Ciela Cruz

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[cielacruzvt]

Hello there <3

Hihi!! The name's Ciela Cruz, Cece for short.

It's a pleasure to meet you all!👻✨

(I don't post here on Tumblr, I'm here for the fanart and fanfics👀)

[beaniesayshi]

the lamb: chapter 2

Sukuna is reincarnated into the modern world, only to realize that being a villain is actually kind of a bore. Now a teacher at Jujutsu High by pure technicality, he’s decided being a “good guy” is way more entertaining, mostly because it still lets him do whatever he wants while everyone thanks him for it. Unfortunately for you, that also means you get assigned to him as a specialist, since your technique is one of the very few things that can smooth out the jagged, overwhelming nature of his cursed energy after he uses it. The problem is… you’re absolutely terrified of him. Every second in the same room feels like your body is trying to shut down, and the idea of having to touch him to do your job makes it even worse. Sukuna, on the other hand, finds that fear hilarious and treats you like the funniest toy he’s ever been gifted.

pairing: sorcerer sukuna x sorcerer f!reader

wc: 10k

content: mdni, slow burn, kinda enemies to lovers, objectification, toxic dynamics, power imbalance, manipulation, coercion, possessive sukuna, violence, murder, blood, gore, dubious consent vibes, true form sukuna, yuji's not his vessel, sukuna likes to hurt yuji (...and probably smut at some point)

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The morning light over the Tokyo Jujutsu High campus is far too bright after the night you had. You didn’t sleep so much as exist, suspended in time, in your new quarters. Most of your belongings arrived late the previous evening, carried in by staff who worked quickly and kept conversation to a minimum, leaving you alone with the quiet and the steady task of putting your life back together.

You spent hours unpacking boxes, and it had nothing to do with needing your books or your favorite ceramic mug right away. It was only about repetitive motions, like folding shirts or lining everything up on shelves, to keep the visceral memory of that meeting room from swallowing you whole. 

When you finally tried to go to bed, sleep came in restless fragments, broken by the phantom pressure of ancient cursed energy that still seemed to linger on your skin no matter how many times you scrubbed it away.

In the morning, you find yourself standing in the small kitchenette with a cup of tea cooling between your fingers that refuse to stay still. You tell yourself it’s just exhaustion, the strain of relocation, or simply the adjustment to a new environment. It doesn’t matter which one it is. You just hope that if you repeat it often enough, the words will start to feel convincing, even if your body doesn’t quite agree.

The campus outside the window looks deceptively peaceful in the early light, the traditional roofs of the smaller buildings catching the sun. It should be reassuring. Instead, it only reminds you how far from home you truly are, how completely and ruthlessly the Higher-Ups have rearranged your life without asking. You set the tea down untouched, smooth your uniform one last time, and step into the corridor.

The walk toward the main building is your first real chance to see the campus in daylight without rushing. It’s undeniably beautiful—a sprawling, quiet sanctuary tucked away in the forested mountains. The air is crisp and smells of pine, and there’s no sign that something like him exists here beyond the horrifying glimpse you experienced yesterday. For a moment, you can almost convince yourself that this is exactly what it looks like: a traditional school, and your body responds to that without hesitation, your shoulders loosening by a fraction.

But it can’t be too perfect, because you quickly notice there are way more cracks around you than you saw when you first arrived. The stone walkway you’re walking on right now is laced with gold-dust resin to repair deep fissures, and one of the tori gates looks like it’s holding on by a thread and is one small earthquake from crumbling completely. This place is beautiful, but it’s also broken.

"New face! And such a stressed one, too. You’ll fit right in."

The voice is jarringly cheerful, pulling you out of your head instantly. You stop so abruptly that your boots scuff against the stone with a sharp sound. Your heart gives a violent, panicky leap, thudding against your ribs with a rhythm that makes your vision pulse for a split second. Instinctually, your muscles tense, ready to bolt.

Looking to the side, you recognize the man immediately. Tall, absurdly so, with white hair, dressed in a high-collared black uniform, and a blindfold covering his eyes. Lucky you, seeing him twice already.

Now that he actually stands in front of you, and you’re not overwhelmed by the crushing weight of Sukuna’s power, Satoru’s cursed energy feels completely different, like an infinite, cold vacuum—a staggering absence of anything you can parse, a presence that is there and not-there all at once.

"Gojo Satoru," he says, shrugging his hands deeper into his pockets, his head tilting in what you presume is a curious gesture. “But you probably knew that.”

You can’t help but snort quietly at his casual arrogance before nodding curtly and managing to give him your own name, too.

"I hear the Higher-Ups finally found someone brave enough—or unlucky enough—to take the office at the end of the hall. I assume that’s you?

"I... yes. I was reassigned yesterday," you say, your voice sounding small and reedy even to your own ears, a stark contrast to his booming cheer.

"Reassigned. Such a polite word for being thrown into the shark tank," Gojo chirps, taking a single step that stops him right in front of you, not respecting your personal space at all. You have to tilt your head sharply up to look at him. "I wondered when you'd show up. Usually, the specialists they send have a lot more gray hair and a lot less... well, terror in their eyes. You look like you're waiting for the floor to open up and swallow you."

"I'm just... adjusting to the campus," you lie, pushing the words out with a forced breath, trying to regulate your breathing and sound convincingly bored, instead of terrified.

"Don't look so miserable about that. You’re the newest addition to the faculty! It’s a prestigious gig—well, provided you don't mind the neighbor." He tilts his head toward the administrative building. "He hasn't tried to eat you yet, has he? He’s in a remarkably foul mood after his last mission."

A tight, cold knot forms in your stomach at the words, but before you can respond, the sound of loudly arguing voices drifts from around the corner of the path ahead.

"I'm telling you, it was a total waste of time! We could finish that in twenty minutes if you hadn't insisted on observing the technique!"

"It’s called tactical patience, Nobara. You should try it sometime."

Three students round the corner moments later, their bickering halting immediately when they see Gojo. One is a girl with short, ginger-brown hair; beside her is a boy with dark, spiky hair and an expression of deep boredom, and on her other side is a boy with pink hair and a bright, open face that makes your heart skip a beat for an entirely different reason.

"Oh! Gojo-sensei! Is this her?” the pink-haired boy asks, his eyes widening with curiosity and kindness as he approaches.

"Indeed it is, Yuji," Gojo says, clapping a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Students, meet the newest addition to our faculty's survival list. She’ll be the one keeping the school from falling apart while Sukuna throws his tantrums." 

The sight of Yuji sends a sudden, cold shiver down your spine. He looks so much like Sukuna, especially in that shade of hair and the shape of his jaw. For a second, your knees feel weak, but the energy radiating from him is warm, vibrant, and utterly, wonderfully human.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his smile faltering into a genuine concern. He reaches out a hand as if to steady you, but stops just short of touching your arm. "You're really pale."

"I'm... I'm fine," you assure and force yourself to take a slow breath, focusing on the comforting weight of your bag. "Just... a long night of unpacking. It's a lot of change."

Satoru tilts his head, looking at you, but when you nod for him to continue, he gestures to each of them in turn with theatrical flair. "These are my delightful first years! Kugisaki Nobara—our resident fashionista and hammer enthusiast. The brooding one is my son, Fushiguro Megumi—“

“I already told you to stop calling me your son,” Megumi cuts in, his voice flat with annoyance.

“—And this,” he pats the pink-haired boy’s shoulder again, completely ignoring Megumi’s complaint, “is Itadori Yuji. Try not to hold his lineage against him.” He smiles at you, then adds, “Team, meet…” He tells them your name, that easy, confident smile never fading even as his gaze—if he’s indeed gazing under the blindfold—flicks over you, as if cataloging every detail in a single glance.

Nobara looks you up and down with a blunt, discerning gaze that feels unnervingly thorough. "Are all the sorcerers from the secondary branches this jumpy, or did Gojo just scare the life out of you? Honestly, you look like you’ve seen a ghost."

"Leave her alone, Nobara," Yuji interjects, rubbing the back of his neck, and a wide grin returns to his face. “Nice to meet you! We heard someone new is coming to help with Sukuna’s... uh, energy acting up. Sorry about him, by the way. He’s kind of a lot."

"A lot? He’s a disaster," Nobara chimes in, crossing her arms and eyeing you again, but this time with a mix of pity and fascination. "I don't know what they’re paying you, but it’s definitely not enough."

"I... It's a pleasure to meet you all," you stammer, feeling the weight of their collective gaze. 

"See? Polite! We need more of that around here," Gojo says, his grin widening, clearly enjoying your discomfort. He leans in a bit closer to you, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that is still perfectly audible to everyone standing near. "Word of advice: if you hear him starting to grumble about the Higher-Ups or how annoying they are, just don’t answer. He hates it when people agree with him just because they're scared. Makes him bored. And you really don't want him bored."

"Gojo, stop scaring her,” Megumi sighs. “She already looks like she’s about to faint."

"I'm not scaring her! I'm providing essential orientation," the man protests, turning back to you. “And fair warning—the faculty meetings are even worse than the curses sometimes. And if you ever need a break from all the serious faces around here, my door’s always open. Or window. Whichever’s more dramatic.” He claps his hands together. “Anyway! We’ve got places to be, curses to annoy. Don’t let the Higher-Ups work you to the bone on day two, yeah?”

“Sure. I… I should get to my office too,” you murmur, clutching your bag tighter.

As they begin to walk away, Yuji lingers for a second, his expression turning a bit more serious and compassionate than his teacher’s. "Hey, if you need anything—directions, snacks, someone to complain to about the cafeteria food—I’m your guy. Seriously. This place can be a lot at first. It was for me, at least.”

He waves one last time before jogging to catch up with the others. You stand on the path as the campus’s silence settles back over you, and with it, the vibration, but it feels different now. The students know who Sukuna is and live with his shadow every day, yet they’re laughing and arguing about tactics. They’re functioning. So you try to convince yourself that you can get used to it, too, that this new terror can become a manageable routine.

But when you reach the door to your new office and fumble with the key, your fingers still refuse to stay still. The metal scrapes against the lock until it finally catches on the fourth try. You slide the door open, step into the room, and close it behind you.

It’s a modest space, but it’s yours—or at least, it’s supposed to be. You stand in the center of the room, taking a shallow, shaky breath, trying to force the rigid tension to drain from your shoulders, but the muscles along your neck and back are locked tight.

You had specifically requested that a few of your personal boxes be delivered here instead of to your assigned quarters, and you feel a slight spike of relief when you notice three stacked neatly near the wide desk. On them is a folder bearing the official stamp, with your full name written neatly across it.

Sinking into the chair, you reach for the folder first and flip it open to reveal the paperwork inside. Employment contracts, a schedule outline with more blank space than entries, several pages of medical waivers that make your stomach twist when you skim them, and a formal acceptance of your reassignment, as if you were the one requesting it. 

Unpacking slowly, you pull out a stack of pristine folders in different colors and line them up in a top desk drawer. You place your favorite mug with the chipped rim from the province on a coaster, then pull out a small ceramic lucky cat, a gift from Haruki back at the branch, and place it in the corner of the desk.

Reaching into one of the boxes, you pull out a black fountain pen that usually feels balanced in your hand, then try to write your name on the first form. You press the tip to the paper, but the ink smears into a series of jagged, ugly streaks because your hand is shaking.

You stare at the ruined signature, your heart giving a dull, heavy thud against your ribs. Trying again, you force your grip to tighten, but your fingers are vibrating with a fine, persistent tremor that you can’t suppress. The ink bleeds into the paper, creating a messy, illegible scrawl that looks nothing like your handwriting.

The pen drops from your hand and clatters loudly against the desk, the sound echoing in the quiet room. You pull your hands back into your lap, lacing your fingers together so tightly your knuckles turn white, trying to command your body to stop reacting. It’s just a job, you tell yourself, but it feels dry and useless. You’re a professional. You’ve done this before. But your lie rings hollow. You haven’t really, not with him and not when your mind keeps looping back to Gojo’s bright voice, “He’s in a remarkably foul mood.”

A foul mood. You try to picture what that translates to on the King of Curses, but the only image that sticks is the chilling memory of four eyes and that low, rumbling, amused chuckle. It’s enough to keep your breathing shallow and your palms slick with sweat.

A sudden, sharp knock against your door sends a jolt of pure adrenaline through you. You startle so badly that you jump, your knee hitting the underside of the desk, and the pen rolls off, skidding across the floor.

“Come in,” you croak, your voice sounding like someone else’s.

The door slides open, and a young man in a stiff suit and a tie steps across the threshold.

“Apologies for the interruption, ma’am,” he says politely. “I was asked to inform you that Ryomen Sukuna has returned from his mission early. He arrived early this morning and is expected in your office shortly.”

“Understood,” you manage to force out.

The official lingers at the door for a heartbeat longer than necessary, his mouth thinning into a line that looks suspiciously like a grimace of pity or deep unease. He takes in the state of your desk, the tremor in your folded hands, and the wide, panicked look in your eyes, and his resolve breaks just slightly.

"Good luck," he adds quietly, and then he’s gone, sliding the door shut behind him.

Now there’s only the silence that’s immediately filled with the sound of your own heart, a frantic, uneven drumming against your ribs that makes your chest ache. You look down at your hands. They aren't just trembling now; they’re vibrating so hard that you can’t even close them into fists, no matter how many times you flex them or press them against the desk to ground yourself. You try to reach for the pen on the floor, but your legs feel like they’ve been replaced with lead.

The wait stretches, minute by agonizing minute, and your body begins to anticipate him before he even takes the first step down the hall. You’ve been sitting like this for twenty minutes since the official left, staring at the door. The silence has become your enemy, as your ears now ring with a phantom roar of white noise. Every time a floorboard creaks in the distance, your breath catches in a shallow, jagged rhythm that never quite allows your lungs to fully fill.

Then, the very moment he crosses the threshold of the main building and steps inside, you feel the atmosphere shift violently. It’s a sudden, physical displacement of an enormous weight that signals the immediate return of something ancient that doesn't belong in this century.

It begins as a tightening in your chest, a sharp, localized constriction that makes the simple act of inhaling feel impossible. Something is fundamentally wrong with the space now, an abrasive quality to the air that makes the fine hairs on your arms stand upright and stay that way, vibrating in sync with a frequency you can’t quite hear. 

Trying desperately to regulate your breathing, you force yourself to count to five on each inhale, but the rhythm is jagged and unreliable. The static in the air is rising, a low-frequency hum you feel in your teeth and bone marrow, a signature of power so massive it doesn’t need to be visible to be felt. You keep staring at the door handle, eyes wide and unblinking, as your world narrows to this single, suffocating room and the growing, oily weight of the residue seeping through the cracks in the doorframe.

You manage to push yourself up on trembling legs, knees threatening to buckle, and manage to stumble the few steps around the desk, leaning a hand against the cool wood for support, just as the door slides open without the courtesy of a knock.

It’s a total sensory drowning. The air in the small office instantly becomes saturated with heat, smelling of ozone and the sharp, coppery tang of dried blood. Sukuna stands there, filling the space with so much of his cursed energy that the walls feel as if they’re shrinking to crush you. Every nerve ending in your body lights up in a frantic, screaming alert, and the simple act of remaining upright suddenly requires every bit of your dwindling stamina.

If you weren't too terrified to move, you might laugh at the sheer irony of expecting a true monster, only to see a man who looks exactly like he just finished a very long, very annoying day at work. He’s covered in the dark, drying, nearly-black stains of blood from a mission that must have been a slaughter. He looks profoundly irritated, his pink hair disheveled, and his four eyes are narrowed into a look of deep, dangerous boredom, as the petty, insignificant mission he returned from was a blatant insult to his boundless capabilities.

"So," Sukuna finally rumbles, the sound a dark, rich scrape against your frayed nerves, closing the door behind him. He completely ignores the couch that was prepared for him, unhurriedly taking a few steps until he stops directly in front of you, looming so close that the heat radiating from his skin feels like standing before an open furnace. "They actually expect this," he gestures dismissively toward you with a flicker of a hand, "to manage me?"

It’s enough for your brain to momentarily short out, leaving you staring up at him with wide, paralyzed eyes. He lets out a short, mocking huff of laughter, a purely malicious sound, as he takes in your state. He drinks it in like a fine wine, a slow, cruel smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watches you shake so violently the desk behind you rattles faintly, keeping time with the frantic, sickening rhythm of your pulse thrashing like a trapped animal in the hollow of your throat.

"Well?" he sneers, his upper eyes narrowing with a vicious, expectant glint. “Don’t just stand there shaking, human. I don’t have all day.”

You know what you have to do, but right now, you can’t even force your legs, rooted to the spot, to take a single step toward him. Your brain is screaming one thing only: Run. Get out. Put a continent between you and this man.

"If you're this terrified of me just standing here," his voice dips lower, "how do you expect to actually put your hands on me and do your job?”

There’s simply no way for you to answer, because when you try, the words die a painful death somewhere in your rapidly tightening throat. But you manage to lift your hand, and it’s truly a pathetic sight—pale, utterly weak, and trembling so violently you can’t even keep your fingers straight. They hover just short of contact with the center of his chest.

“Do it before I decide this was a waste of my time, little thing,” he rumbles, and a cold sweat drips down your back, chilling you despite the heat radiating off him. “Now.”

You stop again, your breath catching sharply in your chest. Your entire focus narrows obsessively to the small gap between your hand and him, the distance suddenly feeling vast, impossible to close, even though it’s barely there. The sheer pressure of his cursed energy is like a physical, unyielding wall. The closer you try to get to him, the more it pushes back against your outstretched palm.

"Pathetic.” That single word drips with contempt so much that you flinch.

He exhales through his nose, a short, quiet sound that carries more impatience than any loud exclamation ever could. Suddenly, his massive hand shoots forward, closing firmly around your wrist before your nervous system can even register it, and yanks you forward. It forces your hand into contact with his chest, whether you’re ready and willing or not. The very instant it happens, he releases your wrist.

The sensation is immediate and overwhelming. A dense, constant pressure surges through your hand the instant you touch him, spreading up your arm in a steady, high-frequency current that vibrates deep beneath your skin, settling into your bones. Your breath breaks in a sharp, painful inhale, your chest tightening further as your lungs fail to keep up with the sudden shift.

For a second, your body locks, unsure how to process his power, and your vision whites out completely. You nearly collapse right there, knees giving way, but his hand catches your elbow in a grip just short of bruising and holds you upright.

“Focus,” he growls, voice low and mocking, clearly enjoying the way you’re falling apart in front of him.

Your own cursed energy finally responds, activating your technique, but… it doesn’t slip into his the way it used to with every other sorcerer you’ve ever touched. You meet instant resistance. His energy is impossibly dense and uneven, pressed together so tightly that there’s no natural opening to follow. For a moment, your focus fractures and your control stutters as the structure beneath your hand refuses to yield or even acknowledge your presence.

The splintered edges aren’t just scattered, random damage; they’re layered over each other in uneven ridges, grinding and catching, constantly shifting in place without ever settling in a fixed pattern. When you try to guide your own energy between them, it doesn’t thread through cleanly but gets caught, snagging against something that feels too sharp and too rigid at the same time.

There’s simply too much to take in at once. Your instinct screams at you to pull back and withdraw before you lose control completely, but you resist the urge with every fiber of your being. If you let go now, you know, deep in your soul, you won’t be able to force yourself to try again. So, you compel your focus, narrowing it, no longer trying to take in the whole of it, but isolating a single section—one place where the splintering is tighter, more compressed, something you can define and target, even if you can’t yet comprehend the entire structure around it.

You don’t try to comb through it the way you normally do because there’s no space for that. It leaves you with the option to press against it. Your cursed energy spreads thin as you force it into the smallest gaps you can find. It isn’t slipping between the fractures but pushing against them, testing where they shift, where they resist completely, and where they might give even slightly under pressure.

Sweat beads instantly on your forehead and then rolls into your eyes, stinging them. Your fingers instinctively curl slightly, clawing into the fabric of his uniform as your knees threaten to give out once more.

Sukuna chuckles, a dark, low sound, the vibration traveling directly through his chest and into your straining palm.

“Look at you. Barely touching me and already about to pass out. They really sent the weakest, most pathetic one they could find, didn’t they?”

His words don’t even fully reach you. What you’re doing isn’t clean work by any means. It’s definitely not as controlled as you’d like it to be, but after a few seconds of struggling against it, you feel a change. It’s not in the entire structure, but in that one small, isolated section you targeted, where two jagged edges that had been grinding against each other start, ever so slowly, to realign.

