velvetora

Hello, wanderers of the void

I’m velvetora, a goth writer who finds beauty in the darkness.

I write niche, deeply romantic one-shots (and the occasional raw drabble) featuring anime and video game characters that most people wouldn’t dare to love this intensely. My stories live in that hazy space between obsession and worship, where love is brutal, tender, and often a little dangerous.

I romanticize what others call macabre. I look for beauty in the melancholic, the monstrous, and the midnight-hearted. My writing is usually quite poetic and atmospheric, though I let it get messy and unfiltered when a short drabble calls for it.

I draw heavy inspiration from Ville Valo and HIM, the way they make love feel both sacred and doomed. I’m also deeply inspired by Peter Steele and Edgar Allan Poe: their raw emotion, gothic soul, and haunting way of describing love, pain, and beauty.

What you WON'T find in my writing:

Underage characters in smut

Somnophilia

Rape / non-con

killing

weird kinks

I don’t write on a schedule. I take my time structuring stories and only post when I feel the plot is right and I can do it justice. Updates come when the mood and inspiration align.

I do take requests, so if you have a dark, obsessive, or heartbreaking scenario you’d love to see with your favorite anime dash video game character, feel free to drop it in my asks.

If you’re craving romance that aches, that bruises the soul while kissing the wounds it left you might feel at home here.

Come sit in the dark with me. Let’s create something hauntingly beautiful. <3

—velvetora.

content: witchcraft, fluff, first-met, modern au, alt!choso, whimsigoth!reader.

alt!choso enters a witchcraft store without knowing that he would met the beautiful whimsical owner!

The rain was falling softly outside, turning the city streets into dark mirrors. Choso pushed open the door of the little occult shop and was instantly greeted by warmth and the rich smell of incense.

He looked like he belonged more to the night than to daylight — tall and quietly handsome, with long, messy black hair that fell past his shoulders, a bit damp from the rain. Purple eyeshadow was smudged around his eyes in that effortlessly cool way, silver piercings glinting along his ears and lower lip, and the dark tattoo across the bridge of his nose standing out against his pale skin. He wore simple but dark clothes: a loose black long-sleeve shirt and charcoal pants, making him look both mysterious and approachable at the same time.

The moment he stepped inside, his eyes found her.

And something inside him just… stopped.

She was moving behind the counter, bell sleeves in deep burgundy and teal flowing around her arms like they had a life of their own. Her long skirt, a mix of forest green and soft white lace, brushed the floor as she walked in comfortable boho slides. Delicate fly’s wings earrings swayed gently from her ears, catching the golden light every time she turned her head. Dragonfly pins shimmered in her hair. Her hands were covered in crystal rings that clicked softly with every movement.

But it was her face that hit him hardest.

Burgundy eyeshadow blended into something soft and smoky, plum lipstick making her lips look full and warm, and those long bottom lashes coated in dark mascara gave her eyes a wide, doll-like beauty that felt both innocent and strangely magnetic. She smelled like wilting lilacs after rain, soft violet, damp earth, and a deep, velvety warmth that made the whole shop feel intimate.

Choso felt his heart stutter. Hard.

He had never believed in love at first sight until this exact second.

She looked up and offered him a gentle smile. “Hey… come in. You can look around as long as your soul like.”

Her voice was soft, calm, and kind. Choso swallowed and walked closer, trying to act normal even though his pulse was racing.

He stopped in front of the candle section and picked up a tall, deep red candle with rose petals pressed into the wax.

“What’s this one for?” he asked, his voice low and a little rough.

You stepped closer, your fly’s wings earrings swaying. The warm scent of lilac, petrichor, violet, and oud drifted with you.

“That red candle is for love, passion, and desire,” you said, a small playful smile tugging at your plum lips. “It’s the kind people use when they want to spark something intense… or call someone closer.”

You tilted your head, eyes sparkling with light teasing.

“Planning a love ritual tonight?”

Choso’s cheeks flushed instantly — a visible pink spreading across his pale face and up to the tips of his ears. He looked down at the candle like it had personally betrayed him, long messy hair falling forward to partially hide his expression.

“I… uh, no,” he mumbled, clearly embarrassed. “I was just curious.”

He looked so genuinely flustered that it was unfairly cute. This tall, tattooed, alt guy with piercings and a nose tattoo, blushing like a teenager because of your teasing.

You laughed softly, not wanting to torture him too much. “I’m just messing with you. A lot of people grab the red one out of curiosity.”

Choso managed to look back up at you. His purple-shadowed eyes were softer now, almost shy, but still intense.

After a quiet moment, he spoke again, his voice lower and more serious.

“I’ve always felt this strange connection with blood and death,” he admitted carefully, watching your reaction. “Not in a creepy way… It’s just part of who I am. Like old bonds that don’t disappear, even after everything ends. Being in here, talking to you… it feels like maybe you wouldn’t think that’s weird.”

Your doll-like eyes softened, long lashes framing them beautifully.

“I don’t think it’s weird at all,” you said gently. “A lot of us carry pieces of shadow with us. It doesn’t make us dangerous… just deeper.”

The air between you felt thicker after that. The rain continued outside, but inside the shop everything seemed quieter, warmer, more intimate.

You reached under the counter and pulled out a nicely made beginner’s witchcraft book.

“If you have a lot of questions — and it seems like you do — this is a really good one,” you told him, sliding it over. “It explains candles, herbs, crystals, all the basics without making it complicated.”

Choso took the book carefully, his fingers brushing lightly against yours. The small touch sent a spark through both of you.

He ended up buying the red candle, a purple grounding candle, some black tourmaline, and the book.

As you packed everything into a paper bag, Choso stood there watching you with quiet admiration. When you handed him the bag, he spoke again, his tone gentle and sincere:

“Thank you… for explaining everything so patiently. And for not laughing at my questions.” He paused, then added softly, “I’d really like to come back. There are still a lot of things I want to ask you… if that’s okay.”

You smiled, your plum lips curving warmly.

“I’d like that too, Choso.”

