gesture. Girls love grand gestures.”

Sukuna squints. “Define ‘grand.’”

“Like… build her a teddy bear shrine? Or sew a new one with your own hands? Wait—no, you’d stab yourself. Okay, plan we steal Gojo’s unlimited credit card, commission a life-size Mr. Fluffernutter III from a cursed-doll artisan, and you present it on a throne of cherry blossoms while apologizing in haiku.”

Sukuna stares. “You are insane.”

“Or,” Yuji says, grinning, “you just say sorry and mean it. But where’s the fun in that?”

Sukuna grunts. “I will consider the haiku.”

He vanishes, leaving Yuji cackling into his pillow.

Step 2: The Worst Advice in History (Choso’s Room, 3:07 AM)

Choso is awake—because of course he is—meditating in the dark with a single candle and a photo of his brothers. Sukuna kicks the door open (again).

“Brother,” Sukuna barks. “The woman is furious. I require ancient wisdom.”

Choso opens one eye. “You burned her teddy bear.”

“HOW DO YOU—”

“Yuji texted me. He added fifteen crying emojis.”

Sukuna growls. “Advise me.”

Choso nods solemnly. “In the old tales, when a warrior wronged his beloved, he would sacrifice a beast in her honor. Find the original bear’s spirit. Perform a blood ritual. Reanimate the corpse. Present it to her as a zombie teddy.”

Sukuna stares.

Choso continues, dead serious “Then, carve your apology into its fur with a cursed blade. She will see your devotion.”

Sukuna pinches the bridge of his nose. “You are deranged.”

“Is that not correct?”

“NO.”

Sukuna storms out. Choso shrugs and goes back to meditating.

Sukuna takes Yuji’s advice and elevates it to royal levels.

Phase 1: The Apology Haiku
He writes 47 versions. Burns 46. The final. 
“Flames took your bear, My jealousy was the spark, Forgive this fool king.”

Phase 2: The Replacement
He tracks down the original artisan who made Mr. Fluffernutter III (a cursed-doll maker in Kyoto). Threatens them. Pays them in gold (stolen from Gojo’s wallet). Commissions a life-size, cursed-energy-infused replica with realistic fur, button eyes that glow faintly, and a tiny crown because “she deserves a king teddy.”

Phase 3: The Grand Gesture
He transforms the rooftop into a teddy bear wonderland: 100 floating lanterns (cursed energy). A throne made of cherry blossom branches. A choir of shikigami birds singing a lullaby (off-key). The new teddy, Mr. Fluffernutter IV, seated on the throne wearing a tiny haori with Sukuna’s markings.

You’re in your dorm, curled up with a blanket and a pint of ice cream, when the door explodes open (gently, somehow).

Sukuna stands there, holding a scroll.

“Y/N,” he says, voice actually trembling. “I have… sinned.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You incinerated my childhood.”

He unrolls the scroll. Clears his throat. Reads the haiku in a voice like thunder trying to be soft:

“Flames took your bear, My jealousy was the spark, Forgive this fool king.”

You blink. “Did you… write a haiku?”

He nods, stiff. “I also—” He steps aside.

The rooftop door is open. The wonderland glows.

You gasp.

He leads you up. The new teddy sits on the throne, perfect. Same fur. Same stitched smile. But better. It even has a tiny scar over one eye—your scar, from when you were seven and fell off your bike.

Sukuna kneels. Kneels. “I was a fool. The bear did not deserve my wrath. You did not deserve my jealousy. I am… sorry.”

You stare. Then laugh. Then cry. Then launch yourself at him.

He catches you, arms wrapping tight. “I also,” he mutters into your hair, “had the birds rehearse for six hours. They are terrible.”

You laugh harder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I am your ridiculous.”

You kiss him—soft, salty with tears. The shikigami birds squawk the lullaby. Off-key. Perfect.

Word count - 5000+

Canon!Sukuna x Crush!Freader

This will contain: Pure fluff, crack humor

When the King Of Curses wants to ask you out but is stuck and asks his brothers.

Part 2 ➡️ (Sukuna burning your childhood teddy)

Part 3 ➡️ (Halloween special)

༺༻

Sukuna Ryomen—the Sukuna Ryomen, King of Curses, four-eyed, four-armed terror of the Heian era—stands in the middle of Jujutsu High’s abandoned shrine courtyard, two arms (just two, because he’s deigned to squeeze his overwhelming cursed presence into a single, annoyingly human vessel for the sake of blending in), crossed tightly over his broad chest. His pink hair is tied back in a messy knot, his crimson eyes narrowed at a single falling cherry blossom petal like it’s personally insulted his entire bloodline.

He is furious.

Not at enemies. Not at Gojo’s smug face. Not even at the brat Itadori for existing.

No. He is furious at himself.

Because for the first time in a thousand years, Sukuna Ryomen—slayer of nations, devourer of sorcerers, god among curses—does not know what to do.

You are the problem.

You, with your stupidly soft voice that makes his cursed energy glitch like a broken radio. You, who dares to smile at him like he’s not a walking apocalypse, who hands him a bottle of water after training with a casual, “You looked thirsty, Sukuna-kun!” as if he’s not the being who once bathed in rivers of blood. You, who laughed at his dry joke about dismantling Gojo’s infinity (“I’d start with his ego first.”) and then touched his arm—touched him—like it was nothing.