It takes more effort than it should. Your control slips dangerously as you fight to hold on, your hand trembling where it rests against him, but you don’t let go until you’re absolutely sure the section you’ve forced into place isn’t collapsing back into the same fractured pattern. When you finally pull your cursed energy back, it doesn’t feel finished. It feels incomplete and uneven, as you pinned down only one part of something much, much larger that’s still shifting out of control around it. But the difference is there, small and localized, yet real.

The worst part is that now you understand exactly how much of it is still left to deal with, and how utterly exhausting and physically draining it is just to work on him. Every second feels like a minute; every breath feels like your last. Your technique is working, yes, but with the sheer volume of his power is like trying to hold back a landslide with your bare hands. 

Your energy output is significantly smaller than Sukuna’s, so when you pit your energy against his, it rapidly depletes your reserves. Vision begins to swim, the edges of the room turning grey and fuzzy as your body starts to shut down under the strain. Your legs are shaking so badly you can hardly stand, and the only thing keeping you upright is the iron grip he still has on your arm.

He releases you abruptly, and you slump forward, your forehead nearly hitting his shoulder. Your hand remains glued to his chest because you’re too terrified to let go. The man doesn't catch you, but he doesn't pull away either, standing there like a statue, watching with deep satisfaction how you struggle, how your fingers twitch against his heartbeat. He can feel your heart racing—a frantic rhythm against the slow, heavy thud of his own, and he visibly relishes the difference.

“Don’t die yet, little Weaver,” he whispers, leaning all the way down to your face until you feel his warm breath on your ear. “We’ve only just started.”

You jerk away from him instantly, catching yourself on the edge of the desk before you can fall, chest heaving. Sukuna doesn’t react, already focused on his cursed energy, checking the result. Its state hasn’t changed; the irritation hasn’t lifted or faded. Yet that one section you smoothed holds firm, and more importantly, it didn’t revert to its previous fractured state. He notes its boundary, how far the adjustment extends, precisely where it stops, and how it sits against the rest of it that remains unchanged. So this one isn’t completely worthless after all.

At the same time, you don’t move—you can’t, when your head feels light and hollow. Your body, held upright only by your survival instinct, feels like it’s melting as soon as the direct tether to his energy is severed.

It takes a lot of effort to even your breathing out, your lungs resisting the rhythm you’re trying to impose, your chest rising and falling in short, uneven pulls. The physical strain from the weaving hasn’t faded, leaving your limbs slower and your reactions delayed.

You need to sit down. It’s the only coherent thought your brain can hold onto, but your legs feel too heavy to move. You manage to shuffle a few stumbling steps, your hip bumping the corner of the desk, until you finally collapse into your chair. You don’t sit so much as fall into it. 

Your hands are a disaster, vibrating with a deep force you can’t suppress, no matter how hard you press them against your thighs. Watching your fingers twitch and jerk uncontrollably against the dark fabric of your pants, you realize you couldn’t even hold a pen right now if your life depended on it.

The comforting sound of the door sliding shut and the sweet relief of being alone don’t come. Instead, you hear the slow scuff of his boots on the floorboards as he turns away from you. For a few seconds, he stands there with his profile to you, broad shoulders still, head slightly tilted as if listening to something only he can hear. He doesn’t look like he’s in a hurry, and the silence stretches, filled only by the uneven drag of your breathing and the faint hum of cursed energy still clinging to the air.

Then he wanders toward the small bookshelf by the wall. One of his hands trails idly along the edge while his four eyes wander over the items you barely had time to place there. He doesn’t pause on anything specific; his attention drifts aimlessly, taking in the files and small personal items. There's no hesitation in his movement and no indication that he's somewhere he shouldn’t be. His profound disregard for you makes it clear that your presence doesn’t matter in this room as much as his does.

You watch as he continues his slow circuit, stopping beside your desk. His hand brushes lightly against your mug. For a brief moment, nothing happens. Then a thin fracture appears beneath his touch, a sharp, precise line spreading slowly across the surface.

There’s no force behind it, no pressure that should cause the material to fail. The ceramic simply fails to hold together where Sukuna rests his hand, because he allows it to. He could have easily prevented it, but there was no reason to.

Your gaze locks onto the crack as it deepens, your body tensing despite knowing you can’t stop it. A second later, the mug splits cleanly along that line, the two halves dropping against the desk before sliding apart. It isn’t sudden or accidental. It happens at a pace slow enough for you to see it coming and to understand that nothing in your office is beyond his reach, his control, or safe from his whim.

You flinch hard, but he doesn’t react beyond a low, disinterested, dismissive hum.

“Sloppy,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, as if the broken mug is somehow your fault for being in his space.

Sukuna paces toward the window, staring out at the campus. His broad back blocks out the light and casts a long shadow that swallows your desk and your feet. You try to reach for a pen that rolled toward the edge, but your arm feels like it’s underwater, heavy and slow. As you brush against a stack of files, they slide off the desk and flutter across the floor.

You stare at the mess, at the broken mug and the scattered reports, and feel a hollow surge of helplessness. You want to fix it, to pick up the papers and pretend your day is still about administrative paperwork, but you’re pinned to the chair by nothing but the sheer gravity of his presence.

He lingers a moment longer without ever looking at you, his attention already elsewhere, the campus view already boring him. Then, without a word of explanation or farewell, he turns abruptly on his heel and walks out of your office.

You should be flooded with relief, but there’s none because the air still smells of ozone, telling you that even though he’s left, he hasn’t truly gone. This realization makes your head drop heavily onto the desk, and you try to force your breathing into a steady rhythm, but it still comes out a bit ragged. You remain hunched over the desk, listening to the fading rhythm of his boots. Even when the sound vanishes completely, you don’t move, your body paralyzed by the lingering density he left behind.

It takes you several long, dragging minutes to convince your body that the immediate danger has passed, and you eventually force yourself upright. Your gaze drifts to the side of the desk, landing on the broken shards of your mug. You know you should pick them up and throw them away so you don’t have to look at the evidence of his casual disregard, but you can’t bring yourself to touch it.

It feels contaminated. Even though he only brushed against it for a second, the ceramic looks different to your eyes now, still vibrating with the phantom heat of his fingers.

You try to return to the paperwork instead, reaching for one of the fallen sheets. Your fingers, however, refuse to cooperate, unwilling to close properly around it. Only after a third, slower attempt, do you manage to gather them up. When you pick the pen up, the letters you attempt to write come out as badly as before, the ink smearing under your unsteady grip. 

Setting it down again, you press both palms flat against the desk. You have to pull yourself together. You have to breathe. Driven by a desperate need for oxygen that doesn't smell of him, you force yourself upright, your chair scraping softly against the floor, and stumble toward the window. You reach for the latch, your fingers slipping slightly before you adjust your grip, and with a bit more effort than such a simple task should ever take, you push it open.

Cool air rushes in immediately. It doesn’t fix the shaking in your hands or the pounding behind your ribs, but it helps. Your breathing begins to deepen slightly, the tightness in your chest loosening by a fraction as you stand there for a moment, your hand still resting against the frame, simply letting the fresh air settle into the room and your lungs.

Slowly, even your frantic heartbeat starts to calm down. At least until two figures round the corner of the building and walk into your line of sight. 

Sukuna’s moving across the stone path with an unhurried stride, and trailing half a step behind him is Yuji. The boy is trying to keep pace, his face tight with stubborn, simmering frustration that seems out of place next to a man of Sukuna's stature. Then, he runs forward a few steps and stops the sorcerer dead in his tracks.

“…told you to stay out of my sight until the stench of that failure washed off you,” Sukuna doesn’t raise his voice, but the deep rumble of it carries through the opened window. Irritation is clear, low and steady beneath the words as he looks down at Yuji like the conversation is already wasting his time.

“I’m not the one who messed up that mission!” Yuji snaps back, loud and defensive. “I told you already—”

"Excuses are for the weak," Sukuna sneers, a sound of pure contempt. He takes a slow step toward Yuji, and your fingers grip the windowsill so hard the wood bites into your palms. "You lacked the stomach to finish it when the opening appeared. You hesitated."

"I didn't hesitate, I was helping the civilians get to the—"

The strike is so fast that your eyes almost miss it. Sukuna’s hand moves with terrifying speed and slaps the back of Yuji’s head with a sharp, heavy crack. It isn’t a playful tap; the force sends the boy stumbling as he fights to stay on his feet, his boots scuffing hard against the stone.

“Idiot,” Sukuna spits, the word dripping with disgust that makes your stomach churn. “If you ever prioritize a non-sorcerer over finishing a kill again, I won’t just leave a bruise. I’ll peel the skin off your back myself.”

Your heart gives a violent, panicked leap, your breath hitching in your throat, as you wait for the aftermath—possibly a massacre. You expect Yuji to drop to his knees, beg, or display the same raw fear that now leaves you frozen at your window.

Instead, Yuji rights himself, his shoulders tightening with tension. He turns to Sukuna, eyes narrowed and blazing with genuine, reckless anger. “Then do it! Stop talking about it and just do it if you’re so mad!”

Sukuna reaches out, curling his large fingers around the front of Yuji’s uniform hoodie, bunching the fabric and effortlessly lifting the boy off his heels, making him dangle. Yet, Yuji doesn’t break under this pressure. He glares back into the man’s eyes, his hands coming up to grip Sukuna’s wrist, trying to pull the hand away despite it feeling as heavy as solid iron.

"Be careful, Yuji," the man whispers, the low rumble of his voice carrying an edge of genuine malice that makes the air feel thin. "That blood in your veins is the only thing keeping you from being a smudge on this pavement. Don't test how thin that line is."

Yuji’s jaw tightens. For a second, he doesn’t answer, and you think this is it. You think he might finally stop, but… he doesn’t.

“You’re just pissed,” he says, the words coming out rougher this time. “That’s not on me.”

“And you think that makes you safe?”

“I think you don’t get to take it out on me every time something goes wrong!”

“Then don’t be in front of me when it does. Now get out of my sight," Sukuna hisses, shoving Yuji brutally away. The force that makes the boy have to catch himself against a stone of a nearby lantern to keep from falling. "If I see your face before the sun sets, I will give you a reason to truly regret your existence."

Sukuna doesn’t wait for a response or even spare the boy another glance. He walks past Yuji and continues toward the dorms, leaving the boy standing there, breathing hard and looking like he wants to throw a punch into the air the King of Curses just vacated.

You pull back from the window, sliding down until your back hits the cold wall beneath the sill. Your hands are shaking so violently now that they’re clicking against the floorboards. 

After an hour of sitting paralyzed beneath the windowsill and countless attempts to finish the paperwork that had resulted in nothing but a growing pile of mangled, illegible reports. Your thoughts circle the same conclusion over and over until it settles into something you can act on. You were told where to go when you weren’t needed, and right now, that instruction feels like a very good excuse to put distance between yourself and everything that happened since morning.

Even now, as you move through the corridors of the administrative wing, your knees feel brittle, as if the bones have been hollowed out and replaced with dry, cracking glass. You flinch at the rustle of leaves and the distant sound of sliding doors, your eyes darting toward every shadow, terrified that his figure would materialize from the pines. Fortunately, Sukuna is nowhere to be seen.

You’re nearing the western walkway when you spot a shock of pink hair. Yuji’s sitting on a low stone wall, hunched over and preoccupied with his phone. After what you witnessed from your window, seeing him sit there so quietly feels like a glitch in reality. You hesitate, considering continuing past him without saying anything, your fingers still twitching against the strap of your bag, but… you can see the faint redness on the back of his neck where Sukuna’s strike connected. Before the deeply ingrained instinct for self-preservation can talk you out of it, you change the direction slightly and walk over.

“Yuji?” you ask quietly, your voice still carrying that thin, unsteady edge, stopping a few steps away so as not to startle him.

He looks up, and for a split second, you expect to see a face mapped with trauma or hidden tears. Instead, his expression brightens instantly into that same sweet, open, and incredibly confusing grin he gave you earlier.

"Oh! Hey! It's the Weaver, right?" he says, his voice cheerful and unaffected. He hops off the wall and pockets his phone, looking entirely too normal. "Sorry, I'm bad with names. You okay? You look even paler than this morning."

You find yourself watching the minute details of how he moves, searching for a hitch in his breathing, a tremor in his hands, or even a flicker of fear in his eyes, but he’s as steady as the stone walkway beneath your feet. The normalcy of it feels fundamentally wrong. There’s no tension in him, no guardedness in his stance, nothing that remotely suggests what you witnessed barely an hour ago, and your mind stalls for a second as it tries, and fails, to reconcile the memory with the reality in front of you.

“I… yes,” you stammer and give him your name once more, your gaze drifting to the back of his head. "I saw you with Sukuna earlier. Are you alright? That looked... it looked incredibly painful. I was worried.”

Yuji blinks slowly, then lets out a short, easy, and almost endearing laugh that makes your stomach do a confused flip. He reaches back and rubs the spot with a shrug. "Oh, that? Yeah, I'm totally fine! My head’s pretty hard, honestly. I think it was just a standard slap. I’ve had way worse training with Gojo, trust me!”

You stare at him with genuine confusion. "A standard slap? Yuji, he was... he was threatening you. He looked like he was going to—"

"Ah, don't take it personally for me," Yuji interrupts smoothly, his tone shifting into something casually dismissive, as if he were explaining a difficult but predictable weather pattern. "He just gets like that after missions sometimes. If he doesn't get to kill something big enough, he comes back all prickly. Or, well, when he thinks I messed something up, even if I didn’t. Gets pissed over nothing and likes having someone to yell at."

Your mouth is slightly open, waiting for the inevitable crack and trauma to surface, for the fear to break through that sweetheart exterior, but there’s nothing but a teenager’s mild annoyance. 

"But he... he threatened you. He said he would—"

"Yeah, yeah, the skin-peeling thing," he interjects again with a thoroughly dismissive wave of his hand, rubbing the back of his head again, this time with a small wince. "He’s always been saying stuff like that—well, not always, but—since he—" He cuts himself off and clears his throat roughly, scrubbing a hand over his face before he looks back at you with a forced, tight smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes this time. “Since… yeah. Doesn’t matter. Look, he’s my uncle, so you know. He thinks he can get away with being a total asshole to me whenever he wants. Family, right? You can’t really pick ‘em, no matter how much you want to.”

"Your uncle," you repeat after a pause that your brain needed to accept the phrasing the boy offers. "But if he's family, why does he treat you like that?”

"He's just pissed," Yuji repeats, starting to walk toward the infirmary, his hands shoved into his pockets. You fall into step beside him a moment later, your movements slower, still slightly uncoordinated as your body hasn’t fully caught up to your thoughts. "Honestly, it’s not even on me! I didn't even mess that one up that bad. I just made sure a few people didn't get crushed by a falling roof, and he acts like I committed a crime. He just likes having someone to yell at when things don't go exactly his way."

He kicks a small pebble across the path, watching it bounce, looking genuinely annoyed, but it’s nothing more than the annoyance of a teenager complaining about an overbearing parent.

"All he cares about is finishing the job. That’s it. People just… get in the way as far as he's concerned." He glances at you briefly, like he’s checking if you’re still keeping up, noticing the way your hands were still clicking against your sides. "Don't let it get to you, though. He likes it when people are too scared to look him in the eye. It gives him an excuse to be worse. If you just treat it like… like he’s having a childish tantrum... well, it doesn't actually make him less dangerous, but it makes it easier to breathe."

That word, tantrum, feels oddly small, considering how much bigger it seems in your own experience, but you cling to it nonetheless, testing it against what you felt earlier in that room.

“You should have seen him this morning—the Higher-Ups were practically tripping over themselves to get his report finished and signed so he’d leave the room, and he still looked like he wanted to set the desk on fire until they thanked him properly,” Yuji continues with a genuine, booming laugh, the annoyance in him disappearing completely. You’re struck, once again, by the sheer surrealism of it—the boy laughing about the man who makes everyone else tremble. "Just try to stay out of his way when he’s like this. If he starts grumbling, just nod and walk away. That’s what I do. Mostly. Well, not really. Sometimes I can't help but talk back, and then I get the 'regret your existence' speech again."

You can’t process the normalcy of his reaction. The words don’t match the memory, and no matter how you try to align them, they refuse to cohere. To you, Sukuna is a jagged, ancient disaster that makes the air toxic; to Yuji, he’s an annoying fixture in his life he has simply learned to live with. The realization leaves you feeling as if you’re the only one who can still smell smoke in a room everyone else has decided is no longer on fire.

Five minutes later, you reach the infirmary, which sits at the edge of campus, slightly removed from everything else. It’s far enough that the noise of the main walkways is softer by the time you reach the door.

Yuji walks in ahead of you like he’s done it a hundred times, which, judging by everything you’ve heard so far, is probably true. You follow him inside, and the sterile, sharp scent of antiseptic hits you.

Shoko is slumped in a swivel chair at a desk cluttered with medical journals and an overflowing ashtray. A cigarette dangles from her lips, releasing a plume of smoke that coils toward the ceiling in a grey ribbon. It completely ignores the "No Smoking" signs plastered on the walls.

Her cursed energy stands in stark contrast to everyone else you’ve met on campus so far. It isn’t the bottomless, crushing void of Satoru, nor the jagged, abrasive storm of Sukuna. Shoko’s energy is flat, quiet, almost silent—a deep, unwavering calm, like the stillness before or after a major weather event.

She doesn't acknowledge either of you immediately, her attention riveted to a chart in her hands. But as the boy approaches her desk, she lets out a dry, rattling sigh.

"Again, Yuji?" she asks, her voice low and weary. She finally lifts her gaze, her dark, tired eyes drifting over the obvious redness that is blooming on the back of the boy's neck. 

Yuji lifts a hand in a loose, almost apologetic, half-defensive gesture, instinctively rubbing the back of his neck as if that might somehow justify his presence.

“It wasn’t my fault this time!” he protests, sounding more annoyed than anything else, like he’s arguing a point that doesn’t matter. “He’s just in one of those moods.”

She pushes herself off the chair and gestures toward one of the examination tables with the lit end of her cigarette. "Sit. Let me see it before you start complaining about the headache you're inevitably going to have.”

Shoko steps closer, her attention fixed on the faint redness at the base of his neck, her fingers brushing lightly over the bruised spot as she leans in to assess it properly.

"Didn't I tell you?" Shoko asks, her voice low and steady as she starts to work. "Didn't Satoru tell you? Why do you keep doing it, Yuji? You know he has zero impulse control when he’s like this. Just don't argue with him.”

You watch, fascinated, as her reversed cursed technique activates. Her energy interacts with the atmosphere, but it doesn't fray or splinter after she uses it, as Sukuna’s energy does. It feels like a quiet, gentle hum, almost like a deep, dreamless sleep. Under the light, almost indifferent touch of her fingers, the angry red of the bruise begins to recede, the swelling flattening out as if the injury were being erased from the timeline.

Yuji clicks his tongue softly, dropping his hand back to his side. “I wasn’t arguing,” he insists, though the defensive edge in his voice makes it abundantly clear he absolutely was. “He just—”

Shoko’s expression doesn’t change until she’s finished. Then, without any warning, she gives him a light, tired slap to the same spot she just finished healing, effectively cutting his protest short. It’s nowhere near as violent as Sukuna’s had been, more like an exasperated older sister than a threat, but Yuji still yelps dramatically.

“Ow—Shoko!”

"That's for ignoring what we told you," she says calmly, her cigarette bobbing slightly as she speaks. "Stop doing that, Yuji. You're not proving anything to anyone, least of all him."

Yuji huffs out a breath, shoulders tightening for a second before relaxing again, the frustration still there but contained. 

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” he mutters, though it sounds more like he’s saying it for himself than for her.

Shoko watches him for a moment, shaking her head. “Now, get off my table. Go straight to your room, stay away from the common areas, and for the love of everything, avoid Sukuna until tomorrow morning.”

Yuji grumbles something low under his breath that sounds vaguely like “self-righteousness” and “unfair treatment.” He slides off the table and stretches his arms over his head, looking entirely too refreshed and energetic for someone who just had a physical confrontation with the most dangerous entity in the world.

“Go.” The woman makes a vague, dismissive gesture toward the door with her free hand before turning her chair back toward her desk, a clear dismissal of any further conversation she has simply had too many times already to expend any more energy on.

Yuji opens his mouth to argue further, but then thinks better of it, catching the look in her eye. "Fine, fine. I'm going. See? Good as new. Thanks, Shoko!" He turns to you, gives you one last, bright wave, and then jogs out of the room. "See you later! And thanks for checking on me earlier!"

“And stop picking fights you know you’re not going to win!” Shoko calls after him.