He gave you one last long look — full of quiet wonder and something much deeper already forming — before stepping back out into the rainy evening, long black hair swaying behind him.

Even as the door closed, he could still smell your soft lilac and oud fragrance on the air.

And for the first time in his life, Choso felt like he had just found something — someone — worth coming back to, over and over again.

Nanami Kento x fem!reader

tw: age gap (eleven years) reader is an adult, fluff, slow burn(?, suggestive, light sexual content, fingering, caressing, light power-dynamic, Nanami is such a gentleman here.

wc: 6,480

The moving truck finally rumbled away on a sticky Tuesday afternoon, leaving the street quiet again. You were supposed to be watering your mother’s hydrangeas, but the hose hung forgotten in your hand the moment you saw him.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, blond hair still neatly combed despite the long day of moving. His white button-down had the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms as he carried the last boxes inside. Thin wire glasses sat on his face, and when his amber eyes briefly flicked toward your yard, your stomach did a small, unexpected flip.

Kento Nanami. You didn’t know his name yet, but he looked like a man who had already lived enough to know exactly what kind of quiet life he wanted. At twenty-eight, he moved with the calm confidence of someone who had chosen peace after too many exhausting years. You were seventeen, turning eighteen in just nineteen days, and suddenly very aware of how young and soft you still felt. Your sundress clung lightly to your waist in the humid air, and you knew you had that fresh, blooming kind of prettiness — glowing skin that flushed easily, bright eyes, and curves that had recently softened into lush, feminine fullness.

gojo satoru x renewed satoru jr. (female reader)

content: comedy, really funny (no), pure fluff, cringe lol, my husband is already exhausted by my existence vibe, what the fuck is wrong with my head lol

enjoy :3

listen. i know what you’re thinking.

“girl what the fuck is wrong with your head”

and honestly? valid. i’ve been asking myself the same thing since 2:47 a.m. when i decided that gluing my husband’s face to a mask was not only a good idea, but a romantic one.

so yeah. i did it.

step 1: ordered the saddest white wig known to mankind for exactly 1200 yen (plus shipping, because even chaos has delivery fees). step 2: emptied four cans of “snow queen white” spray in our bathroom until it looked like a cocaine snow globe exploded. step 3: printed satoru’s jujutsu tech id photo at the konbini (the one where he’s smirking like he pays no taxes and knows it). step 4: glued it to a cheap white mask with craft glue that smelled like broken dreams and elementary school art class.

the final result?

a walking, talking budget satoru gojo that looked like it crawled out of a 200 yen shop after a bad acid trip.

the wig was doing its best but mostly failing —one side spiked like it was trying to contact aliens, the other side had given up and flopped like a depressed jellyfish. the printed mask was slightly crooked so satoru jr. looked like he was side-eyeing my entire existence. i drowned the whole thing in satoru’s oversized black jacket (sleeves so long i looked like a gothic squid) and tied his blindfold around my forehead like a chaotic headband.

i stood in the living room, arms out, and whispered to myself:

“it just needed a dream and 1200 yen.”

and then the front door opened.

satoru walked in, took one single look at me, and immediately lost all structural integrity.

he dropped his keys, bent over at the waist, and started laughing so hard i thought he was going to cough up a curse. actual tears streaming down his face. shoulders shaking. the strongest sorcerer reduced to a wheezing puddle because his wife is a certified menace.

“babe—” he gasped, pointing at my face like it had murdered his family. “what the actual fuck— why is my face on your face?! i’m having a stroke. this is how i die.”

you struck your best gojo pose (which mostly looked like a raccoon having a seizure in a black trash bag). “yo~ your strongest wife has logged in. fear me, original flavor. i am you now. we can finally argue about who ate the last mochi… as the same person.”

satoru slid down the wall, still howling. “the eyes— the printed eyes are crooked! satoru jr. looks like he’s disappointed in both of us!”

“he is,” you said proudly, the mask peeling at the corner because the glue was cheap as hell. “he knows you lied about the mochi and he’s judging you. also he’s my emotional support husband now. his name is satoru jr. we’re in a throuple.”

he wheezed even harder, clutching his stomach. “emotional support— i can’t breathe. i fought special grades all day and came home to my wife cosplaying as me but make it dollar store. this is my villain origin story. i’m texting megumi for emotional support.”

you waddled closer, floppy sleeves swinging like sad tentacles. “awww, you’re already tired of me. after only twelve seconds. i can hear the divorce papers manifesting in your pretty head.”

“yes. immediate divorce,” he laughed, tears still falling. “grounds: wife became me but worse and now there are two of us and one is actively shedding.”

“rude!” you gasped, clutching the endless jacket to your chest. “after i sacrificed 1200 yen and the last functioning cells in my brain for you? it just needed a dream and 1200 yen, satoru. a dream!”

he finally crawled over, still giggling like an idiot, and pulled you down into his lap right there on the floor. the mask smooshed against his chest, leaving a sticky glue smear on his uniform. he didn’t even flinch.

“you’re actually insane,” he murmured, voice warm and fond even while he was still laughing. “what the hell is wrong with your head, baby? i married a chaotic craft-store goblin who weaponizes my own face against me.”

you snuggled closer, wig shedding white flakes like cheap dandruff. “love you too, even when you’re exhausted by my jokes after ten seconds.”

“twelve,” he corrected, pressing a kiss to the top of your tragic wig. “new personal record. i’m proud of you.”

right then the mask finally surrendered. it peeled off with a pathetic plop and landed face-up on the carpet, satoru jr. staring at the ceiling like he was questioning every decision that led him to this mortal plane.

satoru looked at the discarded printed face, then at your real (slightly glue-sticky) face, and started laughing all over again.

“even your evil twin abandoned ship,” he teased, gently brushing white spray off your cheek with his thumb. “smart guy.”

“good,” you grinned, finally free. “now you only have to deal with one disaster human.”

he hugged you tighter, forehead resting against yours, both of you sitting in a pile of black jacket, craft glue crimes, and wig hair.