He hasn’t slept in three days.

Not because he needs sleep. Because every time he closes his eyes, he sees your face.

And he wants.

He wants to ask you out.

The thought hits him like a Dismantle to the spine.

Ask. You. Out.

Him. On a date. With words. And nerves. And—gods forbid—flowers.

He growls, low and guttural, and the cherry blossom tree in front of him wilts under the pressure of his cursed energy.

He needs advice.

And there are only two people alive stupid enough to give it to him.

Yuji’s room smells like instant ramen and teenage boy. Sukuna manifests in the full-length mirror by the closet, two arms, two eyes, looking like a very pissed-off model who lost a bet with a Hot Topic.

Yuji is mid-bite of a Pocky stick when he sees the reflection. He yelps, drops the snack, and spins around.

“S-SUKUNA?! WHAT THE HELL—”

“Silence, vessel,” Sukuna snarls, stepping out of the mirror like it’s a doorway (because it is, for him). “I require… counsel.”

Yuji blinks. Once. Twice. Then grins like Christmas came early.

“Counsel? From me? Oh man, this is gonna be good. Wait—wait—is this about a girl?”

Sukuna’s eye twitches. “Do not test me, brat.”

Yuji throws his hands up, still grinning. “Okay, okay! Chill! So… you like someone. That’s… wild. Like, historically wild. Who is it? Maki? Nobara? Oh god, please don’t say Utahime—”

Sukuna’s cursed energy flares. The Pocky box on Yuji’s desk explodes.

“It is Y/N,” he grits out, the name tasting like honey and humiliation. “And I will end you if you speak of this to anyone.”

Yuji’s jaw drops. “Y/N?! Our Y/N?! The one who gave you her umbrella last week when it rained and you just stood there like a wet cat?!”

Sukuna’s face darkens. “She said I looked ‘pathetic.’ I was assessing the structural integrity of the raindrops.”

“Sure, sure,” Yuji says, waving a hand. “Okay, okay, focus. You wanna ask her out. That’s… actually really cute. Terrifying, but cute.”

“Do not patronize me.”

“I’m not! I’m helping! Okay, so here’s the deal: girls like honesty. Just tell her you like her. Take her somewhere she loves—like that bakery in Shibuya with the cat-shaped taiyaki. Bring a small gift. Listen to her. Like, really listen. Don’t just grunt.”

Sukuna squints. “A… gift?”

“Yeah! Something personal. Not, like, a severed head.”

Sukuna looks mildly offended. “I was going to give her a garden.”

Yuji chokes. “A garden?”

“I will uproot the imperial cherry blossoms and replant them on the rooftop. She will be bathed in petals. It is fitting for a king’s courtship.”

Yuji stares. “Dude. That’s… insane. But also kind of romantic? In a Sukuna way. Okay, scale it back. Maybe just one cherry blossom tree. And say something nice. Like… ‘I admire your strength’ or ‘You make me less murderous.’”

Sukuna grunts. “Acceptable.”

He vanishes in a swirl of black mist, leaving Yuji blinking at the exploded Pocky.

Choso is meditating when Sukuna kicks the door open (literally; the hinges groan). He’s shirtless, hair down, blood mark across his nose glowing faintly in the dark.

“Brother,” Sukuna says, striding in like he owns the place (he kind of does). “I require your wisdom.”

Choso opens one eye. “You woke me.”

“You do not sleep.”

“I was trying.”

Sukuna ignores him, pacing. “I must court a woman. Y/N. She is… infuriatingly kind. How do I make her mine?”

Choso tilts his head, slow and solemn. “Courtship… I have read of this in Yuji’s picture books. The male must prove his dominance.”

Sukuna stops. “Go on.”

“Challenge her to combat. If she defeats you, she is worthy. If you win, claim her with a blood pact. Mark her neck with your fang. Then gift her the heart of her greatest enemy.”

Sukuna stares.

Choso nods seriously. “It is tradition.”

Sukuna pinches the bridge of his nose. “You are useless.”

“Is that not correct? Yuji said—”

“Yuji is a child. You are a fossil. I will handle this myself.”

He storms out, leaving Choso blinking in confusion.

Sukuna does not do half-measures. Yuji said “small gift”? Sukuna hears “monumental gesture”. Yuji said “listen”? Sukuna interprets “worship”.

He spends three days:

Uprooting one cherry blossom tree (he compromised). It now sits on the rooftop, roots wrapped in cursed cloth, glowing faintly.

Carving a ring from obsidian taken from a cursed object he destroyed in the Heian era. It pulses with his energy.

Practicing words in the mirror:

“Woman, you will date me.” (Too aggressive.)

“I have decided you are mine.” (Still aggressive.)

“Y/N… I like you. Be with me.” (His tongue bleeds.)

He settles on something stern but gentle. A king’s balance.

You’re in the common room, sketching a cat wearing Sukuna’s tattoos (don’t ask), when the door slams open.

Sukuna stands there, two arms, two eyes, black haori flowing like a cape. His voice is gravel and thunder:

“Y/N. Rooftop. Now.”

You blink. “Uh… okay?”

He doesn’t wait, turning and marching out. You follow, heart racing for reasons you blame on adrenaline.