Only after the door slides shut behind him, she turns fully toward you. She leans back, taking a long, slow drag of her cigarette, the smoke temporarily obscuring her face. "Sorry about that. He does that a lot. I’m Ieiri Shoko. You must be the Weaver they dragged in.”

"I am," you manage, offering a small, weary nod as you lower yourself into the chair she has gestured toward, then introduce yourself. "I was told to report here when... when I'm not needed."

"Thank god,” Shoko says, her tone calm, utterly deadpan, and yet subtly amused as she taps ash into the tray before moving to the small counter where an electric kettle sits. "I finally have company. If I have to listen to Gojo complain about his Infinity being lonely one more time, I might actually lose it."

It’s in that moment, sitting in this quiet room, watching a medic make tea while yet again completely ignoring a “No Smoking” sign, that your shoulders drop. For the first time since your arrival at the school, you’re starting to physically relax. It takes a second longer to realize your breathing has settled, too. The adrenaline that has been surging through your system for hours finally begins to recede. You no longer feel like you’re about to collapse; you just feel an incredible, deep tiredness as you think about the physical and mental toll the proximity to Sukuna has taken.

“Tea?” she asks, glancing over briefly.

“Please,” you murmur.

Humming softly in acknowledgment, she reaches for two mugs. While the water heats, she leans against the counter, studying you with calm, half-lidded eyes. “First session with him already?”

You hesitate, then give a slow nod. “Yes. This morning. It was… a lot. Overwhelming.”

"It always is with him, especially in the beginning. You'll get used to it. Or you won't," she says, her tone absolutely devoid of emotional judgment. "Either way, the Higher-Ups will keep sending you back until something sticks.” There’s no malice in her tone, only the flat practicality of watching this cycle play out before. She pours the tea and slides a mug across the table to you. “Here. It’s nothing special, but it’s hot.”

You wrap your fingers around the warm ceramic, the heat seeping into your cold palms, and take a careful sip. The taste is simple, slightly bitter, and grounding, pulling you back into the present moment.

"So," Shoko says, picking up her own mug. “Weaving. I’ve read the reports, of course, but theory’s never the same as practice. You’re smoothing cursed energy, but what does that mean exactly? How does it actually work?” 

“It depends entirely on what I’m dealing with,” you begin slowly, gathering your thoughts. Then, as you continue, the words keep flowing, “Back home, when a sorcerer would come in with deep tissue wounds, even after the injury was stabilized, their own cursed energy would keep irritating the site. Because their energy was... frayed, the splinters would snag on the damaged nerves. It slowed down natural recovery because the injured area was essentially being poked by thousands of microscopic needles from the inside out.”

Shoko nods once, like that part makes perfect sense to her.

“Weaving lets me feel and reach those frays and snags,” you continue, your hands moving in a slow, rhythmic combing motion through the air above your lap. "I let the thin, incredibly fine threads of my own energy comb between them and bind the individual splinters down, gently flattening the frays until the bulk of the energy is smooth and cohesive again."

“And that keeps the energy from further irritating the wounds, right?” When you nod, she adds, “So you’re more… maintenance than treatment.”

“…used to be,” you agree. “Now, my work only matters when massive amounts of energy are already used, and something gets left behind."

“Sukuna?”

You nod again. “With most sorcerers, there’s a slight instability after heavy usage. Their cursed energy gets uneven, but it eventually settles on its own. With him, it doesn’t. His output is so surgically sharp and so massive that when he uses his techniques, what's left behind doesn't return to a stable state. It… breaks apart.”

“Breaks apart how?”

You hesitate, searching for the simplest analogy. “Its structure changes completely. It turns so intensely frayed and jagged that there's no way it smooths out on its own." You glance down briefly, your fingers curling faintly in your lap, still feeling the phantom vibration. “It doesn’t just sit there, either. It builds up, constantly moves, and grinds against itself… and against everything around him.”

Shoko exhales softly through her nose, taps her cigarette, and mutters, “…that would explain the increasing damage.”

“And it would make anyone irritable because, I imagine, it feels like having static electricity constantly sparking under your skin.”

“And you can fix that?” she asks, a flicker of genuine professional curiosity cutting through her usual detachment.

“Technically, yes,” you sigh when the reality crashes in. “Practically, I genuinely didn’t know if I’d be able to keep my hand on him long enough to finish a single section today."

“And… How does it actually feel when you’re working on someone like him?”

You pause, your brow furrowing as you try to find the words for the overwhelming sensory input. "It’s like putting your hands on a running chainsaw. The vibration is... it’s physically exhausting. It’s not just the energy output; it’s the proximity. Being that close to him, touching the areas where the output is highest... it feels like standing next to a transformer that’s about to blow. It certainly doesn’t help that he mocks me the whole time," a flicker of genuine frustration finally cuts through your disorientation. “I think… I think he enjoys that I’m terrified of him. And when I react like that.”

"Sounds about right," Shoko says flatly. "He's a dick, first and foremost.”

She reaches over and picks up a small, ceramic tin from the counter, sliding it across the wood toward you. "Here. It’s a topical analgesic. Not for him—for you. It won't do anything for the fear, but your hands are going to be sore as hell by tomorrow morning if you're pulling that kind of volume and vibration. Use a generous amount."

You pick up the tin, the cool ceramic a welcome weight in your palm, as you process the fact that she’s giving you advice on surviving a long-term, inescapable tenure with him. The idea of a ‘tomorrow morning’ feels like a heavy, terrifying obligation.

“Does everyone here just… live like this?” you ask, looking around the room, seeking some kind of anchor in their normalcy. “You act like he’s a difficult patient, and Yuji treats him like an annoying uncle he can’t avoid. I watched Sukuna almost kill that boy, but an hour later, Yuji was laughing like it never happened.”

Shoko stubs out her cigarette in the tray. "He wasn’t going to kill him. If Sukuna actually decides to kill someone, there’s no ‘almost’ about it. What you saw was him in a bad mood. You need to learn the difference between when he’s irritated and when he actually means it, or you’re going to have a heart attack before the month is out.”

"Is there any… routine here at least? I received an almost empty schedule and zero instructions."

“Routine is a strong word when Sukuna’s involved,” Shoko answers, reaching for a fresh cigarette before pausing to glance at you, considering her words. “Most days, we just do what we’re supposed to. We have classes, missions, piles of reports that the Higher-Ups constantly nag us about.” She lights it, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. “And then he decides something’s interesting, or he gets bored, and suddenly it’s everyone’s problem.”

Lovely.

← prev chapter ◦ chapter 2 ◦ next chapter → series masterlist

i promise there's gonna be more action soon!

taglist still open

[reveries0fmine]

Bicep pic — jjk men 💭

pairing/characters: jjk men x f!reader | gojo, nanami, yuji, megumi, toji, sukuna synopsis: how the jjk men react to you asking them for a bicep pic! cw: cussing, suggestive jokes, fluff, petnames, fratkuna not canon sukuna masterlist

જ⁀➴ Satoru Gojo .ᐟ 💭

જ⁀➴ Kento Nanami .ᐟ 💭

જ⁀➴ Yuji Itadori .ᐟ 💭

જ⁀➴ Megumi Fushiguro .ᐟ 💭

જ⁀➴ Toji Fushiguro .ᐟ 💭

જ⁀➴ Ryomen Sukuna .ᐟ 💭

[heartkaji]

fratkuna always folds for his hot, bimbo baby !

1. BIMBO DIARIES #1 : CAN A CUTE GYAL GET SOME SEX ?

it’s 9PM thursday & ryomen sukuna has his back bent over his desk & cola sticky on his lip. through his laptop screen treasurer nanami kento is there, hair a mess & glasses slipping & badly lit by the fluorescent light.

they’re planning the budget for next friday’s spring party—the invites, if gojo should be allowed near the playlist, lower entry fees so toji can actually attend—& something else sukuna doesn’t hear because you swing the door open & walk in with clicky heels & a smile sticky with gloss.

“ryomen!”

your voice is a song & your eyes shine too-bright. sukuna’s eyes never leave his screen as you drop into his lap, knees bent in a kick as you hug his neck tight.

“what are you doing?” you hum into his cheek.

“meeting,” he murmurs, ignoring the gloss-drenched kisses you press to his jaw. through the screen nanami is pursed lip & awkward gaze, fixing his glasses as sukuna pretends his thumbs aren’t grazing circles on your hips.

you turn to the screen, grin clumsy, leaning forward so it fills up with your face. “hi, kenny!”

nanami softens. “good evening, y/n.”

you beam, but your grin can hardly stretch before sukuna’s palm grabs your face & tugs you into his chest. you pout up at him but his gaze stays glued to the screen.

“kento,” his voice is cool. “the guest list. you were saying?”

you’re buttoning & unbuttoning his shirt with your lips jut out but ryomen sukuna pays you no mind.

“yes,” nanami picks up a pen, neck rash red. “i was saying—“

“kuna,”

you interrupt nanami with a finger tugging at your boyfriend’s necklace. sukuna sighs, doesn’t look down at you or your pout.

“tell me.”

“can we have cake for dinner ?”

“no.” he taps something on his keyboard. “kento, go ahead.”

“right. i think—“

“kuna,”

sukuna breathes. “tell me.”

“you shouldn’t say no to your girlfriend.”

“my bad, sweetheart.” he’s sighing now but his palm squeezes your thigh. “kento.”

“right. as i was saying—”

“kuna,”

sukuna closes his eyes. one second, two, & he can still feel you looking up at him with that soft, sweet pout. he won’t kiss it away. not here, not now.

“tell me, baby.”

“i can’t, it’s embarrassing.”

he’s pinching his nose now, eyes shut as you sit up on his thigh. through the screen nanami’s eyes are twitching & his lips are pursed like he’s resisting the urge to ask if you’re deadass.

sukuna finally turns to you; bleary-eyed & gaze half-lidded. “say it in my ear ?”

you nod & he leans down with an ear to your lips. your gloss stains the shell when you lean closer:

“i’m horny.”

sukuna blinks. he wants to ask how the hell that happened, if you’re messing with him, if you have any sense of time & place and why your gaze is shy as if he’d ever tell you no.

he turns back to his laptop, necklace still in your grip. “kento, something came up. rain check?”

“liar. i heard that.”

sukuna slams his laptop shut. you squeal as he lifts you in his arms.

2. BIMBO DIARIES #2 : I WANNA TWERK ON THE FLO’ !

God has blessed gojo satoru with the gift of legwork. so just as david danced before the lord, gojo satoru dances on sigma-chi’s table with all his might.

with you right beside him, of course.

sigma-chi’s frat house is sweat-soaked bodies pressed together & neon lights on a friday evening. by the corner to the left, ryomen sukuna is watching you with a cup to his lips & bleary eyes.

on the center table, gojo is twirling you around with his chain glinting & cap tilted off. you cheer along with the crowd as the music switches to burna boy & gojo throws it back. nanami kento is somewhere near the bar, cheeks flushed & praying the wine’s strong enough to help him forget the sight.

“ryomen,” suguru’s voice is sudden beside him. “get your girl off that table. quickly.”

sukuna shoots him a side eye. “get your boyfriend off first.”

on the table you’re still cheering, grin clumsy, hair soaked against your neck & cup in your hands. sukuna catches your eye. you blow him a kiss but he keeps a straight face. you pout once & he raises a palm to catch it lazily before you beam & resume dancing like an episode character.

beside him, suguru doesn’t blink. “he’s not my boyfriend. and stop deflecting.”

“you let him sleep in your bed.”

“he has nightmares.”

“he has a crush on you.”

geto ignores his statement. “i’m not playing with you. i want her off the table now. she shouldn’t even be here—i told you no shein outfits in my frat house.”

as if on cue, toji walks by, 500% polyester shirt squeaking through the music. sukuna raises a brow.

“he’s a brother! i can’t do anything about it!”

“whatever you say, vice.” sukuna drawls, taking a swig from his cup. his eyes flit back to you on the table. you’re laughing away and still drunk & dancing, but now your knees are bruised & wobbly & his brows scrunch because you might fall any second.

you stumble—just once, just slightly, & ryomen sukuna is already moving.

he’s squeezing through drunk bodies now, alcohol sloshing around in his cup. ahead of him geto is already there, begging satoru to please come down. he sets his cup on a passing tray & he’s by your side at the table in seconds.

“kuna!” you cheer, eyes meeting his & still dancing. “hi, baby!”

“hi, beautiful,” his voice is soft as you dance your way over to him, heavy palms coming up to catch your hips. he looks up at your flushed cheeks & bright eyes before pressing a kiss to your thigh. “time to stop dancing.”

you squeak, jerking out of his hold to run away. “no—! i’m still having fun with satoru—“

you make about three steps before he catches your heel & tugs you into his chest.

“put me down, ryo!”

“no, you’re done.”

“no!” you’re whacking his chest as he shifts your thighs over his arms to carry you bridal style. “put me down! put! me! down!“

sukuna ignores you. “ryomen! i swear if you don’t put me down right now i’ll—“

“can you shut up for five seconds?”

ryomen sukuna is tired. bones limp, eyes bleary, neck rash red for no good reason. he knows he shouldn’t snap but the words seem to work because you go silent & still in his arms.

too still.

he won’t look down. it doesn’t matter anyway—you’ll get over it. he did it for the best & he doesn’t care if you cry because—

“fuck, wait—baby don’t cry,”

he’s much too late. your lashes are already tear rimmed & you’re squeezing his shirt while peering up at him with glossy eyes. sukuna bites his lip. god, what has he done?

“is it because i embarrass you?” you sniffle, lips wobbly & cheeks hot from the alcohol. “is that why you never let me dance?”

sukuna exhales, breath shaky, gaze pulling away from yours because he’s never been good at looking you in the eyes after making you cry.

“that’s not true and you know it,” he squeezes your thigh. “i don’t care about you dancing. i care about you not breaking your leg.”

you soften in his grip, peering up at him for a beat.

“kuna?”

“tell me.”

“i forgive you.”

sukuna scoffs, patting your hip. “thank you, angel. and geto is an idiot.” he mumbles the last part.

you’re still peeking up at him, still drunk & starry-eyed. “kuna.”

“tell me, baby.”

“i love you.”

ryomen sukuna kisses your hair. he doesn’t say it back but you feel it in how he grips you tighter.

3. BIMBO DIARIES #3 : DRESS UP DARLING !

the only thing between ryomen sukuna & his sunday afternoon nap is his beautiful girlfriend with her back against his chest.

sukuna is tired. on sundays like these he always is, limbs groggy & eyes heavy with sleep. he has his cheek in your neck & his arms around your waist. his back’s against the headboard and yours is on his own.

“kuna.”

“tell me.”

you turn to show him a jacket on your phone. “should i get this?”

sukuna nods. he parts his lips to speak but whatever he says is drowned out by sleep.

“kuna.”

“tell me, baby.”

“this pink dress, or the green one?”

sukuna squints. your screen is too bright in his face & he wants to tell you to move it away but he doesn’t. his thumb circles your hips, “green one.”

you frown, glaring at him. “are you mentally illiterate?”

sukuna blinks. he doesn’t know what that means. he wants to ask, but you likely don’t know either.

“you know i don’t like green.”

“so why was it even an option.”

you ignore him & turn back to scroll through your phone. he’s watching you click through items now with his thumb still brushing your hip. a top, some boots, a dress he knows you’ll wear once & never again—and the total only climbs up. by the time you’re done the total is $400. he can only hope you double checked it was CAD & not USD.

he closes his eyes against your neck, body limp & heavy with sleep.

“kuna.” your voice is warm in his ear.

“tell me.”

“i don’t actually want to buy all this.”

sukuna cracks an eye open. he’s still pressed against your neck, warm & half-awake, & he can see your lashes fluttering & cheeks swollen in the heat. he doesn’t ask what you mean—your voice beats him to it.

“i just wanted to buy something pretty,” you murmur, small & half-shy. “so i look pretty. for you.”

sukuna blinks. and then he sighs, because you’re silly & ridiculous & so fucking his.

“you always look pretty,” he mumbles lazily into your shoulder blade, eyes fluttering shut. “and you know this. i tell you every time.”

you bite your fingernail, turning a little to meet his head buried in your neck.

“kuna,”

“tell me.”

“i love you.”

ryomen sukuna only sighs. he’ll never say it back but you feel it in how he tugs you into his chest to lie on top of him.

you pout, “kuna.”

“tell me, baby.”

“can i still order it ?” you have your chin on his chest now, peering up at him through pretty lashes as sukuna tries, tries to go to sleep.

“order it, princess.”

“with your card ?”

sukuna grits his teeth. “with my card.”

BIMBO DIARIES , end.

© HEARTKAJI. do not steal, copy, edit, translate or reupload.

[belimah]

art by Shufen

[h0muncu1uss]

FROM AFAR

Pairing: Sukuna x fem!reader

Content: MDNI🔞, Jealous!Sukuna, Shy!Anxious!Reader, afab!reader! College au, porn w plot, implied!dubcon!possessiveness, smut, fingering, ‘car sex’, manhandling, slight corruption kink, pet names, yearner sukuna? unprofessed feelings etc.

wc . 2.9k

a/n: this was js supposed to be a short dabble but here we are :/ +++ sukuna fanart by me pls dont use w/o credit.

not proof read

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed at the sight, he was only there to drop something off for Yuuji. He had of course expected to come by you, seeing at his brother and you were pretty much attached at the hip, but not like this.

You were laughing, cheek’s flushed like you had just ran a mile. You weren’t fiddling like you usually did in his presence. Your smile warm, eyes squinting shut every time a giggle escaped you. The six-foot-something man in front of you had his hand grazing your forearm whilst the both of you humored whatever it was that you found so comical.

Sukuna was seething, a slow quiet kind of irritation bubbling within him. Out of all people of course it had to be Satoru Gojo that had you so carefree. A part of him knew the bastard was just trying to get under his skin. He had been doing it all week too, speaking of you too much, befriending you a little too easily for his liking, offering to drive you places.

After all, he was the one that figured out Sukuna’s little secret, long before he himself did. And yet, despite being aware of the man’s love for playful antics, his body moved before his mind could rationalize anything, walking right up to the both of you.

Gojo’s expression dropped a smidge before you even noticed Sukuna behind you and then you were being ripped away by your elbow. His grip was firm, barely contained. Threatening to bruise if it had been a little tighter, but you didn’t have time to complain, you couldn’t even if you wanted to, partially because you were already being led away and partially because the moment your eyes caught sight of the baby pink spiky hair it was as if all the breath from your lungs had been stripped away, your mouth felt dry, that was just the effect Sukuna had on the average person. You didn’t even need to look at his face to know that he was angry. At what exactly? you had no clue.

You had only had a handful of proper conversations with the man, despite having known him for a stretch of years that led all the way to the beginning of high school. Awkward conversations which were only plausible because he was Yuuji’s older brother. He made you nervous, you were already an anxious mess but with him it was somehow worse, you couldn’t quite explain why. Yes, he was intimidating, with all his tattoos and piercings, always carrying the same steady, unreadable expression, not to mention the way he towered over pretty much anyone you could imagine, his movements always too deliberate, controlled. All in all, the complete opposite of you and anyone you were accustomed to.

But it was more than that, you could never exactly place why. It’s not as if he was ever mean to you, not like he is with everyone else. So, why now was he so angry? What had you done to make him so displeased? The more you racked your brain the faster your heart raced.

He was still walking, long strides that had you stumbling to keep up with. He didn’t slow until the back door of his car was thrown open, the one he doesn’t let anyone touch never mind ride in. And yet within no time at all you found yourself placed inside. You blinked up at him, still outside, one hand placed over the hood, the other dragging down his face like he was groaning internally.

Even right now, dwindling between confusion and anxiety you couldn’t help but gawk up at him, couldn’t deny that he was just as attractive as the girls at campus made him out to be. Not a day went by where you didn’t hear whispers and murmurs about the 6’5” wall of pure muscle occasionally dropping by. Always detached, composed. Although right now, you were missing the cracks. Missing the way his fingers drummed a slow uneven rhythm against the metal of the hood, missing the subtle flex of his jaw, teeth pressing together, easing, then tightening again.

“Sukun-“

it happened before you could even begin to gather his expression, his lips crashing into yours. Angry, rough and unlike anything you had experienced before. You yelped, physically feeling the pause in your heart, Sukuna was kissing you. and he was growling, like he had been hungry for it.

His hand found its way to the back of your neck, sliding into your hair to softly yank your head back. Your lips parted in surprise, something between a whimper and a moan escaping them, but you couldn’t be embarrassed about it, not when he didn’t allow the insignificant feeling to settle. Because you had better things to be feeling in this moment, like the way his tongue felt slipping into your mouth, invasive and curious. A flash of hot and cold, you felt it before you had ever even known he had it, the small metal ball rolling against your tongue.