“one disaster human is more than enough,” he whispered, still smiling like the lovesick idiot he is. “my favorite one. my strongest, most exhausting, most beautiful gremlin wife.”

you stayed there on the living room floor — two idiots laughing at nothing and everything — while satoru jr. judged you silently from the carpet and the wig continued its slow descent into oblivion.

best 1200 yen i’ve ever wasted.

what the hell is wrong with my head?

nothing.

i’m just in love.

bruh, I just came up with this idea, with. anyway, I hope you guys liked it. Likes and reblogs are welcome!

nanami x fem!reader

content: fluff, fluffy one shot, light flirting, first meeting, slow-burn tension, au

wc: ~1.2k

beautiful visual support (dividers) by @uzmacchiato :3

The rain was coming down steadily at 6:40 pm, the kind of gentle but persistent drizzle that made the whole city feel softer around the edges. Streetlights blurred into warm puddles on the sidewalks, and every passing car sent up little sprays of water that shimmered under the glow of shop windows.

Nanami Kento had just escaped his corporate office after another brutal day. His tan suit was a little wrinkled from sitting too long, his navy tie hanging loose around his neck, and the faint ache behind his eyes reminded him he’d skipped lunch again. All he wanted was somewhere dry and quiet to wait out the worst of the rain before facing his empty apartment.

The small candle shop on the corner looked like the perfect hiding spot. He pushed the door open, the little bell above it giving a soft, welcoming chime, and stepped inside.

Warm golden light wrapped around him immediately, along with the layered, slightly chaotic scent of dozens of candles. And then he saw you.

You were standing in the middle of the aisle, completely absorbed in the shelves, and honestly… you were beautiful. The rain had left a few sparkling droplets in your hair, and the flickering candlelight caught them like tiny stars. There was something so alive about the way you moved — tilting your head, smiling to yourself as you read labels, completely lost in your own little world. It made the tired lines of his day feel a little farther away.

You turned when you heard the door, catching him looking. Instead of looking away awkwardly, you offered a bright, easy smile that made your whole face light up.

“Escaping the rain too?” you asked, voice warm and friendly.

Nanami gave a small nod, his deep, smooth voice cutting through the quiet hum of the shop. “Something like that. After twelve hours of fluorescent lights and pointless meetings, this seemed like a much more tolerable way to spend the next few minutes.”

You blinked, quietly struck by how he spoke. His words were so careful and eloquent, delivered in that calm, low tone that made even ordinary sentences sound refined. Paired with how handsome he was — tall and broad-shouldered, with neatly parted blond hair, a sharp jawline, and those warm golden-brown eyes that seemed to hold a quiet kind of depth — it was a little unfair, really. He looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine, but carried himself like he had no idea.

You smiled wider, feeling an unexpected spark of interest. “Well, you came to the right place. I’m on the hunt for the perfect weird scent mixed with something ridiculously sweet tonight. Want to smell some candles with me? It’s way more fun with company.”

Nanami’s eyebrows lifted just slightly, a faint hint of amusement flickering across his face. “An unusual request,” he said, voice still perfectly measured, “but not an unwelcome one on a night like this.” He set his umbrella against the wall and loosened his tie a little more as he stepped closer. “Lead the way.”

The two of you started wandering slowly down the narrow aisles together, shoulders brushing now and then in the cozy space. Outside, the rain kept tapping against the windows like a gentle background song.

You picked up a deep gray jar first. “Okay, start with this one. It’s called ‘Rain on Hot Asphalt Mixed with Freshly Mowed Grass and a Touch of Gasoline.’ Super weird, but I love it.”

You unscrewed the lid and held it between you. Both of you leaned in at the same time, faces close enough that you caught the clean, woody scent of his cologne underneath the candle. Nanami inhaled slowly, then spoke in that same smooth, thoughtful way:

“It’s surprisingly evocative… the sharp mineral edge of wet pavement, the fresh green of cut grass, and just a hint of something chemical. It feels like stepping outside after a summer storm. Quite grounding, actually.”

You felt a little flutter in your chest. The way he described it — so precise and elegant — made the simple act of smelling wax feel almost poetic. You looked up at him again, noticing how the candlelight softened the tired lines around his eyes and highlighted the strong angle of his jaw.

“Your turn to balance it out,” you said, grinning as you reached for a bright pink jar. “This one’s pure diabetes in candle form. ‘Strawberry Shortcake Coma’ — strawberries, vanilla cake, whipped cream, the works.”

You held it out and leaned in together again. The sweetness hit hard, almost cloying, but in the best way.

You let out a happy little sigh. “God, it’s so bad for you and I’m obsessed.”

Nanami gave the tiniest grimace, but there was clear amusement in his golden eyes. “It is… aggressively saccharine. One might worry about developing cavities through scent alone.” He paused, then added more softly, “And yet, there’s something oddly comforting about it after a long day.”

You kept going like that, passing jars back and forth, leaning in close to smell them together. An old-bookshop scent with dusty paper and faint pipe smoke. A dangerously sweet caramel bomb that smelled like melted marshmallows and regret. Every time your shoulders touched or your hands brushed while handing over a jar, the air between you felt a little warmer.

At one point you held up two candles side by side — the gray asphalt one and the deep caramel one.

“Layering experiment?” you asked playfully. “Weird meets sweet. What do you think?”

Nanami leaned in right beside you, his tall frame making the space feel nicely intimate. After a moment he straightened, voice low and calm. “The sharpness of the rain cuts through the sweetness rather beautifully. It turns something cloying into something almost nostalgic… like dessert after a long walk in the rain.”

You looked at him then, really looked. He was so handsome it was distracting — those warm eyes, the quiet strength in his posture, and that eloquent way he spoke that made everything sound thoughtful and refined. The rain, the candlelight, the way he actually seemed to be enjoying this silly little activity… it all made your heart beat a little faster.

You glanced at the clock. It was getting close to 7:10, but you really didn’t want this to end yet.

Taking a small breath, you turned to him with a soft smile. “This has been surprisingly nice. Way better than heading home alone in the rain.” You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, feeling a little bold. “There’s a small café just two doors down that stays open late. They have good coffee and even better pastries. Would you like to grab some with me? We could keep talking about ridiculous candle scents… or whatever else comes up.”