The rooftop door opens to a dream.

A single cherry blossom tree glows under the stars, petals drifting like pink snow. The city sparkles below. Sukuna stands beneath the branches, arms crossed, but his eyes—crimson, ancient, terrified—are fixed on you.

“Sukuna… did you—?”

“I did,” he says, stepping forward. “I am Sukuna Ryomen. I do not ask. I take. But with you…” His voice drops, softer than silk. “I find myself… humbled.”

You stare, mouth open.

He pulls a small box from his sleeve. Inside: the obsidian ring, pulsing faintly. “This is not a proposal,” he says quickly, like the word might bite him. “It is a vow. I will destroy anything that harms you. I will listen. I will…” He swallows, jaw tight. “I like you, Y/N. More than I have ever liked anything in a thousand years. Go out with me.”

The words are a command, but his eyes are pleading.

You laugh, tears spilling. “You transplanted a tree to ask me on a date?”

“It is fitting for a king,” he says, but his lips twitch—almost a smile.

You step forward, taking the ring. It fits perfectly. “Yes, Sukuna. I’ll go out with you.”

He exhales, a sound like mountains shifting. Then, carefully, he cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks.

“Good,” he murmurs, and kisses you—slow, reverent, like you’re the only thing in the universe worth bowing to.

The cherry blossoms fall. The stars watch.

The King of Curses has fallen.

Word count - 7000+

Smau: they text you after the breakup

Crush!Gojo x F!reader

This will contain: Extreme angst, unrequited love, heartbreak, emotional manipulation, “the other woman,” abandonment, crying, depression, no happy ending,

You're always the other woman

༺༻

The mochi box is warm in your hands, the kikufuku inside still soft from the oven you slaved over at 3 a.m. because you couldn’t sleep. The bracelet is cool against your wrist—a thin silver chain with an infinity charm you found in Harajuku, the one you told yourself was perfect for Satoru Gojo, the boy who says “infinity” like it’s a promise. You’re seventeen, heart hammering so loud you swear the entire hallway can hear it as you round the corner toward the common room.

You’ve rehearsed this a hundred times. “Satoru, I baked these for you. And… I really like you. Will you go out with me?” Simple. Brave. Terrifying.

Geto’s words echo in your head from last night on the rooftop: “He likes you, Y/N. He’s just Satoru. Give him a push.”

You turn the corner.

And the world ends.

He’s there—tall, white-haired, blindfold pushed up, mouth on some girl you don’t know. Her legs are around his waist, his hands in her hair, her fingers clutching his shirt like she owns him. The moan she makes is soft, intimate, the kind of sound you’ve only ever dreamed he’d make for you.

The mochi box slips.

It hits the floor with a wet splat, cream exploding across the tiles like a crime scene. The bracelet follows, clattering, the infinity charm spinning uselessly before it stills.

You don’t scream. You don’t cry. You just break.

Geto’s voice—“Y/N!”—but you’re already running, sneakers squeaking, vision blurring, lungs burning as you bolt through the gates, past the torii, into the city. You don’t stop until you’re home, door locked, sliding down the wall, the sobs finally ripping free—ugly, guttural, your knees to your chest as you rock.

Behind you, in the hallway:

Gojo pulls back from the girl, frowning at the commotion. “Hey, what was that about?”

She hums, nipping his jaw. “Probably one of your admirers being heartbroken.”

He laughs—laughs—and dives back in, mouth on hers, hands wandering. “Poor thing,” he murmurs against her lips, already forgetting.

You’re eighteen, a third-year, and you’ve mastered the art of avoidance. You sit at the back of class, eat lunch alone, train until your muscles scream. Gojo notices—of course he does—but he doesn’t understand. He corners you in the library one day, blindfold off, eyes wide and confused.

“Y/N! Where’ve you been? I miss my favorite girl.”

You smile, tight. “Busy.”

He pouts, leaning on your table. “C’mon, let’s hang out. Like old times.”

You want to scream. Old times? When you held my hand and called me pretty and made me believe I was special?

Instead, you say, “I have a mission.”

He frowns, but lets it go. You don’t see the way he watches you leave, the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach out.

Geto finds you later, eyes dark. “He asked me where you were. I told him to fuck off.”

You laugh, hollow. “Thanks.”

It’s spring, cherry blossoms drifting like snow. You’re nineteen, and you’re tired. Tired of hoping, tired of waiting for him to see you. Geto’s words from months ago still ring: “He’s scared. Just tell him.”

So you do.

You find him on the rooftop, blindfold off, staring at the sky. You baked again—kikufuku, because you’re a masochist. The bracelet is in your pocket, the same one you fished out of the trash a year ago, cleaned and polished like it could erase the memory.

“Satoru,” you say, voice steady. “I need to tell you something.”

He turns, grinning. “Shoot.”

You take a breath. “I’ve liked you for years. More than friends. I know you flirt with everyone, but I thought… maybe I was different. So I’m asking—will you go out with me?”

The silence is deafening.

His eyes widen, then soften, and for one heartbreaking second, you think—yes.

Then he laughs. Not cruel, just… confused. “Y/N, you’re my best friend. I don’t… I don’t see you like that.”

Your heart stops.

“But Geto said—”

“Geto’s wrong,” he says gently, like he’s letting a child down. “I love you, but not… not like that.”