You felt dizzy, maybe because your vision was blurring, your mind clouded over with no room for any thoughts to creep at all. You could barely breathe, as if even that had been forgotten. You couldn’t even recall exactly how and when he got into the back seat too? How were you now left straddling him? You didn’t understand and a part of you couldn’t be bothered to care.

“w-wait” you gasped between kisses. Did he hear you? Did you even say it aloud? You weren’t sure you had, just that it felt good, the way he was kissing you, now slower and deeper, big hands gripping your waist, rolling your hips down onto him with barely any effort.

His lips traveled along your jaw, down your neck, biting occasionally. Was he planning on eating you whole? It was an irrational feeling but it was there nonetheless. Because right now that’s exactly what it felt like. Like he was consuming your every sense.

“Sukuna wh-what-“ you heard yourself stutter again, breathless. But he didn’t. It was as though he wasn’t entirely there, too intoxicated now that he was finally touching you to pay mind to anything else.

“so perfect” he whispered against your neck. Surely you didn’t hear that right? and surely it wasn’t directed at you?

“turn around” The words barely left his mouth before he was flipping you over himself, positioning you with your back now pressed against his chest. His hand wrapping around your throat, making you tilt your head back so he could kiss you again, softer this time. Sharp eyes now half lidded and glazed over. The moment seemed to stretch enough to where you realized you hadn’t ever held his gaze this long. Hadn’t realized how crimson his eyes really were. You were fighting to keep your eyes open, because if you were to look away then how could you be certain that this was all real. But it felt like it, the way he was touching you had you seeing stars.

His other hand slipped between your thighs, making goosebumps rise in its wake. You couldn’t even bring yourself to squeeze your legs together like your instincts would’ve wanted, too weak in the knees.

“say it” he rasped, his rough fingers barely grazing your pussy through your panties, you whimpered, completely dazed now. Only now realizing that you had decided on wearing a skirt today and it only made it more accessible for Sukuna to do as he pleases. You could feel the heat crawling its way up your face and that only got worse once he decided your panties were not necessary. You heard the rip before you could put two and two together, “so fucking wet”

You bit your lip, “Sukuna please”

He was toying with you now, teasing and rubbing. The sight of his big tattooed hand stroking your pussy sent a shiver down your spine, “say it.”

“mh- w-what”

“say you’re mine.” you moaned, ears ringing. Everything he did, said, completely unpredictable.

He slid a finger inside and you squirmed at the stretch, failing to suppress little pants and whimpers. “You’re okay” Melting against him like his words were gospel. Like nothing else existed.

You couldn’t quite tell how much time had passed with you wriggling in his lap, it started out slow, then faster and then he slowed down again just so he could ease another one of his thick fingers inside until you were bucking your hips, meeting the torturous thrusts. Tears brimming and sticking to your lashes, you were so close.

“again”

“m-yours” it’s all he had you babbling while he fucked you, fingers curving against every sensitive spot you were unaware you had.

“again, pretty girl”

“im yours please, please s-kuna” you whined, he had made a mess of you, you didn’t know it could feel this good. Fat globs of tears poured down your reddened cheeks while he rubbed the pad of his thumb against your clit.

You could feel how hard he was underneath you, dick throbbing against your round ass every time he heard your voice. Your stomach flipped and fluttered at the feel of his sheer size, pussy involuntarily clenching around his fingers. He groaned against the shell of your ear and it only made you gush more than you already were.

It felt like he was punishing you. Or maybe even himself.

Whispering soft nothings in your ear, filthy things he had no business saying. Things that had you feverish and coming undone in no time. Your legs trembled as you came, white flashing behind your eyes as you finally went limp in his lap.

You woke up after what felt like a pleasant nap finding yourself in your apartment, all cozy and tucked in bed. A part of you wanted to believe that it had all been a dream, something obscene your mind had conjured up simply because it could. It’s not like it hadn’t happened before. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t had dreams about your best friend’s older brother. Each one leaving you more mortified than the last. But that didn’t stop your mind from getting more and more audacious.

The delusion was quickly swept away once your phone buzzed. A text from Satoru.

Satoru : u okay sweets?

Satoru : what was that about?

sorry i fell asleep :(

you quickly typed out, still a little drowsy.

what are you talking about?

Satoru : Sukuna?

You felt dizzy again just seeing his name on the screen. There was no way that it actually happened right? you and Sukuna Ryomen, in the back of his car.

You spent the next two days confined in the discomfort of your shared apartment, drifting in a quiet spiral. Plagued by a thousand thoughts and even more questions. Replaying the scenario in your mind over and over hoping to reach some sort of an understanding, a conclusion. Anything to help you make sense of it.

It was late in the evening when you heard a knock at the front door, you almost dismissed it, thinking you had imagined it entirely. But another one followed soon after. Reluctantly you dragged yourself to the door. opening it mindlessly.

A flash of pink and you were frozen.

“god i was so worried”

your shoulders slumped, relaxing at the realization.

It was yuji. A black duffel bag swung over his shoulder from the roadtrip he had taken with one of his friends. Consumed by your own predicament it had completely slipped your mind that he was returning today. A part of you was glad to have been alone for the last couple days, it had given you time to process, time to cool off, or so you thought.

“Where have you been, you never miss your classes?”

His brows furrowed as he stepped inside, scanning you head to toe as if he were dissecting, trying to locate any cause of distress.

“Are you okay?” he spoke softly, genuine worry lacing his words. You could feel your eyes welling up against your will. You had truly missed him and the sense of comfort his presence always left you with.

“Hey no, no why are you crying?” he dropped his bags immediately, stepping closer.

“…I don’t know” you sniffled while he rubbed your shoulders.

“No tell me, what’s wrong?” Yuuji bent down to be at eye level with you.

“you flinched.”

“what?”

“when you saw me.” he was staring intently. “…What happened?”

That was all it took for the dams to break, you were sobbing before you knew it. “no, no, no, it’s okay,” he said pulling you to his chest “it’s okay, tell me what happened i’ll fix it.”

“Suk-kuna’s mad at me” you hiccuped between sobs, Yuuji stiffened.

“What?”

“don’t know, what I d-did but-“

“You didn’t do anything for fuck’s sake, what did he say to you?”

You quietened, the fact that this was his brother you were talking to and not simply your best friend now dawning upon you.

“I-“

He saw the hesitance. Noticed the quiver of your lip. “it’s okay, forget it.” he offered you a small smile, knowing you weren’t going to open up, not to him and not about this. “Let’s just get some food in you yeah? i brought your favorite.”

The two of you spent the rest of the night cuddled up on the couch, watching some corny rom-com he knew you liked and stuffing your faces.

He kept glancing at you, both with and irritation that he was desperately trying to suppress. What could have possibly happened during the little time he was away, for Sukuna to be so, himself. And with you of all people.

He loved his brother sure, But Sukuna was an asshole and even Yuuji was subject to that at times. He was tough, but that’s exactly why he was his rock.

It just pissed him off because you didn’t deserve to undergo his unfiltered hostility. Or anyone else’s for that matter.

You weren’t like most people, you were kinder, sweeter, and four times as sensitive. You could read people at a glance, could tell exactly what they were feeling and why. What drove them, what they would do if ever given the chance. Maybe that is exactly why Sukuna terrified you. Because no matter how hard you tried you couldn’t take a peek into his mind. And it only made you want to curl up in your little shell.

Yuji looked at you again, yawning, at the brink of sleep. He only felt at ease now that you had visibly relaxed.

Which is why he couldn’t even bring himself to be patient and wait till morning, no matter how tired he had been after his long drive back.

“What did you do?”

Sukuna was smoking on the balcony when Yuuji barged in. He took a long drag before giving him a look, a look that if directed at anyone else it would’ve had them scurrying off to whatever hole they crawled out of. But Yuuji was used to it.

“y/n” he spoke, throwing him an accusatory look back, “what did you say to her?”

Sukuna raised his brow, stubbing his cigarette out. Yuuji failed to notice how he had stilled for a second too long at the mention of your name.

“nothin’”

“so, nothing to make her cry and lock herself up?”

“She was crying?” His heart was betraying him, any other girl and Sukuna wouldn’t even have entertained the conversation. But with you, he could feel his chest tighten and it only irked him more.

“why do you care? you’re the one that has her anxious out of her mind that you’re mad at her or somthin’, whatever that means. So what exactly happened between the two of you?”

Sukuna cursed under his breath. Recalling his utter lack of control.

“what is up with you? you’ve never been mean to her before. You know how she is right?”

Yuuji found it a bit odd how his brother didn’t seem to have anything to say, and Sukuna always had something to say. A curt “shut up, brat” or “it doesn’t matter,” but right now the man was just listening, actually giving him the time of day.

“look man,” Yuuji sighed, rubbing his temples, “she’s not like all those other girls you’re cruel to because they throw themselves at you or whatev-”

“I’ll say sorry”

“no, none of that bullshit, you cant just- wait, what?”

“I said I’ll talk to her, brat”

Yuuji would have smiled if his jaw wasn’t on the floor, his arrogant, dismissive, asshole of a brother that definitely thought he was above everyone else bending because he hurt your feelings?

“you promise you’ll apologize and not scare the shit out of her like you usually do?”

“i don’t scare the shit out of her?” Sukuna retorted, clearly offended.

“Those muscles are really all you have, aren’t they?”

“Shut up” Sukuna rolled his eyes. moving towards the younger man to give him a shove towards the door, “get out now, i gotta sleep”

“you still haven’t promised!”

“fuck fine, promise I’ll fix it so fuck off already”

“good boy!”

Now he was just getting cocky. So when Sukuna landed a kick square in his back to get him to leave his apartment, even Yuuji thought he had it coming.

hihi i haven’t written in so long & i am sooo rusty bc this honestly took me an embarrassingly long time to compose. But I hope u enjoyed reading! No idea where I’m going w this or if there will be a part two but asks and suggestions are always welcome and appreciated!!! ps comment if u wanna be on the taglist ty!! xoxo

[rivypetals]

melting into the kiss trend with bf!kuna 𑣲

“fuck is this about?” he asked as his gaze stayed on the screen, the camera already recording. you giggled, a sound he’d once admitted was his favorite with all its sweetness, and he sighed deeply, already accepting defeat. because who the hell did he think he was, before his sweet girl he’d certainly burn the whole world for?

“you’ll see.” you mumbled, a playful grin stretching across your face. the camera angle was already perfect, catching both his figure and every grumpy expression, but you kept checking it just to be sure.

you had stumbled across the trend while scrolling, knowing your boyfriend probably hadn’t since he avoided social media like the plague, claiming that place was full of dimwits. from the moment you’ve seen the trend, you’ve always wanted to try it. and now, quite late to the trend, he stood there with his hands shoved into his pockets, an amused look resting on his features, about to partake in a trend he wasn’t even aware of.

after checking the camera one more time, you made your way over, still giggling with a disturbingly joyous tone.

“you sound fucking evil.” he groaned at the sight of your grin since he was already familiar with the scene, aware that you were planning something.

you stopped in front of him, your eyes were sparkling with joy and you were barely containing your laughter. he, visibly defeated, also smiled warmly, a sweet gesture he only ever showed to you. the stretch on his lips could’ve looked unfamiliar to anyone else, but to you it was known and comforting. a gesture so unlike him yet so much of him. so much of a part of him only you knew.

you gently took his arms, lifting them above his head. “the hell?” he asked, but you simply shrugged, making sure he keeps them there. for a moment, you also enjoyed the vision, his tight tee clinging onto his huge biceps and stretching the poor fabric.

then you tangled your fingers into his short, pinkish hair, and rose onto your tiptoes to meet his lips. the moment your lips caught his, he let out a low groan, straight from his chest.

his hands dropped almost instantly. they smoothly found your hips, pulling you against him, his warmth seeping through his hands to your body.

you’d guessed he would probably lower his arms as he openly disliked listening to others, but then again he had built an habit of obeying you over the years you were together —and still, even if he did lower them, you hadn’t expected it to be this quick.

“kuna you are so weak-“ you barely breathed the words with a pleased laugh out before he cut you off, crashing his lips onto yours again with aggressive yet careful moves.

“babe, let me breathe— okay the trends over-“ you tried to speak, laughing against his moist lips, as his hands wandered all over your body.

“trend?” he muttered, merely pulling back as his lips still hovered over yours, his brows furrowing, and you laughed.

“mhmm, to see if you’d melt into the kiss. you are sooo weak baby.” he glanced at the camera, and rolled his eyes as he finally understood the situation. even so he kept his hands on yours again hips, his grip tightening just slightly.

“yeah,” he said, a wicked grin tugging at his lips, “so fucking weak.” he said, before leaning in to kiss you again, with a warm look in his eyes, an amused glint beneath his gaze.

[tonycries]

SIDE TO SIDE!

Synopsis. How many rounds till you’re begging to tap out? Well…

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, marathons, overstím, manhandIing, rough s, headIocks, FÉRAL JJK men, dúmbifícation, running from it, ratio technique, use of jujutsu techniques, chokíng spítting, p talking, true form Sukuna, dp, Choso with píercings, GOJO’S POWERS, creampíes, cúmplay, slight cúmfIation, pet names, swéaring.

A/N. OvuIation started…

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - 4 rounds

It felt like it’s been decades. Eons. 

And Toji’s still rendering you dumb with his vulgar, sloppy strokes.

Over and over he had you riding him dry, probin’ into tight orifices so deep that it has your thighs tremoring over his muscular waist. Glued to him. Driven wild. With your spit-glossed mouth hanging agape, voice coming out in panted puffs- “P-please, oh, ngh-”

“Tch, dirty girl.” He’s snarling from underneath you, rough palm coming up flatly to cover your mouth, pushing those wads of saliva back in. He snickers as you gurgle nonsensically, “What? Got something to say t’me?”

You nod, “S’been like f-four rounds, how are you still hck! going?” Almost on cue, the red, squelching end of his shaft throbs.

“Hm…” Toji pretends to think, and his other hand slide-slide-slides down the front of your tummy. Pushing down just as his plump tip bullies into your tightest spots—whack! “But I don’t think we’ve made Megumi a big brother yet, mama?”

His heavenly restriction didn’t just increase his strength - it increased his stamina, too. And you were bearing the brunt of it.

And like he’s proving his point, the doughy mountain of his palm presses gently- almost playfully. 

Making you gush out cobwebs of syrupy white sap, your entrance letting go of everything he’d stuffed into you from all those hours prior. He mockingly pouts, “Look at that. She’s all empty.”

“Is that why you’ve been s-so…” You’re lost for words, because now not only was he smashing into your cunt at a rude pace- he also had his hand clawing down your front. Feeling his thick, veiny cock bulging inwards. “-insatiable?”

“Heh, maybe,” he grins. And it’s one that looks so devilish, looking up at you through shaggy, sweat-covered bangs. “And the other part of it is that m’fucking addicted to this sweet pussy. And m’not sorry about it.”

And he was fucking you like it, too. 

Like he was scraping his puffy veins into spots you didn’t even know you had- banging his wet, blushin’ cockhead against your cervix n’ still reaching for more. Toji could bottom-out on your pussy and still want more, more, more-

“I-I don’t even know if I can- oh.” You’re completely breathless, head throwing back as your hips start gyrating back into his thrusts.

It’s a small, slurping rhythm that makes his raven brows raise in interest. Looking down at the way your bouncing figure-eights make a line of cum start streaming between your legs. “Would you look at that, four rounds n’ she still wants- hah, more. She’s a greeeeedy lady, I know she’d love a fifth round, wouldn’t she, doll?”

One of his calloused thumbs runs down your slivery slit, gathering up the dampness and popping it into his mouth. You whine as his scarred lips raise into a sleazy grin.

“What? Don’t think so?” He’s letting off raspy groans, abs flexing after each jackhammer. Poking into your sweetest spots.

You don’t know whether you’re nodding, you don’t know whether you’re shaking your head- maybe begging. But, instantly, both of his large hands latch onto the small of your waist. A firm grip on you. Unyielding. 

And Toji’s just so strong that he doesn’t even have to try to raise your poor, twitching body up, up, up on the glazed inches of his cock—and then slam you back down again. Manhandling you. Roughening you up. 

Both of his big, beefy arms swell with veins n’ strength, and you’re ogling just how unintentionally sexy he looks as he’s sliding his throbbing girth into you repeatedly - green eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, nose crinkled. 

The burrowing head of his cock finds itself pushin’ sensually against your g-spot, like a button. And Toji spits, seething, breathy, “Yeahhhh–just like that, mama. I told you- I told you she could t-take it.” You’re so far gone that you don’t even revel in the fact that the squeezing of your slicked, gummy walls made the Toji Fushiguro stutter.

And every driving bash makes cum splosh ‘round you like a whirlpool, his incessant cock pushing those knots even deeper. “Gonna make her- gonna- fuck, you’re not leaving this bed until you make me a daddy.”

Something about those words itch such a carnal part of your brain - especially when you’re being fucked exceptionally stupid like this.

It twinges, and you can feel the bubble building up from your drippin’ wet pussy. “Toji- oh, don’t talk like that, I think m’gonna c-cum.” But the only problem was that you didn’t even know if you could cum. Orgasm after orgasm.

“Don’t know if you can?” Shit- you’d clearly spoken that last part out loud, too cockdrunk right about now. And your husband certainly disagreed. Toji scoffs, “Don’t know if you can? Don’t- hah, underestimate your husband.” 

And one of his filthy thumbs was glued back between your swollen folds, smearing them apart so that his pursed lips can spit. A targeted wad of saliva that still connects to his sneering lips for a few seconds.

It makes you shiver- as you’re opening your mouth to shrill, he’s then shutting you up with yet another pearly streamline of spit. This time straight into your maw. “There- a lil’ motivation.”

That pummeling pace of his only grows wilder, shoving into your g-spot and down the spongy layer of your womb. He was damn near rubbin’ himself raw on your velvety walls. 

You can barely even control the lines of tears that streak down your cheeks, explosions of pleasure each time he was delving between your pussylips like a madman. “Oh my god-” Your back arches cutely into his touch, your skin stinging where it was coming into contact with his scruffy happy trail. “I think I’m- fuck, I might-”

“Cum f’me, doll?” Toji interrupts your cracking whines, slightly looking up at you through his lashes. “Please?”

And it was that- overstimulated, oversensitive, and having Toji pleading for your sappy pussy to orgasm all over his cock that you finally do. Your eyes immediately shuttering, a cry ripping from your throat at the intensity.

Spearheading your tight walls with his girthy circumference- it was just too adorable how your cunt kept clinging onto him. Pulsing after each graze of his veins, those lightning-shaped lines that opened up your hidden crevices.

He’s flicking his thumb over your clit to elongate the peaks of your high, roll after roll of his hips accompanying it. You don’t think you’ve ever cum harder in your life—“Oh, Toji that felt s-so–” And then your breath catches, and so do your gyratin’ hips.

Because you’re feeling the split, pre-trickling end of his shaft suddenly flinch. Suddenly jolt. And it feels as though Toji’s slathering all your insides with his gluey cum- except you don’t feel any of it gushing out. 

And your jaw drops, hastening to blink your vision back into your murky peripherals. “Toji, baby, did you just-”

“Cum dry, yeah yeah—” He’s gruffing out, though there’s a note in his baritone voice that sounds like it’s shaking. “Consider it me being- ngh, nice to this overfilled lil’ pussy here.” Emphasizing his point with a glissading motion upwards, letting his thick cum from before dribble down into a puddle. “M’being such a good husband, aren’t I?”

Hiccuping, still facing the zaps of electricity from your high running down your spine. “Y-yes-” You yelp then- faced with the sudden thwack! of his globular tip hitting your cervix, almost harder than before.

“And I’d make an even better dad to our kids.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - 8 rounds

“Do you need to hold onto me, darling?” Nanami whispers huskily against the tender shell of your ear, and before you can even answer, he’s tightening his hold.

Tightening his…headlock.

Strong, beefy arms dangling your limp body off of the bed as if you were weightless, his chiselled abs pressing into your back. Nanami was bent over you until you were struggling against the pure pressure of him, the pure pressure of his pummeling cock. 

He dips his hips into you from behind, round cocktip swabbing your squishy insides. “I’ve- hah, got you, my love. Your Kento’s got you.”

“O-oh, fuck, Kento.” You’re babbling out near-incoherently, having his slick, vein-covered shaft rudely piercing in and out of you. He was just so big that each thrust had you spilling out sploshes of drool in a puddle underneath, gnawing stupidly at the pillows. 