Nanami met your eyes steadily, the corner of his mouth lifting into a small, genuine smile that made him look even more handsome in the warm light. His voice stayed smooth and articulate, but there was a new warmth underneath it.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” he said quietly. “Returning to an empty apartment after today sounds far less appealing than coffee in good company.” He gave a small nod, eyes lingering on your face with quiet appreciation. “I’d like that very much. Lead the way.”

As the two of you picked out a couple of candles to take home — the asphalt one for him, the strawberry shortcake one for you — the rain kept falling outside, soft and steady. What had started as a simple escape from the weather had turned into something warmer, sweeter, and far more interesting than either of you expected.

I was thinking about making some age gap story with Nanami, what do you guys think?

Likes and reblogs are welcome! :3

Gojo Satoru x fem!reader

TW: explicit sexual content, rough/painful sex, consensual but intense power dynamics, graphic depictions of emotional breakdown and heavy crying, mentions of trauma and vulnerability, unhealthy relationship dynamics, vicious cycle of a toxic/passionate romance, strong language, detailed descriptions of physical pain mixed with pleasure, heavy, heavy angst with heavy hurt/comfort, a little of fluff, reader is described as skinny, poetical writing

Proceed with caution! this piece is very raw, emotional, and sexually explicit.

wc: 2,847 or so lol

enjoy!

You and Satoru have been seeing each other for months now: dates, kisses, embraces, sex, broken promises. It is a vicious cycle you could escape, but don’t want to.

Your hands caress each other, consumed by desperate passion; kisses that lead to satisfying consummation. Your bodies become instruments of desire, playing a symphony only the two of you understand. Each kiss lingers like a promise; the caresses that intensify the fire, and every movement blurs the line between control and surrendering to that delicious defeat.

gojo satoru x photographer!fem!reader

CONTENT: fluff, met-cute, light flirting, reader is described as very attractive in an unconventional way

this is a self-indulgent one-shot for anyone who loves Gojo’s unique beauty and the “artist x muse” trope. Reader loves everything outstanding and different — just like Gojo himself.

cw: 1,278

enjoy!:3

The city had a way of blurring into the same tired, boring palette every day.

Gray sidewalks. Gray buildings. Gray people rushing past with their gray expectations of beauty. Most days you didn’t mind it.

You simply walked with your camera hanging against your chest like a second heartbeat, searching for the cracks in the ordinary.

You had always been like this — mesmerized by the meaning of “unique” in everything you could possibly see.

While other girls your age chased symmetrical faces and flawless skin — the most conventional features — you always looked for what didn’t fully blend in. You hunted for the glitches, the things that didn’t belong. A crooked nose that told a better story than “perfect” ever could. Eyes in impossible shades — not just brown or blue, but something like burnt emerald with gold flecks, true crimson red, or soft lavender-violet irises. Coffee that tasted like butterfly pea flower and white pepper. The uneven crack in an old statue or grave that made it feel more alive than any polished marble.

You liked things that were outstanding. Rare. Unapologetically different.

And ironically, people often said the same about you.

With your sharp, expressive features, full lips that curved into knowing smiles, and eyes that seemed to catch light in unusual ways, you turned heads wherever you went. You weren’t “conventionally cute” in the boring sense — you were strikingly attractive in that same unconventional way you adored in everything else. The kind of beauty that made strangers look twice, wondering exactly what made you so magnetic. You wore it effortlessly, like your favorite oversized leather jacket and the camera strap that never left your shoulder.

So when a flash of pure white cut through the dull afternoon crowd, your steps faltered.

There, leaning lazily against the brick wall of a quiet café, was something that refused to blend in.

Snowy-white hair, bright even under the overcast sky. Skin so pale it looked almost translucent against the deep black of his oversized sweater and loose black sweats. And the height… He towered over the stream of pedestrians like a misplaced monument, broad shoulders and long limbs creating a sharp, striking silhouette. Everything about him screamed contrast — white against black, pale against dark fabric, impossibly tall in a city built for average.

Your fingers itched on the camera strap.

Before you could think twice, you were already crossing the street, heart beating with that familiar excited nervousness you always got when you found something — or someone — truly rare and otherworldly.

“Excuse me,” you called out, stopping at a respectful distance. Your voice carried that confident, warm tone people often noticed about you.

The beautiful stranger looked up from his phone to meet your gaze. Rectangular black sunglasses hid his eyes, but even without seeing them, the whole picture was mesmerizing.

“I know this comes out of nowhere and it might sound weird or creepy, but…” you continued, offering a small, disarming smile, “can I take your picture?”

He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth tugging into a lazy, amused smirk. “Bold move. Most people at least pretend they’re not staring.”

You let out a shaky exhale that sounded more like a little laugh. Honest as always, you said,

“I’m not staring because you’re conventionally hot or anything. I mean — okay, maybe you are, but that’s not why.” You gestured vaguely at him, eyes tracing his frame with open appreciation. “It’s your features. The white hair, the pale skin, the way your height makes you look like you stepped out of a different world. You’re… unique. In the best way possible. I photograph things that break the pattern. Things that feel rare. And right now, you’re the most outstanding thing I’ve seen all week.”

You paused, then added with genuine warmth, almost to yourself, “I like things that don’t fit the mold. Crooked smiles. Weird coffee flavors. Eye colors no one else has. Noses with character. And you’ve got all of that.”

For a long minute he just stared at you, sunglasses still on — clearly intrigued by you and what you were saying. Like you actually saw him, not just another set of pretty features in the crowd.

Then, slowly, two long fingers slid the rectangular sunglasses down the bridge of his nose.

The world narrowed.

The stranger’s face had androgynous features sculpted in the most captivating way — delicate high cheekbones, a jaw so sharp it could cut, yet still unmistakably masculine. Features that felt almost too elegant for someone with a build like his. He looked as if he had stepped out of a classical painting, and yet he carried an undeniable masculine edge: the strong line of his broad shoulders, the confident set of his posture, the subtle sharpness in his expression that screamed power and self-assurance.