You nod, numb. “Okay.”

You leave the mochi on the ledge. The bracelet stays in your pocket.

You’re walking to the dorms later that night, when you see it—Gojo, pressed against the vending machine, kissing another girl. Different from the first, but the same scene: hands in her hair, her legs around him, his mouth devouring hers like she’s oxygen.

You don’t run this time. You just stand there, the weight of it crushing you.

You were never the first. You were never even second. You were the other woman—the safe one, the friend, the one he kept on the shelf while he chased everyone else.

You go home. Pack a bag. One duffel, your essentials, the jar of origami cranes he gave you over the years—“You’re my favorite” written on every single one.

You message Geto:

“Hey. I’m leaving Tokyo for good. I appreciate our friendship so much—you were always my best friend. I love you, Suguru.”

You turn off your phone. Disconnect it. Vanish.

The next morning, Gojo bounces into the common room, blindfold off, grinning. “Where’s Y/N? She’s late.”

Geto’s there, eyes red, face hollow. He hasn’t slept.

Gojo frowns. “Dude, you okay?”

Geto turns, and the look he gives Gojo is pure venom. “You couldn’t keep it in your pants, could you, Gojo?”

Gojo blinks. “Woah, calm down, why the last name—”

“Your fault,” Geto spits. “Y/N’s gone. Apartment cleared out. Dorm empty. She left because of you.”

Gojo freezes. “What?”

Geto shoves past him, shoulder-checking him hard. “Figure it out, asshole.”

Gojo stands there, the grin gone, the mochi from yesterday still on the ledge, uneaten.

You’re twenty-five, living in Osaka under a new name, a low-grade sorcerer with a quiet life (You had so much potential). You cut your hair, changed your style, buried the past. You don’t bake kikufuku anymore. You don’t wear infinity charms.

You’re at a café when you see him.

He’s taller, if possible, hair still white, but his eyes—those eyes—are older. He spots you across the room, and for a second, you think he won’t recognize you.

He does.

“Y/N,” he breathes, crossing the room in three strides. “It’s you.”

You stand, bag in hand. “Hi, Gojo.”

He reaches for you, but you step back. “I’m so sorry,” he says, voice cracking. “I didn’t know—I didn’t see. Geto told me everything. The mochi, the bracelet, the girl… I was an idiot. I liked you, I just— I didn’t know how to—”

You smile, small and sad. “It’s okay, Gojo.”

He flinches at the last name.

“I was always the other woman,” you say, voice steady. “Even when I was your best friend. You never saw me. Not really.”

You turn to leave.

“Wait—” he grabs your wrist, desperate. “Please. Let me make it right.”

You pull free. “Some things can’t be fixed.”

You walk out. He doesn’t follow.

You never see him again.

Word count 6000+

Crush!Toge x F!reader

This will contain: LOTS OF FLUFF

This is based on the song No.1 party Anthem (Look of love)

༺༻

The rooftop of Jujutsu High is a secret haven, a place where the chaos of cursed spirits and endless training fades into the quiet hum of the night.

The city sprawls below, a glittering sea of lights, but up here, it’s just you and the stars, the cool breeze tugging at your hair as you lie back on a worn blanket. Toge Inumaki sits beside you, his knees drawn up, his high-collared uniform unzipped to reveal the cursed marks sealing his mouth—two snake-like eyes and a tongue symbol that make his words dangerous, his voice a weapon he can’t fully control.

His violet eyes, usually hidden behind the collar when he’s on missions, are wide open tonight, reflecting the starlight like twin galaxies.

You’ve been friends with Toge for months, ever since you transferred to Jujutsu High as a second-year sorcerer. He’s quiet, of course—his cursed speech limits him to safe words like “salmon,” “tuna mayo,” or “kelp” to avoid accidental harm—but his presence is a comfort, a steady warmth in a world that’s often too loud, too violent.

You’ve learned to read him, to understand the tilt of his head, the crinkle of his eyes when he’s amused, the way his fingers fidget when he’s nervous. And lately, you’ve noticed something else—the way his gaze lingers on you, soft and searching, like he’s trying to say something his voice can’t.

It started small. A note slipped into your textbook during class: “Salmon for lunch? 😊” in his neat, careful handwriting. You’d smiled, scribbling back “Only if you share your onigiri!” and passing it over, his fingers brushing yours as he took it, his eyes crinkling in that way that made your heart skip.

Then came the little gifts—a pack of your favorite candy left on your desk, a doodle of a cat with your name scrawled beneath it tucked into your locker. Each one was a silent confession, a way for Toge to bridge the gap his cursed speech created.

Tonight, you’re up here because you invited him, a spontaneous idea after a long day of training. “Wanna watch the stars?” you’d asked, and he’d nodded, his eyes bright with something you couldn’t quite name. Now, as you lie side by side, the blanket soft beneath you, you feel the weight of his presence, the unspoken words hanging between you like the stars above.

“Toge,” you say softly, turning your head to look at him. He meets your gaze, his expression open, unguarded. “You ever feel like… the stars are trying to tell us something?”

He tilts his head, considering, then pulls a small notebook from his pocket—the one he carries for moments when rice ball ingredients won’t suffice. He scribbles quickly, his pen moving with purpose, and hands it to you. “They’re saying you’re beautiful.”