And his stamina—oh, his stamina was both the best and the worst thing. 

Because your sweet, loving husband could go on for hoooours. Probin’ you with his constantly rock-hard cock, aching and ravenous to plunge inside you over n’ over. And he didn’t even realize this inhuman effect he had on you-

Lovingly, tenderly murmuring to you, “I’ve always got you, y’know?” All the while his vicious hips were slamming into you so hard that you can feel the line of his golden happy trail start to rub your skin raw. “My beautiful wife.”

“N-ngh, please-” You mewl out through your tears, your maw gaping open with a sheen of slick saliva that dribbles all down his forearm. A decoration he gladly accepts. “I don’t even know if I can, ngh, cum anymore-”

Nanami hums thoughtfully from behind you, brows knitting into an expression of concern. “Then we can stop, darling-”

“But I don’t want to-”

The words depart from your dumbstruck lips before you can even register them - you can’t help it. The probin’ sensation of Nanami’s cock just made you overly honest, each time his thick, pulsing veins massaged your sweetest spots. 

Just following your cockdrunk words, your husband hears the loudest, most lecherous sluuuurp! that makes him look down in slight surprise.

Coming to find that you’d clenched ‘round his bulky base even tighter, with your swollen folds just drenched in a layer of shiny slick. You were swallowing up each solid thrust so well, and he couldn’t help but gulp as he’s thumbing apart your pussylips. 

Huffing out a groan, a gasp, burrowed cockhead twitching. 

He finally utters, after a few more repeated slams, “Then- then if I may…” And before you know it, you’re sinking down into the cushy mattress because Nanami has set you free of his primal headlock.

For one second. Two. Right before he’s gripping onto your two wrists and and hoisting you back up, at an even deeper angle that lets the curved end of his shaft maze right into your cervix. Direct hit after hit. 

Nanami’s pounding straight into you in midair, like he’s furious- like he’s taking it out on your teary cunt. And you can only blabber out in whines, your voice breaking at the back of your throat. “Shit- shit, Kento, it feels so—ngh.”

“Don’t need to do anything, my love.” Hitched, he grunts, using every ounce of that manhandling strength to plunge into your dribbling orifice. “Don’t need to stay up- don’t need to fuck back- fuck, just let me do it alllll. Let me make you feel good.”

And he was.

It was always around this eighth round that something in the stern, sensible Nanami Kento snapped. Something in him was primal- and he was letting his cursed energy seep into you like no other. 

Each whacking jackhammer striking your g-spot so precisely that you’re starting to believe it might be his ratio technique. Zaps of electricity simmering under his palms, you yelp, “You’re- hah! you’re doing that- thing- again-”

So gone that he doesn’t even realize. Not until you’re moaning and bucking underneath him like so–

It’s then that he chuckles darkly, refining that stream of cursed energy to accurately bash in your favorite hidden geysers. “And doesn’t it feel so gooood, my love?” He doesn’t think he could control his jujutsu technique right now even if he tried. Plump, puckered kisses being pressed into your sweetest spots inside.

You squirm your hips, unable to take the sheer pleasure of him probin’ your fragile areas; to which he’s instantly responding by letting go of your wrists. 

You’re whining in disappointment, just about to swivel your head around to look at him- when Nanami’s forcing your head back down with the heel of his foot. Attaching onto the crown of your scalp, he’s weighing your wriggly hips down with his own. 

Pushing you down.

Bending you in ways you don’t think you’ve ever even heard of before - it might just be the roughest out of all those rounds. Because his velveteen length lodges meanly up against your soft cervix, bruising a cute lil’ circle of his fat tip. 

This changed angle was just perfect for him to spearhead his red, raw shaft between your folds. And it didn’t matter how overstimulated he was, he shoves his cock into you ruthlessly.

“Eight.” You hear - almost distantly, almost faintly - from behind you. Nanami’s guttural breaths coming out in heaves each time he’s pushin’ his way inside. A thin line of his sweat trickles from one temple and hits the back of your arched spine. “Eight rounds.”

Blinking tearily, the pressure on top of your woozy head only seems to grow- and so does the one down there. Especially when one of his thickly padded fingertips comes to tease your throbbing clit. Hard. Nanami breathes—oh-so-serious, oh-so-ruined

♡ GETO SUGURU - 5 ½ rounds

The sloppy squelches echoing from the in-betweens of your legs were just so sinful—they’re bouncing off the walls and ringing in your ears.

Making your squirm as Geto plunges his long tongue between your pussylips like an animal. He’s lavishing the swollen forefront of your cunt, licking up each knot of cum that dribbles out. Glide after sensual glide. 

You’re seeing sparks behind your eyes- and he’s only getting up after making sure that you’re licked allllll clean. Glissading the honed tip of his tongue in a few circles ‘round your clit just for good measure, Geto stands and wipes the mess off his lips. “So…”

You can barely even react- barely even register his fluid motions as one of his pale, strong forearms reach out and grip your throat in a chokehold. Finishing off, “-ya still want another round, gorgeous?”

“P-please-” You’re babbling out, and if this was any other time then you’d have felt embarrassed about the hitched, whiny way your words kept coming out. Hips thrusting off of the creaky mattress-

“P-p-please what?” He’s rolling his eyes, seeing your animalistic jerks and immediately pinning one palm down your front to keep you still. To tease you. “Speak up, girl.”

But the problem was that you couldn’t - not when you could feel Geto’s plump, puckered tip resting between your pussylips. Slide-slide-sliiiding back and forth playfully, you could count each of his throbbing veins in your head.

And when you’re not reacting fast enough for him, he plucks both your jittery legs and throws them over one of his broad deltoids. Pinning them close to his tensed core with strong arms, Geto’s starting to sink his way inside—“Or s’this you tapping out, hah?”

The stretch- oh, the stretch is so incredible that you can feel it all the way down in your toes. Curling. 

Rimming your first ring of muscle to the maximum, with his curvaceous globe pinpointing its way inside. It felt as if you were being molded to his sheerly massive girth- “No- ngh, not tapping out.” Completely talking from your needy cunt. And he knew that.

“Good.”

Geto doesn’t hesitate- he doesn’t even stutter before immediately reeling his powerful hips back and delving the entirety of his thick, aching cock. Bulging your poor insides like never before, you’re whining at the sudden intrusion.

“F-fuck!” Mouth watering, your tastebuds sizzle with the sensation as if he’s poking into your very lungs. Spearheading. 

And he doesn’t wait for you to even accustom yourself to the size of him before moving—rapid, hard half-thrusts. Not even pulling all the way out because his savagely needy cock couldn’t handle it, positively craving that carnal part of you.

“Yeah- yeah yeah yeah–” He’s whispering underneath his breath, slightly broken with how many times he’s done this throughout the night, yearning for more. The drivelling end of his shaft hits your cervix with a thorough bash! and you can feel your legs grow weaker, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

And Geto can too- fuck, he’s tugging upon both of your trembling legs and wrapping them ‘round his motioning hips. Making you feel the pull and flex of his obliques, “Don’t you think you’re going anywhere- fuck, don’t you dare run.”

“I’m- I’m not—”

Only pulling you in further with his incredible strength, until your sopping wet cunt hits the front of his soaked happy trail with a pap! of skin-on-skin. “Then where are, ngh, we going, huh?”

You could barely even grind your bouncy hips up n’ down without him chasing after. Desperate. Shivering as he then removes one hand to slide a thumb down your sloppy slit, listening to the watery noises you let off. “So jumpy- I needa fuck that out of you, gorgeous-” Suddenly, a dopey smile breaks across his face. “Though, I guess I a-already am, huh?”

“Ngh- fuck, it feels t-too good—” He was rendering you practically immobile, unable to think about anything but the bliss that takes over you after each scrape of his ruby-red slit down your g-spot.

Perfectly angled- Geto was just so good at teasing you with his hips. His cadence is not too soft against your sweetest spots so it leaves you satiated, but not too hard so that it leaves you wanting more. Just toying. Probing. 

You’re attempting to pathetically fuck your hips back to him in pursuit of more friction, but he snaps a hand to your neck and holds on firmly. Each of his five fingers digging into your throat. 

Geto raises a sassy brow, “I said where are- hah, we going?” He’s pushing against the entrance to your womb and you’ve never felt so gone. So sensitive. It just makes you so much wetter, gushing out of you like a sheen—“oh?” Cracking a sleazy grin, “Aren’t you embarrassed? Being s-sooo fuckin’ wet? Bet the entire association can hear, the way you’re like a damn, mmm, waterpark f’me.”

Harder and harder- he can’t stop.

One hand squeezing your airway, the other clawing down your stomach. 

Pressing dooooown just as he’s sliding his incredibly thick, veiny cock inside- it’s enough to make you flatly anchor your feet onto the bed and push off. And attempt to escape - only to be dragged right back by the hand on your throat, like some whiny lil’ ragdoll. “Fuck- nghhh, fuck- it’s almost too much-” But you wanted more. How could you not?

“And the way you’re clinging t’me? Cheh-” Geto continues, as if he never even realized. As if he’s so far gone that he doesn’t even register when he’s pulling you back, “-she’s in love.” 

Flabbergasted, you’re looking up at him with a gaped mouth- only to find that Geto’s is parted, as well. His heady eyes half-lidded, mouth swollen, eyes teary, blushing. You’ve never seen him like this.

And you could’ve sworn that the dark pupils in his peripherals had taken on the shape of hearts by now. Staring right at you with a loving gaze, it only takes a few more vicious pumps before your eardrums suddenly fill with a loud snap!

Heads whirling to the source of the noise to find that the bed was tilted unevenly on one side - it was broken. He broke the bed.

And by the way your boyfriend was looking at you- you were next. Scooping you into his powerful arms in one motion, you’re being laid flat in the same position on the fucking floor. Right next to your bed, Geto’s heavy weight pressing you into the frigid ground. 

His hand once again finds its position at your throat, and - instead of moving himself - he uses the leverage to pull you down onto his cock in a sloppy drag. “Oh, you’re not going anywhere, gorgeous girl.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - 6 rounds

“F-fuck—” Choso whispers in a hoarse pant, his baritone dipping even lower. “Fuck, ngh, it feels so good…”

“Aww, baby—” Your voice is nearly drowned out by the damp squelches being reeled out of your cunt, over and over as he just slides his blushin’ pink tip between your pussylips. 

The fatness of his crown lodges a little against your entrance and Choso whines at the way you clench around nothing. Missing out. Surging his blood manipulation technique even harder to, well, get harder. “Won’t be long, baby–” Practically giddy at the wetness pouring from your swollen core. “Promise it- ngh, won’t be long.”

“Cho, baby, you don’t have to force yourself- we can do other- hck!” Your breath hitches when he gives your slick-glittered pussy a firm spank. Just to make you shut up - don’t even think about it.

He’s insisting oh-so-sincerely, “But I can- and I want to…” It’s just been hoooours of running his poor, overworked cock raw on your velveteen walls. And the sole problem with your pussy was that it was so easy to get addicted. He was addicted. “Promise I can- promise I will.”

One of his ringed fingers scrapes down your front, drawing an invisible line- he pokes right where he’d now memorized your sultry womb was. Pressing in. A target. 

Sensually, you feel him mark a little ‘X’ on that spot, like a treasure map. “Promise I’ll be r-riiiiight here- hngh!”

And then he’s sinking in with ease - so overstimulated that the first red, swollen inch being pumped inside your cunt is enough to make him tear up. 

Big, bulbous tears that run down his handsome face. Dripping from the point of his chin and onto your skin underneath, he just looks so pretty like this. Long lashes shimmering, puffy lips wobbling, his brows scrunching together as he’s holding you down and pushing his girth all the way back into you. 

“Yes…” he whispers, more to himself than you. “Yes yes yes- just like that- l-luckily number s-six, ngh.” He’s been saying this for hooours now, and you’re starting to wonder whether the one begging for mercy should be him and not you.

The round orifice at the end of his shaft mazes its way inside like a searchlight, perfectly fitting against where your g-spot was- and the worst part of it all? Choso was pierced- with a studded Prince Albert’s piercing on his mushroomy tip that dabs your nooks n’ crannies. And makes you clench.

You throw your jittering arms around him and squeeze him with your clingy walls so tight that a ragged groan leaves the back of Choso’s throat. To muffle it, he’s burying his face into the crook of your neck- and you can feel him pant, feel him wrench out a broken whisper of your name.

Right before Choso Kamo bottoms out and cums.

Just from the primal feeling of being back inside you - he’s squirting out thin, wiry ribbons of cum that stick to the base end of your pussy like glue. Smearing around until the puckered folds of your cunt start to spray out with all that ivory sap. That’s when Choso’s snarling down, spitting.

Thumbing away the excess before he’s plugging your entrance back up, fucking each n’ every drop back inside. “It- fuck, look what you’ve done- made me cum like this. Just from putting it inside.” So overstimulated that he was barely even leaking out half the volume he did in the first round, and yet it’s never hit so hard.

His orgasm making him ride out peak after peak on your sopping wet pussy until Choso’s jolting at the feeling of him cumming dry. Red, bulging cocktip jolting but nothing was coming out anymore, just enough to slosh ‘round the mess he’s made inside. 

But that didn’t mean he was going to stop. Not even close. 

His bursts of jujutsu technique are growing even wilder- and Choso hasn’t even finished pounding out the last of his high before his buzzing energy starts to envelope the both of your glissading bodies. Coating it. Making his hot length bulge harder-

With a grumbling grunt, he’s then starting to rut into you like a madman. “It sh-should be illegal for a pussy to feel this- ngh, good, y’know?”

Until the bed was singing out in creaks and so were you, until your eyes were rolled all the way to the back of your skull. With his free hand clamoring over to the top of your scalp, Choso pushes you down following each recoil of his honed thrusts. Lower lip jutting out, “It’s u-unfair. I’m just addicted. My cock is just addicted.”

“I can- ngh! Tell-” You attempt to give him a teasing smile, but the only thing your mouth can do is open into a cockdrunken ‘oh!’

He’s using the moment to his advantage, simply spitting a glittery wad between your lips. Then gently lifting off one hand to push your mouth clothed - he was serious. So serious, in fact, that you could feel the cursed energy simmering through his body.

Making his long, hard length even harder. Puffing up his zig-zagged veins until the pattern was all you could feel on your walls, memorize. Swelling his flared, mushroom tip up even more- you swear you could feel him probin’ all the way into your lungs.And he was just making you take it. All with a wobbly smile, he’s so pussydrunk by now that he can’t stop himself from confessing. “Oh, baby, you have no idea. I can’t…I can’t stop.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 9 rounds

The King of Curses doesn’t think he’s seen anything hotter- anything cuter. 

With your eyes criss-crossing each time his dual crowns plunge furiously into your pussy, your hands grappling for purchase anywhere. Everywhere. Ultimately resting on the generous surface of his pectorals, you’re squeezing them for dear life and he can’t help but snicker.

Perking his hips further upwards to probe your clenchin’ innards, “Keh, what’s this?” You’re the one riding him, but he’s the one driving you positively wild. 

With his matching, vein-covered cocks sliding up against your tight walls and each other. You’re so far gone that you barely even realize that Sukuna’s noticed your little hold, a clawed hand coming over your own. “No milk’s gonna come out of there, brat.” He’s rolling his eyes as you drool stupidly all over his pecs. 

“N-none at all?” You’re starin’ up at him with wide, disappointed eyes. And your hips bounce down even harder to hit his muscular pelvis with a spank! as if you were trying to disprove what he just said. 

“Someone’s still eager after nine rounds.”

And he’s taking a few sultry nanoseconds to simply admire it before manhandling your body underneath his. Flipping the two of you over. Throwing your wobbly legs over his shoulders.

He’s got you bent in half underneath him in a proper mating press before spearing the fat girths of his lengths deep inside you. “Unless…” Sukuna puffs out, through a sleazy snarl. And out of his four hands, two of them rest upon your sensitive tits. Squeezing. Groping. “We could try n’ get you pregnant, lil’ human. See how you like it, huh?”

Something hitches at the back of your throat at his suggestion - and Sukuna was certainly fucking you like he meant it.

Letting the sharp, black-tinted edges of his nails scrape your skin gently each time he was teasin’ your tits. Roll after roll of his calloused thumbs to peak your nipples, making you whimper, “Yeah? How about it? After nine rounds you’re- ngh, bound ta be pregnant. Don’tcha think, brat?”

“B-but—” Clawing your own hands up his pectorals- this position just gave you the perfect view to grab a greedy hold. You were just so gone by now, by this nth round, that you didn’t even know what you were babbling out. What you were hoping for.

And Sukuna’s realizing, too, letting his spit-slicked lips open with a chuckle. Your smaller, human hands sliding up n’ down his chiselled body – thoroughly ripped, Herculean. 

He’s so much bigger than you, folding you even further in this lewd mating press to kiss his forehead against yours. Grumbling, “What’d I say, brat? Are you that- fuck! that pussydrunk already?”

“N-no…”

“Mhmmm, I don’t believe ya.” And he had damn good reason not to - especially when you were whinin’ and shaking oh-so-vulgarly underneath him like this. With a few more vicious paps! of his bulky base sticking against your folds, he’s cooing, “Why don’tcha tell me your name then? Hmm? If you can, we’ll go, heh, another nine more rounds.”

You don’t think you’ll make it to one more round.

But you’re nonsensically babbling away anyway, because the textured feeling of his shafts delving in and out of you just felt so good. Thoroughly overstimulated, you mewl- “I-ngh, fuck, Kuna…”

“Nuh uh, brat- that’s me.” Sassily rolling his four crimson eyes, “Try again.”

“I’m- fuck!”

“Ah ah, wrong again.” Oh, he was enjoying this. So, so much. Any time he’d ask you a question and expect you to answer, he’s pummeling you with a few more repeated jackhammers that evaporate any words left in your lungs. On your tongue. 

Now lolling out stupidly with your wads of spittle as he’s rubbin’ your g-spot raw. Sukuna’s both girthy and incredibly prolonged, so his strawberry-red crown drags against your most favorite hidden crevices without even trying. 

You’re spitting out a slew of profanity at the sudden bliss, right along with a sheen of sticky saliva that he’s covering with one of his overlarge hands. 

Rumbling underneath his breath as it keeps drippin’ after each long swiiiipe down the velvety end of your cervix. “I asked for yer name, silly girl- not, tch-” Snickering at the wet mess you were making from both pairs of lips. “-this.”

“C-can’t help it—” You’re throwing your hips off of the springy mattress, angling yourself further onto his pressurized cadence. 

“Oh, so ya can speak? Maybe I should give ya another nine rounds, then- how about it, brat?”

With mocking interest, Sukuna hums. And the slit of the cursed mouth across his stomach grins wide open, slithering out the end of his lengthy tongue almost like a snake. It’s so monstrous- perfect to slather over your hardened nipples, sucking. Rolling. Teasing. 

You’re whining your head off at a fever-pitch, your velvety channel clamping ‘round him maddeningly. Enough so that his fat, bludgeoning cocks knock against each other and the entrance to your womb, too.

So primal. So carnal. And if you were any more dumbstruck on his lengths then you might not have noticed- the way that Sukuna stutters. His hips dipping ever-so-slightly too low, like he didn’t want to even pull out.

And that makes you gasp your maw open with a shrill, “M-maybe you won’t last- ngh- nine-” 

“Y-yes I will- fuck!”

“Mhm—”

Ah, always so mouthy, his favorite lil’ human. It makes him so much fucking harder, though he won’t admit it- he doesn’t have to. You’re feeling it. The way his flared mushroom tips swell up even further, making your eyes damn near pop out of your skull at the sensual sensation.

You’re fluttering them tearily, blinking back your vision from the sudden barrage of stars that cloud it. And that’s when you see it- when you can feel it throbbing achingly inside of you.

Ryomen Sukuna had his true form.

And yet, not many got to see his true true form—with the usual four arms, dual cocks, devilish eyes, and his cursed mouth. But with the addition of two large red horns. Bigger. Somehow even sexier. 

Your jaw drops and you can only gasp- “Oh.”

He’s narrowing his glowing blood-red eyes with a grin, and barely has to use even a fraction of his strength to manhandle you down further. “Let me show you how the king fucks nine fuckin’ rounds then, human.”

♡ INO TAKUMA - 3 rounds

Ino didn’t know what’d gotten into him. He didn’t even know what had made him this way- one second simply dryly grinding his aching erection between your pussylips.

And the next, he had you flat on your back- your legs thrown over his lean shoulders, the backs of your thighs against his abs. Feeling each ripple n’ flex as he’s shovelling his red, heated length into you. Over and over.