And then came the eyes — oh, lord. The eyes.

Piercing, icy blue — so bright and clear they looked like shards of frozen sky, glowing with an intensity that made your pulse stutter. Framed by extremely long, snow-white lashes that curled delicately, catching the light like tiny crystals of frost frozen in place. The contrast against his pale skin and white hair was almost unreal. Beautiful in a way that felt dangerous. Like staring directly at something not meant for human sight.

You were breathless for a long minute. Then you finally spoke.

“Your eyes look like they were cut from ancient glacier ice…” you said, incapable of looking away. “It’s like the sky used your irises as a canvas. Absolutely stunning.” You continued softly, “I’ve never seen that exact shade before… amazing.”

The last sentence slipped out more to yourself than to him, but he heard every word.

“‘Amazing’, huh?” His voice was smooth, teasing, with an undercurrent of genuine intrigue. Those piercing blue eyes sparkled with mischief as they roamed over your face — clearly appreciating how attractive you were in return.

“That’s a new one. Usually it’s ‘stupidly tall’ or ‘hot guy with weird eyes.’ But you… you’re looking at me like I’m some kind of living sculpture. And coming from someone as striking as you, that actually means something.”

You felt heat rush to your cheeks.

He straightened to his full height — around 190 cm — towering over you even more noticeably now. His lean, muscular frame filled out the casual black sweater, making the delicate androgynous beauty of his face stand out even more by contrast. The monochrome palette of his clothes only heightened the striking effect against his snowy-white hair and pale skin.

“Alright, bold photographer,” he grinned, his usual cocky confidence radiating off him. “You’ve got my attention. But only if you tell me your name… and what exactly you plan to do with these pictures of my ‘outstanding’ face and frosty lashes.”

You smiled, feeling a spark of excitement you hadn’t felt in weeks. “I’m [Y/N]. And I plan to capture every unique detail — if you’ll let me. Starting with those eyes that look like they could freeze the whole city… and those lashes that look like ice crystals.”

Gojo’s grin widened, playful and intrigued. He leaned down slightly so his face was closer to yours, those long white lashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks.

“Cute. And bold.” He tilted his head, white hair falling softly. “Tell you what — I’ll let you take as many pictures as you want… but only if you let me buy you one of those weird coffee flavors you mentioned earlier. Deal?”

You raised your camera, already framing the shot as the golden afternoon light hit his pale skin and icy eyes perfectly.

“Deal.”

As the shutter clicked, you realized this wasn’t just another outstanding subject.

This was the start of something even rarer.

underground pro fighter!sukuna x fem!reader, modern AU, fluffy comedy, established relationship, sukuna is lowkey a softie

English is not my first language, so if you see any spelling or grammar mistakes, lmk!

enjoy! :3

the underground fight scene worshipped and feared Ryomen Sukuna in equal measure. undefeated in the hidden warehouse cages, pink hair, face tattoos, and a body built like a weapon. People paid a fat amount of money just to watch him destroy opponents in under two rounds. no mercy, no rules, no second chances.

But here, in the dim lights of the cage gym that was basically his—after-hours, the king was dealing with something more dangerous than an opponent: his girlfriend 

You stood across from him on the worn black mats wearing a tight black sports bra and loose gray sweats that hung low on your hips. Hair tied back, sneakers squeaking softly as you bounced on your toes with way too much eager.

Sukuna—shirtless in black shorts, with his big arms crossed over his broad tattoed chest, glared down at you like you personally offended him.

“This is lame. I am not sparing with you” He grunted.

You pouted, stepping closer. “Come on, ‘kuna. You have been promising you’ll teach me real moves for weeks. A little. Go suuuper light. I am even wearing sweats and everything— you have to see my footwork, right?”

He clicked his tongue, jaw tight, and then, he exhaled — clearly regretted every choice that led to dating you, he finally dropped his arms.

“Fine. Light. You move wrong, we stop. No whining.” You grinned.

He started slow. Holding his palms up like focus mitts, he walked you through jab-cross combinations, correcting your stance with rough but careful hands on your elbows and waist. His voice stayed low and mocking, but he never let you throw anything sloppy.

You were actually getting better, sweat starting to dampen your sports bra as your sweats swished with each step. Sukuna watched every movement with sharp eyes, occasionally grunting something that implied approval when you got a movement correct.

After a while you got bold.

“Okay, now let’s actually spar. Just pretend fighting. You can go feather-light, I swear.”

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, clearly disapproving. “No.” 

“Please, ‘kuna. I trust you. Just for fun.” You looked at sukuna, batting your lashes. “Please?”

He stared at you for a long beat. Then, with a heavy sigh that sounded like it came from the depths of hell and defeat, he raised his hands.

“Move when I move. Nothing real. If I think it’s too much, it ends.” HE scolded. “Am I making myself clear?”

The drill was simple: slow, controlled strikes in the air near you while you practiced slipping and blocking. He kept everything telegraphed and gentle, treating you like you might broke if he hit the wrong place. Your gray sweats brushed against your legs as you dodged his lazy hooks.

Everything was fine until you got too eager.

You stepped in aggressively as Sukuna was pulling back from a slow palm strike meant to stop near of your shoulder. His hand clipped the side of your left boob — a solid but unintentional smack from his calloused palm against the thin fabric of your sports bra. Not hard— Not even close to his real power. But it made a sharp thwack sound and sent a quick stinging jolt through your chest.

You yelped, immediately clutching the spot with both hands and bending forward a little.

Sukuna froze completely.

His crimson eyes blew wide, the usual cocky smirk wiped clean off his face. 

For a split second the underground champion looked genuinely scared— hand still hovering in the air, body rigid like he’d been electrocuted.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath, forward instantly. His big hands reached out but stopped just near of touching you, hovering with worry. His jaw clenched tight, breathing a little faster than normal. He scanned your face and the way you were holding your chest, clearly fighting the urge to pull you against him right there.

You played it up dramatically, wincing and whining in your sweats.