Your cheeks flush, and you laugh, a soft, nervous sound. “Smooth talker,” you tease, nudging his shoulder. He smiles, his eyes crinkling, and you feel that familiar warmth in your chest, the one that’s been growing every time he looks at you like this—like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

You’ve liked him for a while, longer than you’d admit. It’s in the way he makes you feel safe, the way his quiet presence grounds you, the way he tries so hard to communicate despite his limitations. But you’ve held back, unsure if he feels the same, unsure if his notes and gestures are just friendship or something more. Tonight, though, under the stars, you’re tired of wondering.

“Toge,” you say again, your voice barely above a whisper, “can I ask you something?”

He nods, his eyes locked on yours, and you take a deep breath, your heart pounding. “Do you… like me? Like, like me?”

He freezes, his pen hovering over the notebook, and for a moment, you’re terrified you’ve misread everything. But then he writes, his hand steady despite the faint tremble you notice, and hands you the page. “More than you know. I’m scared to say it wrong.”

Your heart aches at his words, at the vulnerability in them. You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers with his, and he squeezes back, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “You’re not saying it wrong,” you whisper. “You’re showing me, every day. And I… I like you too, Toge. A lot.”

His eyes widen, a mix of surprise and relief, and he scribbles again, faster this time. “Really? You mean it?”

You laugh, nodding, and lean closer, your faces inches apart. “Really,” you say, and before you can second-guess yourself, you kiss him—soft, tentative, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth, careful of the cursed marks. He freezes, then melts into it, his free hand cupping your cheek, his kiss shy but eager, like he’s been dreaming of this moment.

When you pull back, his eyes are shining, and he writes one more note, his handwriting a little shaky. “The stars are jealous of you.”

You laugh, tears pricking your eyes, and you kiss him again, deeper this time, your hands tangling in his hair. The world fades away, leaving just the two of you, the stars above, and the look of love in his eyes—a look that says everything his voice can’t.

The weeks that follow are a quiet revolution. Toge’s notes become bolder—“You make my heart do salmon flips” tucked into your pocket, “Tuna mayo date after training?” slipped into your hand during class. He starts leaving you origami cranes, each one with a tiny message inside, and you keep them in a jar on your desk, a growing collection of his heart. You respond in kind, slipping him doodles of rice balls with hearts, leaving him your favorite snacks, brushing your fingers against his whenever you pass.

Your friends notice, of course. Yuji teases Toge relentlessly, shouting “Salmon love!” across the courtyard, while Maki rolls her eyes but smirks when she sees you holding hands. Panda just claps Toge on the back, nearly knocking him over, and says, “About time, man.” Even Gojo-sensei gets in on it, winking at you both during training and drawling, “Young love, huh? Don’t let it distract you from curses!”

But it’s the quiet moments that mean the most—the nights on the rooftop, sharing a blanket and a thermos of tea, Toge’s head resting on your shoulder as you point out constellations. He writes you poems in his notebook, simple but heartfelt, and you read them aloud, your voice soft in the dark. He learns to say your name in safe words—“Y/N, kelp” for “I’m here,” “Y/N, salmon” for “I love you”—and you learn to hear the meaning behind them.

One night, months later, you’re back on the rooftop, the stars brighter than ever. Toge’s arm is around you, his notebook open on his lap, and he’s writing something long, his pen moving with care. When he hands it to you, your breath catches. “I wish I could tell you how much I love you with my voice, but I hope my actions are enough. You’re my everything, Y/N. Will you be mine, always?”

Tears spill down your cheeks, and you nod, kissing him fiercely, your hands framing his face. “Always,” you whisper, and he smiles, his eyes crinkling, the look of love so clear it’s like the stars themselves are shining through him.

Word count - 4500+

Virgin!Choso x Girlfriend!Freader

This will contain: penetrative sex, oral sex (f receiving), virgin/inexperienced Choso, premature ejaculation (cumming without touch), make-out sessions, praise kink, mild embarrassment

You help Choso experience sex

༺༻

The dorm room at Jujutsu High is dimly lit, the only light coming from a small desk lamp and the faint glow of the moon through the window. Choso Kamo sits on the edge of his bed, his long black hair tied back in his usual pigtails, his dark eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and nervousness.

He’s wearing a loose black shirt and sweatpants, his tattooed mark across his nose bridge standing out in the low light. At his core, Choso is ancient—a cursed womb death painting—but in this human form, in this moment, he’s utterly inexperienced, a virgin in every sense, his knowledge of intimacy limited to vague instincts and the awkward conversations he’s overheard from Yuji and the others.

You’re his girlfriend, a fellow sorcerer who’s been patient with him, drawing him out of his shell with your gentle smiles and easy affection.

You’ve been dating for a few weeks, starting with hand-holding and shy kisses, but tonight feels different. You’re sitting close to him on the bed, your knee brushing his, your hand resting on his thigh.

The air is thick with unspoken tension, a warmth that’s been building between you.

“Choso,” you say softly, your fingers tracing small circles on his leg, “are you okay? You look… tense.”

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and nods, though his eyes dart away. “I’m fine,” he says, voice low and a little rough. “It’s just… I feel weird. Down there.” He gestures vaguely toward his lap, his cheeks flushing a deep red, and you bite your lip to hide a smile, finding his innocence endearing.