He’d said it’d bate after one round, and then after two—and here you were at three, with your overstimulated boyfriend showing positively zero signs of stopping. No matter how sensitive his thrashing cock was, no matter how ruined.

“I can’t seem to stop-” He’s spitting, between his puffy lips. A slight tear lines his blushing cheek, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him look so wrecked. “I can’t- fuck, I don’t think I can ever stop fucking this pretty pussy—”

You’re whining as his thumb drifts between your teary slope. Up n’ down to let the honeyed mess smear everywhere, “Please, ngh- oh.”

“It’s your fault.” Ino snaps, though it’s half-hearted. His head lolls behind, unsteadily as if he was trying to hold himself back from it. “This pussy’s fault- yours. Fuck! Why do you have to feel s-so damn good.”

By this point, you didn’t know which one of you two was more utterly drunk: you or him.

You’re clawing your hands upwards towards the mahogany headboard, and he’s stopping you in your sinful tracks. Instead, pinning both your wrists down with one of his hands. He whines, “Where’d you think you’re g-going, pretty?”

“M’not going- ngh, anywhere.” Crying out, and your back arches against the silken bedsheets. Creating the perfect view of your tits for him to lean down n’ smother himself into. 

Pink, pretty lips latching over your left nipple as he sucks, “Mmm, don’t lie to me- you’re not g-going anywhere tonight. Nowhere.” He was feral at the thought - absolutely shattered on those tiny, wild ruts you were giving that made his crowned cock edge even deeper. Inch by inch. 

And you don’t think you could escape even if you tried. Because your boyfriend was simply moving at a vulgar pace, with the most rapidfire strokes from the plumpness of his mushroom tip, all the way down to his base. 

It didn’t help that his solid length was so looooong, dragging out big stretches on your poor entrance.  He’s knocking up against the end of your treacly pussy where you’re sure a bruise had started to formulate- and grins, “See- see? She doesn’t want me to- ngh, go anywhere.”

Huffing, “Don’t think I want you to go anywhere either- fuck!”

But you can’t even finish your sentence before you’re cut off with a sudden mewl- at the feeling of his ravenous cock starting to enlarge. Pumping itself bigger. Thicker. The line of his slivery slit scrapes near your womb and you think you’re seeing damn stars behind your lids. 

So much so that you start to wonder whether you can even take it.

And almost as if he could sense your cockdrunken thoughts, he’s surging his toned hips forwards. Till the scruff of his happy trail rubs up against your clit, and you’re left drooling from both corners of your mouth.

He swipes it away with the fatness of his thumb, then immediately slips it between your ajar lips with a wet plop! Almost as if he was shutting you up. Fucking you stupid.

Swabbin’ the velvety insides of your mouth, muffling your moans so that he can better hear the saturated squelches emanating between your legs. “Don’t hck! just say things like that…fuck.” Beautiful brown eyes slightly bulging, voice breathy. “It’s gonna make me cum.”

You puff out in tears, “B-but I want it…”

“Mhmmm—but if I cum, then s’gonna end.” Oh, you’re realizing that he’s holding himself back. That he was dangerously close; with the hard twitches of his bulging tip, with the way his leaking precum seemed only gets more wadded. But if he reached his orgasm, then it was going to be over - and by the looks of it, he never wanted it to be over.

Letting the sloppy drags of his length scrape against every inch inside you, Ino’s following the pathway to your g-spot. 

And kisses it with immense accuracy, a soft peck. Once, twice, thrice. Ino feels you clench around him at the zaps of pleasure and groans, “And you’re not leaving here until- hah- until this bed breaks, sweetness. Until I make you cum at least th-three more times.” The round tip of his index draws a line down your middle, resting where he could feel he was bashin’ into your sponged cervix. “Until I’ve filled you up a-allllll the way here. S’that alright with you?”

You nod and nod and nod.

Clamping your gluey walls down- you squeeze on his sensitive shaft and he drips down tears. It just feels too good.

As a gift, almost, he’s wadding up your snug insides with a few webs of silky precum. Drivelling into your deepest spots, such incredible volumes that it’s then leaking out in a sheen between your thighs. Sticky. Shiny. 

Ino looks down n’ catches the display, his breath hitching at the sight, “Next…” You wait with bated breath, wondering what filth he’s going to spill out now. “Next- soon, that’s gonna be my actual cum, pretty.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - Infinity

“Please-” He’s rasping through the minute gaps between his clenched teeth, into the clammy skin of your neck. Throaty. Ragged. “P-please…”

And without even finishing his sentence, Gojo’s rutting his red, ravaged cock inside your cunt once more. Just a singular half-thrust and it’s enough to make you whine shrilly, dizzy being compressed under the entire weight of him hunched over. 

His washboard abs plastered against your back, his ripped front hunched over primally. In a way that felt almost animalistic.

A flash of Gojo’s cursed power travels through his body and into yours and shocks your body with a slight bolt of electricity. Kinetic. You’re yelping- at both the zapping feeling and the way it leaves his blushin’ tip flaring even wider inside of you, “Oh my god- o-oh, what time is it even, Toru- hck!”

It’s a wonder you could even piece that sentence together. And his muddled mind can only think that he needs to fuck that ability out of you, fuck you stupid.

“Fuck me s–fuck.” You’re echoing.

“Oh? Did I say that out loud?” He’s questioning, faintly, only after a few more heavy thrusts. The bulbous crown of his shaft reaches in deep, and he’s so addicted to the way it makes even the very bottom of your sweet cunt clench ‘round him. 

Holding on weakly to the side of your hips as he pins you down and drives into you with a constant, ringing sluuuuurp. “I don’t- hah, I don’t even know what day it is, sweetheart.”

“Fuck- fuuuuuck, ngh.” You’re entirely blaming his powers- and thanking them, too. That reverse cursed energy being the only reason that neither of you two have broken a bone by now. Especially you. “And doesn’t seem like- fuck—”

“What? That m’gonna stop?” For a second there, you think that he’s almost considering it. After so long that you’d almost whine in disappointment if he did. Every slick, flooded orifice inside you clinging onto him like adhesive.

And Gojo - oh, Gojo can tell. 

His oversensitive peripherals water a little with an oncoming burst of his Six Eyes. And with it, he’s seeing exactly where you’re feeling the most pressure in your body, exactly where you want him the most. 

It makes his ruby-red shaft perk up n’ thrash against the spongy layer of your cervix, dribbling out a few knots of precum that whirl in with the layers upon layers of sappy white cum inside. Grumbling, “Oh, baby, you’re silly if you think I’ll ever s-stop~”

He sounded so drunk. So gone. And you can’t help but believe him.

The lights in your bedroom had shattered and been so for quite a while- you don’t even think the sprawling city outside had power. Yet, you could still make out the utter carnal desperation in his heart-shaped pupils as they bulge- gasping once you clench.

You’re whining, “Fuck- fuck, don’t think m’making it out of this one- a-alive, ngh.”

“My wife, I’m not making it out alive.” He half-chuckles, the constant drilling pace of his hips leaving his own pelvis reddened. Stinging. You wonder if it almost hurts by now. “Can’t believe you’ve done this-” One of his hands holds your chin up, the other snakes down to squeeze your clit. Electric. “-can’t believe you.”

“Wh-what did I do- ngh.”

He doesn’t answer at first, first simply pryin’ your bloated pussylips to let out a stream of syrupy white cum. Glistening down his wrist and onto that golden wedding band on his ring finger, “You fucking broke the strongest, my wife—”

And he’s fucking you like it, too. 

Just furious pump after pump that lets his red, wettened cockhead stick straight against your womb. 

And you can be damn sure that he’s using his Six Eyes to let that lil’ divot bash into your g-spot, precisely. So hard that you start to feel him form a little bruise on that particular splotchy area, “And I-I won’t let you go until- ngh—” The hand on your chin unlatches and glides down to press against your tummy, on that lil’ bulge of cum that he was able to pound in just because he’s Gojo Satoru. Putting on the pressure until knotted white webs of his squelch out. “-until m’breaking you, too.”

He said it so lovingly. But he was fucking you so damn rudely, such unapologetic thwacks! of his heaving balls against the forefront of your cunt. 

And just when you don’t think he could get any meaner, Gojo’s fizzing out his reverse cursed energy to get his oversensitive cock to grow slightly harder. Bigger. Thicker. 

Squeezin’ out your walls from either side with his vein-covered shaft, he’s grinning at the way you’re twitching and helpless underneath him. Just babbling away, “I don’t think I’ll- last, fuck!” Sobs crawling out of your throat at the way his softened fingertips start buzzing on your clit. 

And he huskily chuckles out like he already expected it, “Mhmmm, I know.”

“You- you know?”

“Yeah- fuck yeah, relax, sweetheart. Because we’re not stopping for a ngh- loooong time.” As if on cue, your toes are curling in pleasure. With the pupils of your eyes swirling comically at the way his jackhammering cadence accelerates. 

And you swear - if you’d been aware enough to actually make note of it - Gojo was fucking counting down underneath his breath. A low, primal ‘three–’ his feet anchoring to bulge your cervix with his cockhead, ‘two’, with the sliding motions of his fingertips growing faster, ‘one’- just as you reach your high. 

It shatters through your body in shockwaves, peak after peak of your high- and you’re so sensitive that the mere feeling makes you collapse onto the spit-drenched pillows below. “Fuck– c-cumming…”

Gojo’s following you- just melting into you while his scarlet tip pierces overtime. Dragging you out through your wave of euphoria, each strobing thrust leaves you seeing white. Your veins bubbling, perspiring where his smoking hot body was collapsed on top. 

And Gojo was so focused on the process of elongating your orgasm, sinfully, that he doesn’t even realize when he is. Fuck, you don’t either.

Not until you realize that the bed was slightly hovering off of the ground, and so was most of the furniture in your room.

Not until you recognize the faint blue glow emanating against the headboard were flickers of lightning cascading down Gojo’s stinging skin.

Not until the skin of your shoulder gets drenched with a tiny splatter of something- and for a second, you think it might be saliva, just so pussydrunk on your cunt that he was drooling. And he was. But more than that, you’re peeking up to find that it was tears.

Gojo Satoru was overstimulated so far that he was crying the moment his long, cutely pink shaft was bursting out in miry wads of cum. So much of it sploshin’ out and sticking to every inch inside you, and his vein-covered shaft was constantly plunging each drop of it inside.

Fucking it straight inside you- “I didn’t even-” He’s gasping, finally realizing just as you do. And he can watch in real time as the plush sides of your walls squeeze him dry. “Didn’t even think to- fuck!”

The sheer volume makes you feel bloated, and it sprays out like a puddle underneath you. Which Gojo has the audacity to rover his powerful hand over and push each wad back in.

And as you whine sensitively, he simply shushes you, “What comes after infinity, my wife?” Breathless. Barely keeping himself together.

You’re blinking up in slight confusion, and it takes every muddled brain cell inside your lust-hazed mind to come up with an answer at this moment. “M-more infinity?”

“Exactly.”

You are definitely not making it out of this alive.

A/N. Hope you have a lovely week!

Plagiarism not authorized.

[fireflyschiikawa]

husband!sukuna: nightmare comfort

something soft, feather-like keeps brushing against sukuna’s cheek. promptly waking up from his deep slumber sukuna pat’s it to get rid off of the ticklish feeling.

only to discover, that it’s your hair. you’re squirming in his arms. noting the irregular movement sukuna cracks an eye open, observing you.

your breaths come in deep gusts, face scrunched up and lower lip trembling, it takes him a moment to gauge what is happening.

you’re having a nightmare.

soft whimpers leave your lips as you continue to squirm in his hold. sukuna feels a tight knot building, the sight of you in pain like a vice in the back of his throat.

his grip on you tightens and his other hand comes up to stroke your hair, a comforting gesture to assure you that he’s here, that you were safe.

a tear rolls down your cheek accompanied by a choked sob.

sukuna presses a tender kiss to the side of your forehead, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your waist, he whispers “wake up, will you?” he’s embarrassed by the shaky lilt in his tone.

you hastily oblige, back from the spiral down in your sub-consciousness. pupils dilated and lips parted you say your husband’s name, your relief evident.

without giving you time to adjust, sukuna pulls you in tighter, his precious wife, why couldn’t he just soak up all your pain? what was it that bothered you so to disturb you even in sleep.

he feels awkward, too big, too rough, too robotic. it is only your soft hum when being brought into his embrace that comforts him.

you completely melt, no space remaining between the two of you as you lay intertwined.

he doesn’t question what your dream was about, he would listen if you wanted to tell him, but knowing his wife who’s far too exhausted, he lulls you back to sleep, no questions asked.

the end of your world shouldn’t be his fault, but it is, but it is.

at-least to him.

[sntossz]

[beaniesayshi]

the lamb: chapter 1

Sukuna is reincarnated into the modern world, only to realize that being a villain is actually kind of a bore. Now a teacher at Jujutsu High by pure technicality, he’s decided being a “good guy” is way more entertaining, mostly because it still lets him do whatever he wants while everyone thanks him for it. Unfortunately for you, that also means you get assigned to him as a specialist, since your technique is one of the very few things that can smooth out the jagged, overwhelming nature of his cursed energy after he uses it. The problem is… you’re absolutely terrified of him. Every second in the same room feels like your body is trying to shut down, and the idea of having to touch him to do your job makes it even worse. Sukuna, on the other hand, finds that fear hilarious and treats you like the funniest toy he’s ever been gifted.

pairing: sorcerer sukuna x sorcerer f!reader

wc: 5.6k

content: mdni, slow burn, kinda enemies to lovers, objectification, toxic dynamics, power imbalance, manipulation, coercion, possessive sukuna, violence, murder, blood, gore, dubious consent vibes, true form sukuna, yuji's not his vessel (...and probably smut at some point)

main masterlist ◦ series masterlist ◦ ao3 ◦ banner by @graphic0rn

“Can you pass me the—no, the other file, the one with the blue tab—yeah, that one.”

You look up when you speak, before returning your gaze to the stack of documents spread across your desk.

“It’s always the blue tab,” your colleague, Haruki, mutters from across the desk, a faint smile playing on his lips as he slides the requested file over to you. “You ever notice that?”

“It’s color-coded for a reason. Blue for incidents, yellow for low-grade exorcisms, green for post-stabilization reports.”

“Yeah, yeah. You and your systems,” he sighs, but there's no complaint in the sound. Haruki is the type to keep his entire desk organized by proximity to the nearest coffee machine, so your meticulous methods are a source of endless teasing.

You smile at that and finish writing the last sentence on the current form—a detailed, painfully dull account of a weaving after a Grade 4 curse was exorcised from a local park fountain. Once completed, you flip the blue-tabbed file open.

The regional branch of Jujutsu Sorcerers you work at is, thankfully, a backwater. The only curses that ever trouble this area are usually low grade, minor nuisances that a junior sorcerer can easily handle, earning their required field hours. You’ve always preferred that quiet peace of mind and the slow, predictable rhythm of your daily life here.

It’s nothing spectacular, to be honest. Mornings spent typing reports, afternoons in weaving sessions, coaxing the frayed energy of battered Grade 3 sorcerers, and quiet evenings in a modest, perfectly safe apartment where the loudest noise is usually the neighbor’s neurotic Pomeranian barking at the shadows. Your life might seem desperately boring to a combat sorcerer, but you don’t mind. Actually, you like it that way. It’s safe.

Which is why the longer you read the document in front of you, the deeper the frown creases your forehead. It’s a report on last night’s mission that was originally classified as Grade 3, when an unexpected Grade 1 had appeared and cracked open a young sorcerer's ribs before someone from Kyoto had finally arrived and managed to kill it. 

Unfortunately, you’ve heard of no sorcerers with RCT in Japan besides Shoko Ieri, so recovery in cases like this, relying on conventional medicine, is a long, painful process.

“I’m going to the infirmary to check on him,” you say with a deep, weary sigh, pushing back from your desk with a squeak of the chair legs.

Haruki nods, his expression mirroring your own concern. “Give Sota my best. Tell him to stop rushing in like a maniac.”

“I’ll try, but you know he won’t listen.”

The infirmary is on the quiet side of the building. When you walk in, all the hospital beds are empty but one, which is occupied by Sota, whom you came to see. Next to his bed sit his friend and your supervisor, Akiko, who’s questioning them both about the more detailed points of that botched mission. Akiko looks up, and when she sees you, her professional expression softens slightly. She quickly stands, leaves the empty chair for you, and then subtly motions the healthy sorcerer aside, giving you the necessary space to work.

“Can I?” you ask Sota softly, gesturing with an open palm toward his bandaged chest.

He manages a faint, pain-laced smile. “Yeah,” he rasps out, shifting gingerly on the thin mattress.

You pull the chair close, resting your hands lightly against his warm skin just above the bandages. Focusing, you let the thin threads of your cursed energy slip between the microscopic splinters and cracks in his own, like fingers meticulously combing through snarled, knotted thread. You can’t heal him, but your technique, the Weaving, lets you bind the splinters down and make the energy flow smooth again. It’s not much, but it ensures his cursed energy won’t irritate the deep tissue wounds, so at least he’ll be back on his feet sooner.

Not even half an hour later, just as you feel the worst of the knots loosening, a voice you don’t recognize cuts sharply through the quiet infirmary.

“We’re looking for the Weaver.”

You lift your head to see two men in crisp black suits standing in the doorway. They look entirely out of place in this provincial setting. Akiko visibly jumps to her feet and steps closer to them, and her professional demeanor instantly snaps back into place.

“Oh,” she says quickly with a note of surprise in her voice. “I wasn’t informed you’d be coming today.”

“You weren’t required to be.”

The response is calm and polite in tone, yet completely dismissive in substance. The way her mouth presses into a thin line afterward tells you enough about how this conversation is going to go.

“Is there a problem?” you ask cautiously, still seated by Sato’s bedside, hovering your hand over his chest.

“No problem,” the taller man says, glancing at the injured man in front of you. “Please continue, we’ll wait.”

Right then, Sato winces sharply as your focus slips for half a second under their intense scrutiny.

“Sorry,” you murmur softly, immediately smoothing the jagged edge you’d disturbed. Being observed like this by two silent, intimidating men while working with such delicate energy isn’t helping. “Almost done. Just breathe through it.”

He nods with gritted teeth, and your fingers graze his skin, combing through until you can’t feel any more frays or snags.

“Thank you,” he sighs, before he gently pulls his hospital gown back on with a painful groan.

“We should have one more session tomorrow morning,” you inform him with a reassuring, slightly forced smile, finally standing up. “Then they’ll let you go home.”

As soon as you leave and the door closes behind you, the strangers in suits turn their full attention towards you. 

“You’ve been reassigned.”

Your mind stalls right away, struggling to catch up. “…reassigned?”

“To Tokyo Prefectural Jujutsu High School,” the taller one continues flatly. “Effective immediately.”

You blink at him, once, then twice, waiting for it to make sense, for some kind of logical explanation to follow that actually explains the why. Tokyo stands at the center of Jujutsu society, serving as the hub for the entire structure. Secondary branch specialists don't just get summoned there.

“Effective—wait, I—what about my current cases? I have two Grade 3s in…”

“They’ve been transferred. The reports are already being processed.”

“My supervisor—”

“Already notified.”

You glance sharply at Akiko. Something sharp and deeply uncertain settles under your ribs, a sense of betrayal, but she doesn’t meet your eyes, looking away. That somehow feels worse than any outright explanation.

“…for what reason?” you ask slowly, keeping your voice even despite the sudden, escalating panic inside you. “Tokyo doesn’t usually pull resources from secondary branches unless it’s a matter of—”

“A high-priority stabilization case.”

Your heart gives a small, nervous skip against your ribs, a quick flutter of dread. “I specialize in post-injury smoothing,” you press, your voice sounding a touch higher and more strained than you’d like in a situation like this. “Recovery support. That’s not exactly a—”

“It aligns with your technique.”

“Surely there are Seniors who—"

"They were very specific." The second man, who hasn’t spoken until now, holds out his arm with a sealed folder for you to take. It’s stamped with a seal of the Jujutsu Higher-Ups you’ve only seen in textbooks.

You open your mouth to press further, to demand clarification on what kind of case requires immediate reassignment without notice, briefing, or transition period, but the unyielding look you receive from both men shuts the question down before it can fully form. This was never intended to be a conversation or a negotiation. It was an order.

“…when do I leave?”

“Now would be ideal. A car is waiting outside. We’ve already cleared your absence with the local director. You won't be coming back tonight.”