“Ow… ‘kuna, that actually stung. I think you knocked it crooked or something. My poor boob might be done for…”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t snap back with his usual cockiness. Instead he stayed dead silent for another moment, eyes dark with rare, visible concern. One large hand finally moved carefully toward you, gently prying one of your hands away so he could see the spot, his touch feather-light despite the calluses.

You couldn’t hold the act anymore.

Your shoulders started shaking, then you exploded in laugher — loud, wheezing giggles that made you double over, tears forming at the corners of your eyes while still clutching your sports bra.

Sukuna blinked.

“You little shit,” he growled, but relief flooded his expression so obviously his shoulders relaxed. A deep, reluctant rumble of laughter started rolling out of his chest as he rubbed a hand down his face, trying and failing to look annoyed. 

“You were fucking with me the whole time? I thought I actually hit you too hard, you dramatic brat.”

You straightened up, still laughing out of breath, cheeks flushed. “Your face! The big bad underground fighter looking all worried over one little tap. Priceless.”

He huffed, but there was no real heat in it. Without another word he closed the distance and wrapped his big arms around you, pulling you flush against his sweaty, tattooed chest. One big hand came up to rub slow, careful circles right over the spot he’d accidentally hit, his palm warm and soothing through your sports bra. 

He held you there tighter than necessary, chin resting on top of your head, quietly making sure you were actually okay without ever saying it.

“Shut up,” he muttered into your hair, voice low and gruff, but his hand kept gently massaging the area like he was afraid it might still hurt. “You’re banned from the gym. Next time you pull this shit I’m pinning you down and we’re doing things my way.”

You nuzzled into him, still giggling softly, your gray sweats tangled with his legs on the gym floor.

“Promise?”

He only grunted, arms tightening around you as another quiet laugh escaped him.

Yeah. best training session you’d ever had.

I was laughing sooo hard while imagining this and when I was writing it. Hope you guys, liked it.

Likes and reblogs are welcome!

I Love My Boyfriend

Megumi Fushiguro x fem!reader

cw: 2,557

CONTENT: fem!reader is in a stable relationship, has a secret crush on megumi, slight angst, emotional infidelity, cheating thoughts, love triangle, sexual content (smut), masturbation, sexual fantasies, fingering, fem!reader is a yearner, aged up!megumi

based in the song "I Love my boyfriend" by Princess Chelsea

The rooftop of the main building is one of the few places where I actually feel in peace after training. The wind has the faint scent of pines from the surrounding mountains and the smell of wet earth. And the city sprawls far below like a distant dream. The night is cold. A thin, cold breeze slips under my clothes like nervous fingers. 

My boyfriend is sitting beside me, his eyes admiring the scenery, sharing a cold drink from the venting machine. My head is resting on his shoulder, watching the clouds drift.

It’s simple, comfortable.

I love my boyfriend.

He’s good to me like this — simple, undemanding, caring. The good that makes you wonder if evilness exists when you are around him. He is all I could ask for.

We stay like that for a while, until the can is empty and I feel him shift in his place. I take the hint and move my head off his shoulder. 

“I am sleepy, darling. I’ll go to sleep to my room.” He says and I nod, looking at him. “That’s okay” he takes the can and put it on his lap to and then his calloused thumb found my cheekbone — slow, deliberate, like a man trying to memorize silk with hands made for stone. Then his mouth was on mine. His lips were dry against mine. When we ran out of breath, he looked at me.

“Goodnight. I love you” His thumb left my cheek and stand up. He didn’t give me time to answer and he walked away.

I stayed there, watching the vast sky canvas. A labyrinth of distant, shiny body starts I always loved the color of the sky at this time of the day. The darkest and with most depth shade of blue — not the pale wash of twilight, but a profound, velvety indigo that feels like the final breath before true black. It's the color of forgotten ocean trenches at midnight. And it’s also the color of somebody’s eyes. That same deep, grieving indigo, so dark it felt like mourning cloth draped over the stars.

That’s when I heard him: the soft creak of the roof tiles behind you. It's subtle, almost swallowed by the wind, footsteps follow: measured, unhurried, the familiar quiet cadence of someone who never wastes movement. When you look over your shoulder, you see him.

Megumi Fushiguro. 

Megumi emerges onto the roof, with his hands in his pockets, surely looking for the same solitude after summoning shikigamis for a while. Oh, Megumi Fushiguro.

He stops short when he sees me. His gaze sweep the place, then it places on me. Then I look at him back.

His unmistakeable gaze. The darkest shade of indigo, framed by those ridiculously long and dark lashes, framing his majestic, beautiful face — all sharp, clean lines and quiet allure. The breeze tugs at his jet black hair and for a second the moonlight light catches his features just right, making him look almost ethereal, otherworldly — like an angel sent from a god that heard my prayers —or a fairytale dark knight coming for my rescue.

He notices me noticing. He also notices how attractive I look with the cold breeze playing with my hair, the soft flush on my skin. His calm, stoic expression doesn’t change but he holds the eye contact more than usual. That’s when he finally spoke.

“I thought no one was here” He said, lifting his gaze to the beautiful dark sky.

The rooftop feels suddenly smaller with him standing there, the wind carrying the faint pine scent between us like a secret it can’t quite keep.

“I thought no one was here” He repeats again, quieter this time as if the words are more for himself than for me. He doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t leave either. His hands stay buried in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold— just  how I had imagined they would. Like when he’s thinking too loud.

I swallow. The aftermath of my boyfriend’s kiss is still on my lips—cool, polite, familiar—but now it feels like it’s dissolving under the weight of Megumi’s gaze. My thighs press together instinctively. Heat blooms low in my belly, sudden and humiliating, because I have touched my needy cunt, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my shorts while I pictured him—Megumi’s mouth on my throat, his calloused hands pinning my wrists above my head, that low, steady voice murmuring my name like it was a command instead of a question. I came so hard I had to bite my own arm to keep quiet.

And now he’s here.

I can feel my face burning and the dampness between my legs. I tug my jacket tighter around myself like it could hide the way my body and common sense is betraying me right in front of him.