“Weird how?” you ask, scooting closer, your hand sliding higher on his thigh. He tenses, his breath hitching, and you can see the bulge in his sweatpants growing, his body reacting in ways he doesn’t understand.

“My… penis,” he says, the word awkward on his tongue, like he’s never said it out loud before. “It’s getting bigger. Harder. Why is that happening?”

You can’t help but laugh softly, not at him, but with affection, and you cup his cheek, turning his face to yours. “That’s normal, Choso,” you say gently. “It means you’re aroused. You want me.”

His eyes widen, a mix of confusion and dawning realization. “Aroused?” he repeats, testing the word. “Because of you?”

“Yes,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him. His lips are soft, hesitant at first, but he responds eagerly, his hands finding your waist as you deepen the kiss. It’s messy, inexperienced—his tongue clumsy against yours—but it’s sweet, full of his genuine desire to learn, to please you. You moan softly into his mouth, and he pulls back, eyes wide.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, panic flickering in his gaze.

“No,” you assure him, smiling. “That was good. Really good. Keep going.”

He nods, determined, and kisses you again, his hands roaming tentatively over your back, your sides. You guide him, showing him how to touch, how to explore, and he’s a quick learner, his fingers trembling but eager as they slip under your shirt, brushing your skin. “Like this?” he murmurs against your lips, and you nod, arching into his touch.

“Yes, just like that,” you breathe, and you pull your shirt off, revealing your bra. His eyes darken, fixed on your chest, and he reaches out, hesitant, cupping your breasts through the fabric. “You can take it off,” you say, and he does, fumbling with the clasp until it falls away.

He stares, awestruck, his thumbs brushing your nipples, making you gasp. “They’re… sensitive,” he observes, voice hushed, like he’s discovering a secret. You guide his mouth to one, and he licks tentatively, then bolder, sucking gently, drawing a moan from you. “I like that sound,” he says, pulling back to look at you, his eyes gleaming with wonder.

You laugh breathlessly, pushing him back onto the bed, straddling his lap. “There’s more where that came from,” you say, grinding against him, feeling his hardness press against you. He groans, his hips bucking instinctively, and you feel him twitch, his sweatpants dampening slightly.

“Y/N,” he gasps, his hands gripping your hips, “something’s—ah—happening—”

You realize what’s coming and slide off him just in time, watching as he cums in his pants, his body shuddering, a low moan escaping his lips. He looks mortified, covering his face with his hands. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, voice muffled. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” you say, pulling his hands away, kissing his forehead. “That’s normal for your first time. It means you really want me.”

He peeks at you, still flushed. “It felt… good. But embarrassing.”

You smile, helping him out of his soiled sweatpants, cleaning him up with a towel. “We’re just getting started,” you say, and his eyes widen as you strip off your own clothes, lying naked beside him. He stares, his cock already hardening again, and you take his hand, guiding it between your legs. “Touch me here,” you say, showing him your clit. “Gentle at first.”

He’s careful, his fingers exploring your folds, slick with arousal, and you moan, encouraging him. “Like this?” he asks, circling your clit, and you nod, hips rocking against his hand.

“Yes, Choso, just like that.” He’s mesmerized, watching your reactions, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you arch. When you guide his head down, he hesitates, then licks tentatively, his tongue flat and unsure. “Use the tip,” you instruct, and he does, flicking your clit, making you cry out.

He gains confidence, licking deeper, tasting you, his hands holding your thighs apart. He’s clumsy, overeager, but his enthusiasm is intoxicating, and you cum with a shudder, your hands tangling in his hair. He looks up, face glistening, eyes proud. “Did I do good?”

“So good,” you pant, pulling him up for a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. You reach for his cock, stroking him slowly, and he groans, thrusting into your hand. “I want you inside me,” you say, and his eyes widen.

“Inside?” he echoes, voice breathless. “How?”

You guide him, positioning him at your entrance, showing him how to push in slowly. He’s thick, stretching you, and he groans, eyes squeezing shut. “It’s so warm,” he whispers, “tight.” You rock your hips, helping him find a rhythm, and he thrusts awkwardly at first, then smoother, his instincts taking over.

“Y/N,” he moans, his pace quickening, “it feels—ah—too good—” His body tenses, and he cums again, spilling inside you with a cry, collapsing onto you. You hold him, stroking his back, whispering praises as he catches his breath.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles again, but you kiss him, silencing his apologies.

“We have all night,” you say, and his smile is shy, grateful, as you roll him over, ready to teach him more.

The night stretches on, a series of firsts—more kisses, more touches, Choso learning your body as you learn his. He cums quickly each time, overwhelmed by sensation, but you’re patient, guiding him through handjobs, showing him how to finger you, how to make you cum with his mouth again. By dawn, he’s exhausted but glowing, curled against you, his head on your chest.

“Thank you,” he whispers, voice sleepy. “For teaching me.”

You smile, kissing his forehead. “We’re just beginning, Choso.”

Word count - 3000+

Cult leader!Geto x Ex!Freader

This will contain: Graphic violence, psychological torment, implied mass murder, obsession, emotional manipulation, blood, cult dynamics, unhealthy fixation, mental deterioration, suicide ideation (mentioned), themes of genocide and extremism. This is HEAVY angst.