You let out a quiet breath through your nose that’s almost a strangled, disbelieving laugh of helplessness. So both the director and your supervisor, who is still pointedly avoiding your gaze, were fully aware of this, and neither gave you any notice to prepare.

“Can I at least get my things from my office?”

Both of them nod, and you start walking toward the office wing, hoping desperately for a moment alone, but the men are following closely behind. Your colleagues look up in surprise when they notice the two figures trailing you upon your entering the room, but you just offer a weak, reassuring smile and tell Haruki you’ll text him later with an explanation you don't yet have.

You reach for your desk with numb hands, gathering files, closing folders, and mindlessly putting away the small pieces of a routine you hadn’t realized how deeply attached you’d grown to until someone decided to take it away without asking. As you pack your things, your mind races, grasping at whatever vague, terrifying rumors you’ve heard over the last year.

Everyone in the jujutsu world, even in the quiet provinces, knows something colossal happened in the capital a year ago. They spoke of fire and a shadow that turned the sky red, and of a reincarnation—something ancient and terrible, taking root within the city. The Disaster in Tokyo, they called it. But the details never made it into official reports. At least, not to the ones your small branch was privy to. 

You had imagined it was a problem for heroes, for men like Satoru Gojo. And it had probably been the case, since the vague rumors had stopped a few months ago, suggesting the monster was either dead or at least pinned under a mountain of seals and restrictions.

This sudden summons has to be something else, but it still doesn’t explain the immediate, emergency reassignment of a specialist in recovery support.

“…this stabilization,” you start, not looking at them as you walk with them toward the waiting car, forcing the words out into the hallway. “Is it a curse?”

For a moment, neither of them answers. The silence stretches as they try to find an approved answer that won't violate any security protocols. Then, one of them finally says, with practiced neutrality, “It’s being handled.”

That’s not remotely what you asked, but the non-answer only confirms that you’re not getting any actual information until you arrive at the Tokyo main campus.

The officials make a quick stop at your apartment, where you’re informed to pack for at least a few days and, most emphatically, to hurry. Inside, you move on autopilot, tossing in a few changes of clothes, your battered laptop, and documents you need into the small suitcase.

The car ride to Tokyo is a blur of passing lights and the heavy, suffocating silence of the two men. You sit stiffly in the backseat, clutching your bag to your chest like a shield, watching through the window as the familiar, quiet world of the province recedes and finally disappears. An official folder from the Higher-Ups sits heavy on your lap, but its contents offer no clarity, only an imposing, formal letter of summons.

As the sedan nears the campus, you notice with some relief that it’s at least outside Tokyo, high in the mountains, and the area looks far more peaceful than you’d ever expected. The car slows, finally pulling to a stop in a broad, paved courtyard. The taller of the two men steps out and silently opens your door.

"This way,” he instructs.

The walk through the Tokyo Jujutsu High campus is an exercise in deceptive normalcy. The grounds are a sprawling mix of modern, functional structures and smaller, elegant buildings in traditional Japanese architecture. On first glance, it resembles a prestigious, if somewhat secluded, private academy. 

But no matter how beautiful it looks, you notice subtle, unnerving cracks. They’re small, easy to overlook unless you pay close attention. There’s a thin fissure at the base of a wooden veranda on an older building, and another spidering up a stone pillar near the main entrance—neatly patched but still visible. Under your feet, a hairline fracture runs through the stone walkway. You glance at them as you walk, brow furrowing. Are these construction damage? Settling foundations after an earthquake? The campus is clearly well-maintained, yet these quiet fractures appear in scattered places. You briefly wonder what could cause such precise little breaks in a place that otherwise appears so ordinary.

"Standard maintenance isn't enough when the ambient resonance is this high," the taller man offers abruptly, like that explains anything when he catches you looking around. 

The officials keep a brisk pace, and you hurry to match it, pulling your suitcase behind you. As you’re walking past a training field where a handful of students practice, their bright laughter drifts through the air.

Only when you climb the short flight of stairs and step inside the main building does the air begin to change and something begin to press against your senses.

As you proceed down a corridor, the longer you go, the more the atmosphere distorts. It begins as a faint hum just beyond perception. A heavy, suffocating pressure starts to build, pressing on your chest—cursed energy, vast and overwhelming. It’s not sharp or aggressive, but immense, like witnessing the tide pull back to reveal the ocean’s true depth.

It emanates from somewhere ahead, dense and thick enough to fill your lungs with every breath. Your steps falter briefly on the polished floor. You’ve encountered powerful sorcerers before, mostly visiting Grade 1s, but this is an entirely different category of existence. It doesn’t flex or flare; it simply is, spreading in slow, relentless waves that raise the hairs on your arms and quicken your heartbeat involuntarily.

You swallow hard, risking a quick sideways glance at the two officials. Their faces remain stoically impassive, but you notice the taller one’s shoulders are a fraction tighter than before. Neither of them offers an explanation, leading you down the sunlit corridor.

Between two branching hallways, a flash of white hair and a tall silhouette turns the corner ahead of you. Your stomach gives a small, instinctive flip of recognition.Of course, Gojo Satoru would be here; everyone knows he teaches at the main campus. Still, seeing the strongest sorcerer alive in the same building where something else radiates an energy that forms a monumental presence that’s as solid as the stone does absolutely nothing to ease the unease already crawling up your spine.

The power grows heavier with each step. It feels old, layered with centuries of existence that no modern sorcerer could possibly carry. Your breathing turns shallow when you realize it dwarfs anything you’ve ever experienced, and it’s coming from behind an ordinary door at the very end of this hallway.

"The Higher-Ups were very specific about your technique," the official states, halting abruptly in front of it. He doesn't look at you, but you notice how incredibly stiff he holds himself while maintaining a respectful distance from the handle. "They believe your weaving method is the only thing precise enough to smooth out the snags without... aggravating the source."

You desperately want to tell him that your work typically involves dealing with battered teenagers and Grade 3 sorcerers, not “sources” that cause buildings to crack. But before you can speak, he opens the door, revealing what looks like an ordinary faculty meeting room—long wooden table, chairs arranged neatly, and sunlight slanting through plain windows onto the wooden floor.

“Go inside.”

The room is nothing that should make the world tilt sideways, but the instant you step through the threshold, the power slams into you like a physical wall. The change in pressure is so abrupt that your body reacts before your mind can even process it. Your breath hitches painfully halfway in your chest as your lungs struggle to expand properly. The air feels thick and oppressively heavy, charged with staggering density of cursed energy that neither dissipates nor settles. It fills the entire room from wall to wall and presses against you from every direction at once.

It’s everywhere, rolling in slow, inexorable waves that seem to seep into your bones and leave a metallic, coppery taste in your mouth. Its vastness drains your strength, causing your legs to falter. The handle of your suitcase groans under your tight grip. A cold sweat blooms across your back, prickling beneath your uniform blouse, while your heart stutters once, twice, then hammers against your ribs with such violence that you are half-convinced the officials can hear it.

This isn’t the crisp, contained brilliance you felt when Gojo Satoru passed by. This is something ancient, pressing down on you until your vision narrows at the edges and your knees threaten to buckle completely.

Even amidst that, your eyes instantly lock on the man, seated calmly at the far end of the long table in a chair that looks ridiculously small against his large frame. He looks completely relaxed, with one arm casually draped over the backrest of a nearby chair, his shoulders at ease, exuding complete, effortless control of the space around him. He's tall, broad, and muscular, and his slightly tousled pink hair is a jarring contrast to the dark lines of ink across his face.

Despite the sheer, terrifying magnitude of the energy radiating from him, he isn’t a disfigured curse; his appearance isn't distorted or monstrous as you might have expected. For a fleeting moment, your mind struggles to reconcile this calm exterior with the intense, overwhelming pressure that fills the room.

Your body refuses to follow any logical instructions, entering a full, paralyzing vasovagal freeze. Your muscles lock tight until you’re nothing more than a statue standing just inside the closed door; your hands tighten even further against the suitcase handle, the sharp edges digging deeply into your palm, desperately grounding yourself in something physical while everything else in the room shifts beyond your control.

The cursed energy filling the space sinks deeper into your skin, sharpening until its vibrations are clearly felt along your nerves. It makes absolutely no sense that it’s contained so effortlessly by the will of the person sitting before you.

The scale of it causes your breathing to falter further. Each breath grows shorter, your chest tightening as your body struggles to find a steady rhythm under the overwhelming weight. Your shoulders tense and your jaw clenches as you attempt to regain control of your breath, but you fail to steady it.

Never in your life have you felt even ten percent of the power this man is deliberately letting you see.

One of the officials clears his throat, the sound painfully small and fragile in the charged silence. 

"This is Ryomen Sukuna," he starts, keeping his voice carefully neutral, as though the name itself doesn’t carry the weight of centuries of nightmares. "Special Grade sorcerer.” 

The name hits you like a physical blow, sending ripples of pure dread straight through your chest. You know the legends—the King of Curses, the strongest sorcerer in history, the calamity that had turned the Heian era into a slaughterhouse painted red with the blood of sorcerers and civilians alike. A man who nearly wiped out civilization.

Hearing that name spoken aloud here, in this room, in the 21st century, instantly turns the terror coursing in your blood to ice. Slowly, the pieces of the puzzle line up with what your eyes are seeing, and the true extent of it sinks in now that the presence has a name.

“He works as a teacher here at Tokyo Prefectural Jujutsu High School."

You’ve always chosen to believe those stories were just half-myths, exaggerations designed as horror stories to keep young, ambitious sorcerers humble. But even if they’re true, he’s supposed to be dead. He’s meant to be only a record, a story explaining limits that no one dares to push anymore. Yet he’s sitting right in front of you, and, what is somehow worse, he’s an official part of the faculty.

The reality is more terrifying than anything your mind could ever imagine. Your hands begin to shake visibly, the tremor running through your fingers so violently around the suitcase handle that you can feel the plastic biting sharply into your palm. Your feet remain firmly planted, your body still, despite every instinct screaming at you to turn and run.

Across the room, Sukuna hasn't moved since you walked in. He looks profoundly, dangerously bored, almost like any other teacher enduring a tedious meeting, with his head resting languidly on one hand, his elbow braced on the table. The fingers of his other hand lazily drum once on the back of a chair next to him. The tiny motion sends another slow, immense wave of that cursed energy rolling outward, and you feel it brush over you, sliding across your bare nerves.

The room seems to physically shrink around his seated form; the sunlight itself feels dimmer, thinner, almost like his cursed energy is actively drinking the light, leaving only a heavy pressure that makes your teeth ache at the roots and your stomach twist into a cold, nauseating knot. 

You’re about to feel sick and faint, standing here trembling with uncontrolled terror before he’s even looked at you. A distant, hysterical part of your mind wonders whether the Higher-Ups, presumably watching from behind the panels on the side, are watching their sacrificial lamb’s face pale and shoulders stiffen, as calmly and clinically as they must have watched every other person they’d sent before you.

Then his head tilts toward you lazily, and his eyes—four of them, you realize with a fresh, sickening spike of horror—settle on you. The movement is subtle, but it instantly heightens your awareness of the contrast between his vast cursed energy and his concentrated focus.

He assesses you, tracking your chest hitching with shallow, useless gasps and your hands shaking hard. The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but something far more menacing: the faint spark of curiosity as he spots an intriguing new toy on the floor. 

Then, he decides to play. He slowly rises from the chair, his powerful body unfolding to its full, staggering height in one motion that somehow instantly shrinks the room around you even further. The difference in scale becomes immediate, and your line of sight is forced up as your eyes follow him, your body remaining locked where it stands.

Your heartbeat suddenly pounds loudly in your ears. He calmly takes the first step toward you, hands in his pockets, and the dread that had already been suffocating you doubles, then triples, becoming something living, squirming, and writhing in your chest.

Sukuna intentionally floods the space with his energy, letting you feel the full, ancient enormity of what he is wash over you like an unstoppable tide with no intention of receding. The presence expands, tightening around you as he moves, with the pressure rising in direct proportion to the narrowing gap between you. The vibration under your skin sharpens further, irritating your lungs and making your breathing stutter again as your chest fails to keep up with the change. 

With every step he takes, the air grows denser and heavier. Your hands shake so badly that the suitcase handle rattles against your thigh despite your effort to hold them steady. Sweat trickles down the small of your back, and your vision tunnels until the only thing left in the world is the approaching figure.

Thanks to your technique, the closer he is, the easier it is for you to feel the clear, sharp splinters flicker at the very edges of his power. It’s like static electricity dancing along a live wire, yet even those splinters are nothing compared to his sheer paralyzing presence.

He stops directly in front of you, towering over your smaller frame and casting a shadow that swallows you whole, forcing your gaze up fully. Your focus narrows as the details of him fill your vision: the texture of his skin, the lines of the tattoos across his face, and the steady, unaffected rise and fall of his chest, completely unbothered by the pressure he’s filling the room with. Up close, the tattoos give the illusion of pulsing against his skin, stretched taut over muscle that could snap you in half without the slightest effort.

Sukuna lets even more of his cursed energy surface. The sensation floods your entire awareness, intensifying into something that borders on pain without crossing into it, making every nerve ending in your body scream in terror. It’s so intense that your very skeleton might shatter under it.

Behind you, one of the officials takes an involuntary half-step back and stumbles awkwardly, unable to withstand the suffocating spike in tension as Sukuna leans down, closing the last of the distance.

The sorcerer’s gaze flicks past you for the barest fraction of a second, acknowledging the official’s cowardice with a look of complete, detached boredom, before it returns to you with the same terrifying intensity. Your breathing breaks entirely for a second before returning in short, ragged, uneven gasps that do nothing to ease the pressure crushing your chest.

Your fingers twitch uselessly, while your mind screams at you to move, to run, to do anything, but you can only stand there, frozen, as his face comes so close that you can feel the hot breath ghost over your skin. Your heart is hammering so hard you’re certain it will burst through your ribs.

Those four eyes study you with curiosity, drinking in the details your body fails to control. They track how your pulse flutters wildly at the hollow of your throat, how your shoulders tense so tightly they ache, and how you’re shaking so fiercely that your vision blurs at the edges. He just looks, letting the weight of his presence settle over you like a shroud.

A low and deep chuckle rolls out of his chest, dark and rich with profound amusement as he takes in your reaction in full. 

Then, at last, he straightens back to his full height, but he doesn’t look away from you even as he addresses the panel behind where the Higher-Ups sit in silence.

"I’ll take this one," he rumbles.

The silence holds for a moment before the unknown voice from behind the panel responds with a brief confirmation.

“Understood.”

Sukuna lingers a second longer where he is, his attention still on you, amused by how your body stays locked in place despite the absence of any direct contact. His lips curl slightly, pleased that the pressure he exudes is more than enough. His gaze leaves you only when he decides he’s done observing. Suddenly, he moves, walks past you, slides the door open, and leaves the room without another word.

That pressure doesn’t vanish with him, though. It lingers, clinging to your skin, leaving you swaying on your feet until your knees finally threaten to give out entirely. A low, helpless sound escapes your throat before you can clamp your jaw down and swallow it back.

One of the officials, the shorter man, steps forward quickly, his face pale with something akin to alarm. He steadies your elbow carefully, his own hand shaking slightly.

“Breathe,” he says under his breath. “It gets… easier. Marginally.”

Behind you, the second man exhales quietly, then adds after his colleague, “You’ll adjust.”

Your hands are still shaking uncontrollably, and you stare down at your right palm. There, where the rough plastic handle you’d been gripping had pressed, a deep, angry-red welt is already visible. Then you realize you’re still gasping for air. Your lungs hitch and burn, struggling to remember how to expand now that the weight of his cursed energy is no longer physically pressing against them.

The reality of what just happened crashes over you. Ryomen Sukuna. The King of Curses. A living nightmare now walking these corridors as a teacher.

"You should count yourself fortunate," the taller man says, though his voice lacks any real conviction. "He hasn't shown that much… interest in a specialist since his arrival at this campus. In fact, he hasn't accepted any of the previous candidates we presented.”

You look up at him, your vision still slightly tunneled at the edges. Swallowing again, your throat still unbearably tight, you try to force a coherent question out past the lingering fear. 

“Fortunate?" you rasp, your voice sounding like dry paper. "He looked at me like I was... a thing. A toy."

The official pointedly ignores your remark and the barely suppressed tremor in your voice, smoothing down his suit jacket with fingers that, despite his attempt at composure, are visibly trembling.

"Regardless of your personal feelings, the decision has been made. Sukuna has accepted you. From this moment forward, you are assigned directly to him."

He begins to pace the small area between the table and the door, his eyes darting everywhere but meeting yours.

"Your primary duty is to manage his cursed energy. Sukuna’s power is... immense. After his missions, his energy becomes more volatile, jagged, and overwhelming than usual. If it builds up—if those snags are not addressed and smoothed out by someone with your unique capabilities—his energy continues to bleed uncontrollably into the environment and…” he pauses, searching for a bureaucratically acceptable word to describe unchecked destruction.

“...incidentally damage to campus infrastructure,” the shorter man helpfully offers, gesturing toward the window, toward the campus you walked through only mere minutes ago. "The fractures you noticed in the stone, the splintering foundations—that is what happens when he’s left unmanaged. The school can no longer keep up with the repairs. Your job is to ensure his energy stays contained and regulated entirely within him. You will weave and smooth it whenever he returns from the field."

"And when he doesn't need me?" you ask, your voice barely a ragged whisper. The thought of being in the same room with him for an extended period already makes your stomach churn.

"When he isn’t in need of your services, you may be called upon to assist Shoko Ieiri in the infirmary. But make no mistake: your priority is him. Daily sessions. And if he calls for a session outside of that, you drop everything else. Am I clear?"

Daily sessions with him. Alone. You manage a shaky, nauseated nod, though the motion feels strangely disconnected from your body. Then, the reality of your technique finally settles into your mind. Your Weaving isn't a distance-based ritual; it requires direct, skin-to-skin contact to smooth out the energy. You realize, with a sudden spike of lightheadedness, that you aren't just going to be sitting across a table from the King of Curses. To do what you were brought here for, you’re going to have to reach out and actually touch him. 

“Come with me,” the shorter official says after a moment, turning toward the door. “I’ll show you your office.”

He leads you out of the meeting room and down the corridor in the opposite direction Sukuna had taken. After a few tense steps, he glances back at you, his professional mask finally cracking, softening into something that looks like genuine, if detached, pity.

“You aren’t the first we’ve sent, you know. The Higher-Ups tried everything to regulate his energy. Binding techniques, suppression methods, and direct intervention. They sent many sorcerers who showed even a slight ability to detect and manipulate irregularities in cursed energy.” 

He looks down the hallway, checking to see if the walls are listening. 

“Sukuna doesn't need to actually act to exert pressure. His mere baseline output is more than sufficient to break most people.” You understand that much already, painfully so. "He didn't even have to lift a finger against any of them. He simply sat there, much as he did today, allowing his cursed energy to overflow and saturate the room. The sheer, suffocating mass of it..." He trails off, the memory clearly disturbing even him, then finishes in a low murmur, “They either withdrew or were quickly reassigned for their own safety.”

The words sink into you like heavy lead, bringing a sudden, hollow ache to your chest. Your reassignment isn’t a promotion; it’s merely a reckless gamble by men who have already lost every other bet.

If Grade 1 sorcerers couldn’t survive working with him for more than a few days, what chance do you have? You, who spent your mornings color-coding files and your afternoons smoothing out the cursed energy of Grade 3 and 4 sorcerers?

The official stops before a row of unmarked wooden doors, slides one open, and gestures for you to enter first. "This is your office. It has been fully equipped for your work.”

Inside, the space is a modest but entirely functional office, bathed in the soft light of a spring afternoon. There is a wide desk already stocked with fresh stationery, a comfortable-looking chair, a small couch against one wall for your sessions, and tall windows overlooking the main training fields.

“Living quarters on campus have also been arranged—nothing extravagant, but secure and close to both this facility and the infirmary. Your belongings from your previous residence will be collected and delivered by this evening. The Higher-Ups were quite… insistent on speed.”

The official lingers in the doorway. “Take some time to settle. Sukuna will likely find you when he needs you. Until then… try to rest. You’ll need your strength.”

He offers a shallow, almost sympathetic bow, then closes the door behind him, leaving you alone in the sudden, ringing silence.

Your suitcase slips from your numb fingers and thuds against the floor. You stand there in the middle of your new office, new life, hands still trembling at your sides, the memory of four eyes and that low, amused chuckle burning behind your eyelids.

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[sapph22]

No-strings!Sukuna x reader

You knew exactly who he was… and stayed

Tw : MDNI, 18+

Part 1 Part 2

Sukuna knows he fucked up.He knows he deserves the award for The Biggest Dickhead of the Year.