“I was…” my words clumsy — how they would not? He is standing right behind me. “…just staying a little longer” I manage to finish the sentence. My voice sounds thin and unsteady.

He nods— once, economical. And his eyes flick to the empty  space beside me — where my boyfriend was sitting not too long ago.

His head tilts maybe a centimeter—acknowledgment, nothing more. His gaze slides sideways, catches mine for a beat longer than necessary. Electric. A pulse jumps in my throat, between my legs, everywhere at once. I’m so wet it’s starting to feel obscene, like if I stood up there’d be a dark spot on the tiles. My nipples are tight under my shirt from the cold and from him and I cross my arms tighter to hide it. 

He looks away first. Back to the city. And there I am, looking at him like he is a piece of art, and probably he is. At least for me.

“You should head down,” he says, quiet. “It’s cold”

Translation: I know you are not alone. I know you are taken. I won’t be the reason if anything breaks.

That’s what he actually meant, but he would never admit it out loud. He doesn’t do that. But in the careful space between us, there is something buried, hidden.

“Yeah. I guess I should go.” I say while I stand up. I notice Megumi follows me with that pretty pair of eyes he has. I feel so seen right now.

Then it happens.

A sound escapes him—barely there, a low, rough exhale that catches in his throat and turns into the softest, most involuntary moan I’ve ever heard from him. Like the weight of looking at me is too much even for him. Like he’s fighting something and losing, just for that split second.

What the hell.

My whole body is tense right now. Heat floods me so fast that my vision blurs. A fresh rush of wetness soaks my underwear. A tiny, helpless whimper slips out of me before I can stop it.

I am gone.

I scramble to my feet so fast I almost slip on the tiles. “I—I have to go,” I stammer, voice cracking, not even looking at him. My face is red, my pulse is everywhere. I can’t breathe with him watching me like that, can’t stand there knowing he just made that sound because of me.

…

I’m in my room, door locked, back pressed to the wood like it can hold back whatever just cracked open inside me.

Then the fantasies crash in, relentless, filthy, unstoppable.

I throw my head back, resting it against the cold wood of my door. My knees buckle outward, losing strength. The knot in my belly tightens—lust-filled spasms, a reminder of my unfaithful soul. But it hurts so exquisitely that when I close my eyelids and my eyes, now my eyes lie captive behind trembling prison bars of lash and lid, every bar drenched in the slow, shining liquor of arousal, the only thing I can see isn't my boyfriend—it's those precious eyes, the color of a stormy ocean, the deepest shade of sapphire, which instead of reflecting the light, only traps it—framed by silken fringes that veil starlit eyes.

I slide down the door until my ass hits the floor, knees drawn up, forehead pressed to them like I can fold myself small enough to disappear. The wood is cool against my back, but nothing cools the fire crawling under my skin.

set in a face so sharp it could cut. I see him again: the way the moonlight carved his features ethereal, the low rough sound he made when he looked at me — not planned, not controlled, just raw and involuntary. Like even stoic Megumi Fushiguro has a breaking point, and I was it.

My hand moves before I can stop it. Slips under the waistband again, fingers finding the slick mess I already made earlier tonight. I'm so swollen, so sensitive, that the first touch makes me gasp — sharp, needy. I bite my lip so hard that I could taste copper.

But I love my boyfriend.

He's good to me. He's a good man.

He takes care of me when I need it.

He's the one I want…

The words repeat like a broken record, the correct thing to say. But they sound thinner now, drowned under the wet slide of my fingers circling, pressing, chasing the memory of that sound he made. A moan. 

Still, every time I look into his pretty eyes

I think of all the things we haven't even tried.

I imagine it— his calloused hand instead of mine, while the other keeps me steady by the hip, grip so hard it’ll bruise. His mouth on my throat, not dry and simple like the kiss I received earlier, but hungry, but slowly—the way Megumi would kiss me. The raspy sound of his voice, calling my name, softly, like a secret. 

I keep replaying how those pretty, soft lips of his would swell under my greedy mouth,

how they would turn glossy and helplessly plump from the way I devour them,

and every time I think of it my fingers circle faster —

because even memory can bruise lips beautifully.

I imagine biting down just enough to make him hiss,

to force that low, involuntary moan out of his throat again — proof I’ve cracked the cold shell.

Then he turns it.

One large hand snaps around my wrist, pins it high above my head with bruising force. The other fists my hair at the nape, yanks my head back to expose my throat. Those sapphire eyes lock on mine—calm, dark, utterly in control—while his body slams mine against the wall, hips grinding slow and deliberate so I feel every thick inch of him pressing against my soaked cunt through our clothes. He doesn’t speak at first. Just lets me feel how hard I’ve made him, how little effort it takes for him to hold me still while I am a mess of squirm and whimper.

My legs are buckling, it's just too much. His grip on my wrists loosens — not mercy, but promise —

and his freed hand begins its slow descent:

calloused palm gliding over the fragile cage of my ribs, feeling the contour of my ribs—feeling them rise and fall in frantic rhythm beneath his touch. His eyes always following.

His hand travels flat lower to my stomach, then lower until he finally cups my cunt — damp, needy for him and his touch. I can see how his pupils are now blown from arousal. His dark blue eyes now black.

His long fingers tease the slick entrance of me, parting my pussylips just enough to make me gasp.

I love my boyfriend.

The thought caresses me like a gust of wind, chills my skin, but its effect is fleeting. I feel guilty, truly. — even more so when two of Megumi's long fingers slide into my wet cunt with embarrassing ease. Lord, I am so wet for him. 

A startled hymn broke from my lips —

brief, bright, like a bird startled into song

by the sudden warmth of dawn inside its throat. 

I imagine how he stretches my velvety walls, making me clench around his digits. His indigo orbs stays fixed on my face, frowned in arousal. He curls them while his thumb settles over my clit and begins circling it. It aches so deliciously.

I love my boyfriend.

He’s good to me.

He’s kind.