(One by one you hang them high)

(Had this in the draft for a bit but decided to post it idk if I like it AHHHH😭😭 Let me know if its good or not. And requests are always open <3)

༺༻

The first body drops at 3:17 a.m.

You know because you’re still awake, fingers curled around a lukewarm cup of coffee that tastes like ash, staring at the news ticker crawling across the bottom of the screen.

“UNIDENTIFIED MALE SUSPECTED IN SHIBUYA MASSACRE—AUTHORITIES URGE PUBLIC TO REMAIN INDOORS.”

The footage is grainy, but you’d know that silhouette anywhere. The way he moves—fluid, deliberate, like a dancer who traded grace for slaughter. Black robes fluttering like raven wings. Hair longer now, tied low, strands escaping to frame a face that hasn’t aged a day since you last saw it.

Suguru Geto smiles at the camera.

Not the smile you remember. Not the one that used to curl slow and sweet when you traced the slope of his nose at 2 a.m., whispering nonsense about constellations. This one is sharp. Feral. A blade unsheathed.

He lifts a hand. The screen glitches. Static swallows the feed.

Your phone buzzes.

Unknown Number:

“Did you see?”

Your thumb hovers. Deletes. Blocks.

Another buzz. Different number.

“I kept your ribbon. The blue one. Still smells like you.”

The cup slips. Shatters. Coffee bleeds across the linoleum like spilled ink.

You hadn’t seen him in four years.

Not since the night he came to your apartment with blood under his nails and a tremor in his voice that wasn’t fear—it was excitement. You’d asked what happened. He’d said, “I fixed something.” Then he kissed your forehead like a benediction and left you with the echo of his footsteps and a curse coiled in the corner of the room that watched you sleep for weeks.

You’d burned everything he’d touched. The hoodie he left. The mixtape. The polaroid of you asleep on his chest, mouth open, drooling on his collarbone. You’d scrubbed your skin until it split. Moved cities. Changed your name twice.

But curses don’t forget.

Neither does he.

The second body is found strung up in Odaiba, throat slit ear to ear, a single black ribbon tied around the wrist like a gift tag.

The news calls it a signature.

You call it a love letter.

You’re at the convenience store when the third one happens. Fluorescent lights humming. Instant ramen in your basket. The TV above the register flickers—breaking news. A shrine maiden, gutted and arranged like a prayer. Her eyes are missing.

The clerk gasps. You drop the ramen. Broth splatters your shoes.

Your phone vibrates against your thigh.

“She screamed your name. Funny, right?”

You run.

Tokyo is a carcass now. Hollowed out. The streets smell of iron and incense. His followers wear white masks with painted smiles. They chant in subway tunnels. Leave offerings of teeth and fingernails at train stations.

You see his face on wanted posters. Reward: 500 million yen. Dead or alive.

You tear one down. Crumple it. Stuff it in your pocket like contraband.

You dream of him every night.

Not the boy who used to steal your fries and call you princess with sarcasm dripping from his tongue. Not the one who cried into your shoulder after Haibara’s funeral, fingers clutching your shirt like you were the only real thing left.

This Geto is taller in the dark. His shadow has teeth. He stands at the foot of your bed and whispers, “You left me rotting.” His voice is layered—like a hundred throats speaking at once. When you reach for him, your hand comes away wet. You don’t look down.

You wake up screaming. The neighbors stopped knocking months ago.

The fourth body is a child.

You stop watching the news.

You’re buying cigarettes at a vending machine near Shinjuku when the sky splits open.

Not metaphorically.

A rift—black and pulsing—tears through the clouds like a wound. Curses pour out. Grade 1s. Special Grades. Things with too many mouths. The air screams.

People run. You freeze.

He steps through the tear like he’s walking out of a memory.

The robes are gone. Just black slacks, a white shirt unbuttoned at the throat. Hair loose, damp with rain or blood—you can’t tell. His eyes find yours across the chaos.

“Y/N.”

Your name in his mouth is a curse all its own.

You turn. Run. Your lungs burn. The city is a maze of screaming and wet sounds. You duck into an alley, press your back to the brick, try to breathe.

A hand clamps over your mouth.

“Shh,” he murmurs against your ear. “It’s just me.”

His scent—sandalwood and rust. You bite his palm. Hard. He doesn’t flinch.

“Still feisty.” A laugh, soft. “I missed that.”

You twist. Elbow him in the ribs. He lets you go, but only to spin you around, pin you to the wall with his body. His hands are gentle. Terrifyingly so.

“Look at me.”

You do.

His face is thinner. Cheekbones sharper. There’s a scar through his left eyebrow you don’t remember. His eyes—violet, always violet—are bloodshot. Pupils blown wide.

“You’re shaking,” he says.

“You’re a monster.”

He smiles. “I know.”

His thumb brushes your cheek. Smears something wet. You realize you’re crying.

“I didn’t want to find you like this,” he says. “But you kept running.”

“I wasn’t running from you.”

“Liar.” He leans closer. His breath is warm. “You burned my letters. Blocked my numbers. Changed your name like I wouldn’t taste it on the wind.”

You swallow. “Let me go.”

“Never again.”

He takes you to the temple.