He would never—

The sentence fractures, drowned by the wet, obscene sound of his fingers pumping in and out of my cunt, making my eyes roll back in pure lust. He starts slow, calculated—then faster, deeper, the heel of his hand hitting my entrance with each thrust. My thighs shake and my hand is now in Megumi’s shoulder for support. I try to close my legs instinctively to hide how shamelessly I’m leaking for him, but his free hand grips my inner thigh and forces it wider.

“None of that,” he murmurs, voice low and rough against my ear, lips brushing the lobe. “You wanted this. Let me see how much.”

Guilt surges — hot, bitter, twisting like a knife — because he’s right. I did want this. I’ve wanted this for months while the good man who loves me slept beside me untouched, waiting. The shame only makes it worse, makes my cunt clench harder around his fingers, making my hips roll into his hand.

I love my boyfriend.

He takes care of me.

He’s the one I should—

But the overthinking dissolves into a broken whimper as Megumi adds a third finger, stretching me wider, the burn so exquisite my back arches off the wall. 

His thumb flicks faster over my clit, tight, precise circles that make my vision spot — while his curled fingers keep stroking that spot inside, over and over, building the pressure until it feels like I’m going to shatter.

“You’re clenching so hard,” he says quietly, almost whispering.“Like you’re scared I’ll stop.”

His swollen lips — still glossy and puffy from the way I attacked them earlier — brush my jaw. “I won’t. Not until you come all over my hand… and admit who you’re really thinking about.”

The guilt spikes again — vicious, electric — and it’s the final push.

I cum with a choked sob, my walls spasming violently around his fingers. My fluids floods his palm and my thighs tremble so badly he has to pin me harder against the wall to keep me upright. My nails dig into his shoulders as wave after wave crashes through me, his name tearing silently from my throat while tears slide hot down my cheeks.

When he finally pulls off, his hand is glistening, coated in my juices.

He brings it to my lips — not forcing, just offering — and I taste myself on his skin, salt and shame and him.

I slump against the door in reality, fingers still buried inside myself, mimicking the rhythm he set in my head. My chest heaves. My face is wet from sweating.

I love my boyfriend, I whisper again — cracked, barely audible.

But the echo in my body answers something else entirely:

Next time…

I won’t need to imagine his fingers.

I’ll beg for them.

And the guilt will only make it sweeter.

Megumi x harpist!fem!reader

English is not my first language so lmk if you see any spelling or grammar mistakes. thank you!

cw: 720

Megumi listens you play the harp for the first time!

You and Megumi had been together for a couple of months now, of course you have talked about your interest, all of them. But you haven’t told him about your passion for the harp. Not because there was something wrong with it, it's just that it was a quite personal and quite close to your heart for just anyone to know about it.

The afternoon sun slants through the half open curtains of your apartment’s living room, painting your skin like a canvas, giving the golden glow of the sunset to your face. Dust motes drift lazily in the golden light, catching on the polished wood and the taut strings of the harp like tiny, suspended secrets. You were sitting on the low stool— barefoot; your hands already curved and resting on the strings of your one meter and sixty harp. 

You were playing a new piece you have been working on lately: Vogel im Käfig: Quiet challenging, but it was worth the sleepless nights and calloused fingers. You’ve been perfecting it the last couple of days, so now you were getting better. You hesitate one last breath—then your fingers find the familiar opening: the soft, shimmering glissando that begins Vogel im Käfig. The piece you’ve only ever played in secret, the one that starts like a fragile dream of freedom and ends in aching resignation. The very first notes spill out—delicate, almost hesitant, like light filtering through colored glass. 

Your posture shifts unconsciously: your tense shoulder now are relaxing, your back gently arched, like if you were hugging the harp. Your graceful hands are moving with liquid precision, your eyes are now closed, now fully emerged with the melody, seeing stars behind your lids with every pluck you make, all of them perfectly tuned and melodic. The world narrows to the vibration under your fingertips, the subtle give of each wire, the way the soundboard breathes back at you. Your breathing syncs with the phrasing: shallow and even in the tender opening section, deeper and more controlled as the harmony darkens, the chords thickening into something heavier, more desperate.

You were so focused on the piece you were playing that you didn’t hear the door slide open and the paused, precise footsteps of your boyfriend.

Megumi stands in the door frame. He’s still in his uniform jacket, the top button undone like always lately when it’s just the two of you. One hand stays in his pocket; the other hovers uncertainly on the doorframe like he’s debating whether he’s allowed to interrupt, so he just stays there, watching you and your graceful hands.

Your focus is absolute—no glance his way, no self-consciousness. Just you and the piece, pouring every quiet longing you’ve ever buried into the strings. The hopeful lilt of the first half gives way to the storm: your fingers accelerate, still graceful, still controlled, but now carrying weight—plucking with fierce clarity, letting the dissonant builds ring out raw. Yet even in the intensity, your movements remain poised, almost serene, a quiet strength that makes the contrast.

When the final, fading lament drifts into silence. You let your palms flat against the strings and finally, you tuck a proud smirk tom yourself: you nailed it. You exhale slowly, like surfacing from underwater.

You now open your eyes, and the first thing you see is Megumi’s relaxed features and his beautiful dark blue eyes seeing through your soul and you look away. You freeze for half a second and then your lips curve into a forced, casual smile, without really meeting his gaze. 

“Megumi—”

He now pushes off the wall, steps forward slowly, stepfoots  soft on the tatami.

“Didn’t mean to sneak up,” he murmurs, voice rough from disuse or exhaustion. “You were… gone.”

You feel heat rise in your cheeks. Exposed again, but different this time—not just the music, but the fact that he saw you so completely unguarded, wrapped up in something you’ve always kept private.

“I didn’t hear you come back.” Your voice is quieter than you intend. “How long—?”

“Long enough.” He stops a meter away, close enough that you can see the small cut above his eyebrow, the way his jacket smells faintly of smoke and outdoors. His eyes flick to the harp, then back to your face. “The whole thing. It was… beautiful.”

Hello, this is my very first time writing here in Tumblr. I hope you guys liked it! please help me liking if you liked this.