Not willingly. You fight—nails, teeth, knees. He absorbs it all like a sponge. At one point, you bite his throat hard enough to taste copper. He moans.

The temple is a ruin on the edge of the city. Vines choke the torii. Lanterns flicker with cursed energy. His followers kneel as you pass, heads bowed. Some have sewn their eyes shut. Others have carved his name into their arms.

He carries you over the threshold like a bride.

The inner sanctum smells of incense and decay. Tatami mats stained dark. In the center, a shrine—photos, locks of hair, a child’s shoe. Your ribbon, blue and fraying, pinned beneath a glass dome.

He sets you down. Kneels. Starts untying your shoes.

“Don’t,” you rasp.

He ignores you. Fingers deft. “You’re bleeding.”

You look. Your feet are shredded from running barefoot. You hadn’t noticed.

He cleans the wounds with water from a copper bowl. His touch is clinical. Reverent. When he wraps your feet in gauze, his hands linger.

“I used to do this,” he says quietly. “When you’d twist your ankle chasing me across campus. Remember?”

You do. You hate that you do.

He keeps you in a room with paper walls and a futon that smells like him. No locks. Just curses coiled in the corners like guard dogs. They watch you with too many eyes.

He visits every night.

Sometimes he talks. About the monkeys. The filth. The necessity. How he’s building a new world. How you’ll see it one day. How you’ll thank him.

Sometimes he just sits. Stares. Traces the scars on your wrists—old ones, from before. You stopped cutting after you left him. He notices.

“I should’ve been there,” he whispers.

“You were there,” you snap. “You were the reason.”

He flinches. Just once.

The fifth body is a sorcerer. Grade 1. You recognize the technique residue on the news—before you smash the TV.

Geto brings you the man’s haori. Still warm. Lays it at your feet like a cat with a dead bird.

“For you,” he says. “Proof.”

“Of what?”

“That I’m winning.”

You vomit in the corner. He holds your hair.

You stop eating.

He notices on the third day. Brings you dango. Your favorite—mitarashi. The sauce is too sweet. You throw it at the wall.

He cleans it up. Doesn’t get mad.

On the fifth day, he force-feeds you. Fingers prying your jaw. Rice and miso sliding down your throat. You choke. He pats your back like you’re a child.

“You’ll die,” he says. “I won’t allow it.”

You dream of the past.

Of summer festivals. His yukata too big, sleeves flapping as he won you a goldfish. Of the way he’d steal your taiyaki and kiss the red bean paste from your lips. Of the night he said I love you for the first time, voice cracking, hands shaking as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

You wake up with his name in your mouth like a prayer.

He starts leaving the door open.

You don’t run. Where would you go? The city is his now. The world is shrinking.

One night, you wander into the garden. Moonflowers bloom under cursed light. He’s there, kneeling in the dirt, hands black with soil. Planting something.

“What is it?” you ask.

“Lotus seeds,” he says. “They grow in mud.”

You sit beside him. Not close. Just near.

He doesn’t look at you. “Do you hate me?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Silence.

Then: “I killed your friend. The one with the glasses. Nanami, right?”

Your blood turns to ice.

“He begged,” Geto continues. “Said he had a kid on the way. I told him the world didn’t need more monkeys.”

You lunge. Nails rake his cheek. He lets you. Blood beads. You lick it off your fingers before you realize what you’re doing.

He watches. Eyes dark.

“You still taste like me,” he says.

You find the knife in the kitchen. Small. Meant for gutting fish. You hide it in your sleeve.

That night, he falls asleep beside you. Head in your lap. Hair spilling like ink. You raise the blade.

His hand catches your wrist. Eyes open, calm.

“Do it,” he says. “If it makes you feel better.”

You tremble. The blade hovers.

“I can’t,” you whisper.

He smiles. Sad. “I know.”

The sixth body is Gojo Satoru.

They find what’s left of him in a crater in Kyoto. Blindfold intact. One eye missing. The other staring at nothing.

The world ends.

Not with a bang. With silence.

Geto doesn’t come to you for three days.

When he does, he’s drunk on power. Eyes glowing. Curses writhing under his skin like parasites.

“I did it,” he says. “The strongest. Gone.”

You don’t speak.

He grabs your face. Forces you to look. “Say something.”

“You’re empty,” you tell him.

He laughs until he cries.

You stop fighting.

Not because you give up. Because you understand.

He’s not saving the world. He’s not even trying.

He’s chasing a ghost. The boy he used to be. The one who held your hand during thunderstorms and promised forever.

That boy is dead.

This is what’s left.

One night, the curses in the corners stop watching.

You walk out. No one stops you.

The temple is burning. His followers scream as flames lick their robes. You see him in the courtyard, arms raised, laughing as the sky bleeds.

You walk up to him. He doesn’t see you until you’re close enough to touch.

“Y/N,” he says, like a prayer.

You pull the blue ribbon from your pocket. The one you took from the shrine. Frayed. Stained.

“Tie it,” you say. “Around my wrist.”

His hands shake as he does. The knot is clumsy. Perfect.

When he’s done, you kiss him.

Not soft. Not sweet. You bite his lip until it bleeds. He groans into your mouth.

You pull back. “I hate you.”

“I know.”

You take his hand. Lead him into the fire.

They find two bodies in the ashes.

One with a ribbon around the wrist.

The other holding it.