You spent your birthday alone because he was too busy being a selfish prick to remember the one person who’d been there for him for literally everything.

You were there when his mom got sick.You were there when his dad was a drunk asshole. You were there when he failed maths and thought his life was over. You were there for every birthday, every breakup, every panic attack about nothing and everything. And somewhere along the way you stopped being his best friend and became…. just a girl he fucked.

When did he stop seeing you?

When did he stop noticing you were there?

What’s killing him is that you just gave up on him. You didn’t scream or throw shit or demand explanations…he could handle anger. You looked exhausted. Tired of him. Tired of being the person who cared more.

Fix it. He has to fix it.

But how the fuck do you fix fifteen years of friendship that you torpedoed in six months?

☾☾☾.

Heartbreak, as it turns out, is fucking exhausting.

Not in the romantic way movies portrayed it. No standing in the rain, no meaningful stares out windows while sad music played.

Just bone deep exhaustion.

You’re extremely fucking confused when Sukuna shows up at your apartment ten days after your birthday….. ten days of radio silence, ten days of you ugly crying into ice cream and deleting his number only to restore it from recently deleted like the pathetic creature you are……. with flowers and mochi. Not just any mochi. Mochi from your favourite place that’s twenty three minutes across town in traffic. You know because you’ve driven there multiple times. Usually when you were having a shit day and needed something that felt like a small extravagant fuck you to responsible adult decisions.

He’s holding it out like a peace offering. Like it’s a white flag. Like it’s anything other than what it actually is, which is a desperately transparent attempt to buy forgiveness.

You stare at him through the crack in your door chain lock still on….. and he looks… bad.

You can tell he hasn’t slept properly, which you know because you’ve seen Sukuna on two hours of sleep after exam season in university and he still looked better than most people do on a full eight. There are actual shadows under his eyes.

And his usual expression…. that infuriating smirk that says he knows he’s hot shit and you’re probably thinking about him naked… is completely absent. Replaced by something that looks almost… nervous?

Ryomen Sukuna. Nervous. The same man who once fucked you against your kitchen counter, maintained eye contact the entire time, and then had the audacity to eat your leftovers after.

“What do you want?” Your voice comes out flat, which is good. Flat doesn’t show that your heart’s jumping just from seeing him standing there.

“To talk.” He lifts the mochi box slightly.“Please.”

‘Slam the door in his face.’ That’s what your best friend would say, right?

‘Don’t be his friend. You know you’re gonna wake up in his bed in the morning’ At least listen to Dua Lipa. You’re undoing all the progress you’ve made.

What progress? You’ve made zero progress. You’re a mess.

So you undo the chain and let him in, because apparently self respect is a myth and you’re living proof.

He steps inside and immediately your apartment feels smaller, which is saying something because it’s already pretty fucking small. It’s not even that Sukuna’s particularly huge, he’s tall, yeah, but it’s more about the way he takes up space. The way he’s always had this gravitational pull that makes you orbit him whether you want to or not. You’ve been orbiting him since you were kids. Maybe that’s the whole problem. Maybe you never learned how to exist in your own solar system.

“You have five minutes,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, which is definitely a defensive position but also necessary because you’re not wearing a bra and you’re not about to let him think this is that kind of visit.

“I fucked up.” The words come out so fast like he’s been practicing them.

You can’t help it… you laugh. “Oh, wow. Groundbreaking. Should we call the press? Alert the media?”

His jaw does a tiny clench that you’ve seen a thousand times, usually right before he says something he knows is going to start a fight. But he doesn’t. He just takes it. Absorbs your sarcasm because he deserves it.

“I know sorry doesn’t fix it,” he continues, and his voice has this quality to it that you’ve never heard before. It’s rough.“I know showing up with flowers isn’t enough. I know…” He stops and runs his hand through his hair and you watch it happen, watch the way his fingers drag through the pink strands and leave them sticking up at odd angles. “I’m fucking drowning without you.”

Your chest squeezes painfully. Like your heart’s being wrung out like a wet towel. You ignore it. You’ve gotten good at ignoring things. Six months of practice.

“You forgot my birthday, Sukuna. You went on a date with someone else and then you showed up here expecting me to be available? Like I’m some 24 hour convenience store for your dick?” The words come out quieter than you intended. Less accusatory and more… hurt. Which you hate. You wanted to sound angry.

“No, I…….”

“Do you even know what that felt like?”The words explode out of you and you’re not yelling, not quite, but your voice is definitely raised and you can feel the tears threatening and fuck, you don’t want to cry in front of him. Not again. “Waiting all day for a text. Checking my phone every five minutes like a fucking idiot?

He looks wrecked. Absolutely fucking wrecked, and some petty part of you is glad. Wants him to hurt the way you hurt. “You’re right. About all of it. I treated you like shit. I took you for granted because you were always there and I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Apology noted. Was that all?” you say, and you’re proud of how steady your voice is. How calm. Like you’re not actively falling apart inside.

“What…no……” He runs a hand through his hair again, frustrated. “What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. I don’t want you to say anything.” And oh, there’s the anger. It’s bubbling up now, hot and acidic. “I want you to leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can. It’s easy. You just walk away. You’re good at that.”

He flinches at your words “please…” He pauses “The last ten days have been hell without you. I miss you.”

“You miss fucking me.”

“No.” His voice comes out sharp. “I miss hearing about your day. I miss you stealing my hoodies. I miss the way you laugh at stupid shit. I miss you falling asleep on my couch during movies. I miss you.”

“Don’t do that” You can feel tears burning behind your eyes. “Don’t try to…. ”

“I’m in love with you.”

The words land and it feels like getting punched in the stomach and kissed at the same time. White noise fills your ears where thoughts used to be. You’re vaguely aware that your mouth is open…. definitely looking stupid……. but you can’t seem to close it. Can’t seem to do anything except stand there and replay those four words over and over

“What?”

“I’m in love with you.”He steps closer and you step back. Your spine hits the kitchen counter. “I’ve been in love with you for… I don’t even know how long. Maybe always. Maybe since we were kids. I don’t know. But I know that I fucked it up because I was scared and stupid an….”

No.

No, he doesn't get to do this.

He doesn't get to say the words you’ve been dying to hear for months…. not now, not after everything, not when you’ve finally started to piece yourself back together.

“Bullshit.” Your voice shakes. “No feelings, no strings, remember?”

“I was wrong.” He moves closer. You let him this time, too shocked to move. “I was fucking wrong about everything.”

Tears are streaming down your face now. You don't even try to stop them.

“Ten days,” he continues, voice raw. “Ten days without you and I’ve been losing my fucking mind. I can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Can’t think about anything except how badly I fucked up.”

“Stop.” You are full on sobbing now “Just stop talking.”

“I love you.” He reaches for you, then drops his hand when you flinch. “I’m sorry, I know I don’t deserve another chance, but I’m begging. Please. Let me fix this.”

You stare at him through blurry vision. This is what you’ve wanted, isn't it? For months, this is all you’ve wanted… for him to choose you, to love you back.

But now that you have it…

“I can’t….. after everything, I can’t just jump back in like nothing happened.” You want to believe him. You wantto believe him so badly it physically hurt. It’s like this ache in your chest that radiates outward, makes your fingers tingle and your throat tight. But you’ve been hurt before. So many times before.

“I’ll wait.” He says it without hesitation. “However long you need. I’ll wait.”

This is stupid. This is the kind of shit that happens in romance novels where the emotionally constipated man child suddenly becomes a feminist poet who understands feelings and the girl forgives him and they have passionate sex in the rain and everyone forgets that he was a dick for the first two hundred pages.

Real life doesn’t work like that. Real life is messier.

You wipe your eyes and try to compose yourself. “I need you to leave,”

That hurts more than he expected. More than anything has hurt in his entire fucking life.

He nods, stepping back immediately. He makes it three steps before you stop him. “Sukuna?”

He turns back

“Yeah?” He looks at you with so much hope in his eyes it hurts to see.

Giving Sukuna a second chance to prove himself is like giving a gambling addict chips and expecting them not to hit the casino. It’s like trusting a cat to guard your sandwich. It’s doomed to fail.

But a stupid, naive part of you wants to believe that he can change. “If you actually mean this…” You wipe your eyes. “If you’re serious about this…prove it.”

Relief crashes over his face…. Like you just told him he’s been pardoned from execution. “How?”

“Figure it out.”

And for the first time in ten days, Sukuna feels like he can breathe.

You don’t t know if this can work.

But maybe it is worth finding out.

If he proves it.

☽☽☽.

He proves it slowly.

Not with flowers (though he sends them anyway, your favorites, every Sunday). Not with expensive gifts (though he leaves your favorite mochi on your doorstep some mornings).

And somewhere along the way, you soften.

You let him take you to dinner (not a date, you insist, even though it feels like one). You let him drive you home (you don’t invite him up). You let him text you (and you text back).

Three months after that night, you let him kiss you.

It’s different this time… Softer. Like he's cherishing every moment, memorizing the feel of your mouth, the taste of you, the way you sigh against his lips.

Six months later, you’re in his bed (your choice this time, you’d insisted), and he’s holding you like you might disappear if he lets go.

“I love you,” He presses a kiss to your shoulder.

You turn in his arms to face him. Your eyes are heavy with sleep, your hair a mess, and you’ve never looked more beautiful. “I love you too”

Your reblogs and comments are appreciated ♥︎

Not proofread 😭 I'm sorry

@pulsinginvaderstarfarer @indickca @cattleray @sukunash0e @succubussdreams @luvs-angel @chicharotbebotwow

[snanami]

18+ — sukuna when he misses his girlfriend who works at the corner store !

Your boyfriend was a shameless man.

It wasn’t often you were greeted after work with a kiss, or a hug—that’s often rare—but instead of those simple greetings, you’re instead met with a text and a little surprise that follows after that.

sukuna : c’mere.

sukuna : Alleyway.

And of course you don’t question it moment you head to the alleyway after work you’re greeted with a slam against the wall; “Mmph- ‘kuna!”

Sukuna only laughs and presses his lips further against yours. “I missed you, baby.” His deep voice sent a shiver down your spine and it only made you cling onto him tighter.

“Hngh— slow down please!”

“Did you enjoy work?” He asked, slowing down a little while also slowly discarding your clothes, letting it drape down your body. And the moment you nodded; watching as Sukuna stared at you with a hungry look—he didn’t waste a second before pressing his large body against yours.

“Missed every second of you.” He continued.

You only smile as your body starts losing control and moving on its own, slowly grinding against him which only makes him hiss like a snake. You swore you could feel him getting harder the moment you did that move.

“I… missed you too.”

[wintertreeflower]

𝙝𝙤𝙬'𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙞𝙚? 𝙨𝙤 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙.

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

sukuna has a sweet tooth that only you can satisfy. 

wc: 2,804

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

the smell of sugar and spice was a recipe that filled the air of the bakery. 

there was flour powdered all over your hands, somehow stuck to the apples of your cheeks. little tendrils of your hair falling from the cute bun you’d quickly styled before coming in at 5 am to open your store. 

you weren’t alone in the back of the bakery, ovens firing the multiple trays of cakes and muffins and pastries that you needed to fill the display case with. 

your employee was frosting a fresh batch of lemon cakes when you hear the ring of the door bell. your first customer of the day. 

you let her know to take over the dough when she was done frosting, wiping your hands on your little cherry apron so you looked somewhat presentable for whoever’s just walked in. 

it’s a guy with pink hair dressed smartly in a leather jacket. you can just faintly see the tattoos that start on his hands, the one flipping through the dessert category book, before disappearing up his sleeve. 

“good morning,” you greet cheerfully, a sweet smile stretched across your face. 

it’s hardly morning. the rising sun having just made it over the horizon, splashing the bakery in tart orange and sour lemon. it filters through the french windows, mixing with the green and pink color scheme of the bakery. 

your customer looks up. strong brows that sit atop red dark eyes. you’re momentarily in awe at the color. at the way it pairs with a lazy smirk that flashes white when he speaks. 

“morning,” he says, voice rough like stone. 

you lean your palms on the counter by the register. dangling earrings that brush your shoulders, hitting the light beneath your tank top as your chest presses against your apron. there’s flour still dusted on the sliver of skin just above the fabric.

“what can i get for you this early?” 

the customer roams his gaze from your upper body, a nearly heated trail until he meets your face. 

“i’m looking for something sweet.” 

brows high, a bit surprised, you can’t help but tease. 

“you don’t strike me as a sweet tooth.” and definitely not this early. 

he laughs, the sound gruff but somehow it makes you feel like you’d been tickled by a feather. 

“i may have it worse than what’s normal,” he replies. the sound of the catalog book shuts. his attention is purely on you now. 

“i want whatever the sweetest thing you sell here. not particularly picky on flavor either.” 

your throat makes a little hum, delicate hands motioning to the display case. 

“our cream puffs are pretty sugary,” you explain expertly. “stuffed with strawberry and dashed with powdered sugar.” 

“i’ll try one,” he confirms and you hand him the little treat with the pink paper wrap. 

his jaw clenches as he chews. muscled neck flexing with the movement of his swallow. 

you’re used to customers trying your desserts in front of you, often giving out samples of season flavors to gauge how they would sell. 

but his stare is set on you as he tries it and you can’t tell if the flush coming from your cheeks is from that or from the fact you’ve been by the ovens all morning. 

he drags his tongue over his lips after he’s swallowed. and when he brings up his thumb to suck off the bit of powdered sugar frosting it you confirm that it’s definitely him that’s making you feel all too warm. 

“good,” he praises lowly, cocks his head at you. “but not really satisfying me.” 

“so sweeter,” you think outloud, bringing your gaze away from his piercing one and assessing the display. 

“i’d suggest our glazed donuts then. it’s filled with custard and i put honey as part of the recipe.” 

shit. “the secret recipe,” you whisper. 

“i won’t tell,” he grins. then he’s pulling out a black leather wallet, flashing his credit card as he places it on the counter. 

“i’ll try one of everything. test which one indulges me best.” 

your eyes widened, joy filling you to the brim. 

“of course! you can have a seat and i’ll plate them up for you.” 

the table your customer, potentially your best customer yet, picks is by the corner. in front of the red translucent writing of the bakery name that’s frosted on the glass. when the light hits just right it basks him in a pomegranate glazed glow. 

“so,” you say, picking up the plate that picked clean save for some crumbs. “how was toffee rolls?” 

he nods. “delicious.” 

he wipes at the side of his mouth neatly with the napkin cloth and you can already hear it in his voice. the same tone he’s been having the past ten dishes he said just weren’t hitting the spot. 

“but not the one,” you assess, free hand placed on the curve of your hip. 

there’s almost an apologetic crease in his brows but he looks up at you with eyes that shouldn’t look so kind when they’re stained dark red. 

“i’m hard to satisfy, i’m afraid.” 

you sigh but it’s only teasing. he’s already went through all the desserts in the display case and you can’t stand the thought of him leaving without a satisfied belly. 

he’s a challenge but you’d crack him. 

“i might have just the thing,” you reply, voice determined. “but you would have to wait. i’d have to make it from scratch, if that’s alright?” 

he nods again, leans back in the chair, getting comfortable. 

“take your time, doll.” 

doll. 

it replays in your mind as you whisk flour and eggs, dashing salt and overloading the batter with condensed milk and honey syrups. 

you move swiftly in the kitchen, your happy place, the place you feel most at home with its dim lightning and yummy scent. 

pouring the mixture that borderlines on overly sweet into a pie tray before popping it in the oven to fire. 

there’s a flush on your cheeks as you emerge from the back, untying your apron as you make eye contact with the customer patiently waiting for your special request. 

you feel the stare of it lingering on you as you help a couple out who’s standing by the front register. a wedding cake, they tell you and you smile because those are your favorites. 

at the heart of it, you’re a romantic. a girl who’s always believed in the type of love that comes from fairytales and hoping one day it'll bleed from the books and just attack you in your real life. 

“thank you for your help,” one of them calls as they walk out, hand in hand. 

you’re smiling, voice bleeding with it as you say, “of course! see you in a couple days.” 

the tasks of wiping tables, fixing chairs, ensuring your store is in tip top shape keeps you busy. eventually you make it to the table in the corner. 

“it shouldn’t be much longer now,” you assure, rag thrown over your shoulder, hand resting on your wait. “can i get you anything? some water?” 

you’re silently grateful for how patient he is. trying to focus on that and not the way his head tips up at you, hair dancing with the movement, broad shoulders shifting. 

he’s discarded his leather jacket. now in a tight black t-shirt that perfectly accentuates his built chest, strong biceps that pop through the sleeves. 

how could it be that someone with a sweet tooth could be so fit? 

as if noticing the way you nearly ogle him, his voice is riddled with something cocky, nearly flirty. 

“you can give me your name,” he says. 

you smile as you give it to him. a tingle crawling up your spine when he tries it out on his tongue. 

“it’s sweet,” he responds, gaze flickering up and down your body. “almost as sweet as you are.” 

now you’re really blushing. shy smile stretched across your cheeks. 

you thank him and tell yourself you’re only curious as to what his name is because you want to keep building connections with your customers. no other reason. 

“sukuna,” you repeat, leaning against the doorframe as the sounds of the ovens firing and the soft jazz music plays from the speakers. 

“hmm.” 

it’s a deep sound in his throat, rumbling in the air. 

“thanks for being so patient.” 

there’s no hint of doubt when he says, “know it’ll be worth it.” 

you don’t know what to say. the praise flaring your ego, altering the chemicals in your brain. 

luckily you don’t have to as the timer bell rings and snaps whatever heated moment you two were having. 

“it’s ready.” but your voice is all wrong, breathy and somehow lodging in your tight throat like stuck butter cream. 

“good.” 

your legs are quick in taking you to the back. hands working expertly as you cool the pie on the tray, slicing a piece. 

something in you just wants it to look perfect so you garish the plate with extra butterscotch sauce, perfectly assembling a dob of whip cream, and finishing it all with a sprinkle of caramel shards. 

it smells delectable. a complete sugar bomb you would sure could send a diabetic into a treat induced coma. 

some how you’re nervous when you serve the final product. fingers stressing against one another. lip pulled between your teeth waiting for sukuna’s reaction. 

he stabs the fork into the pie and in what feels like time slowed down bring it to his tempting mouth for a taste. 

“how,” your lost in the way he chews gracefully, eyes never leaving yours, groan rumbling in the back of his throat. 

you clear you throat when it gets too raspy, liking that pleasured sound more than you would care to admit. 

“how’s the pie?” 

he’s still tasting it but he’s got his lips pulled in a smirk. 

“so good,” he finally answers. 

you pop your lips from your teeth to smile, relieved. 

“i’m glad!” 

he stabs another scoop of the pie and you don’t expect him to hold out the fork in your direction. 

“think the little baker should give her work a try.” 

dangerous, you think, brain stuttering. 

the way he says it, voice thick, words heavy, makes him sound dangerous. 

you’re bending at the waist now, lips wrapped around the place his just were. he hones in at the conjoined place, where your pink mouth is wrapped around the metal he’s feeding you. 

it shouldn’t feel intimate. but it is. 

especially when you make that pleasurable noise, soft and high, and he just stares as you like he’s thinking about all the ways he can pull that sound out from you again. 

“you weren’t lying,” you say, straightening, licking a bit of the filling that stuck to the corner of your mouth. 

“no reason to lie about talent.” 

there goes your heart doing that thing. maybe you have a praise kink you hadn’t realized until now. 

you shake your head at the thought. he’s your customer!

“i’ll box up the rest for you then. keep that tooth satisfied,” you joke.” 

he chuckles, a flash of his sharp canines poking through. 

the rest of the pie is all tied up in the shopping bag you have lying between him and you at the front counter. 

you’re handing him his credit card hard, smiling bright as the sun when you say, “come back anytime! i’ll be sure to whip up something special for you next.” 

he slides the card in his wallet. 

“you always make specials for your customer?” 

“only my favrite ones,” you flirt with a wink. 

the words get his eyes to bright, large hands wrapped around the handle of the bag as he leaves with a knowing grin. 

…

the setting sun is your only companion as you close up the shop alone. rag wiping over the display case, music off as you replay the events of the day. your favorite customer. 

it was definitely bold of you but you just couldn't deny whatever tension was between you and sukuna. 

the image of him, lips seductively wrapped around your sweets. the sound of his deep groan. it plagues your indulgent mind before shattering at the sound of the bell ringing against the door. 

“we’re closed,” you call out, not looking away from your cleaning tasks. 

“shame,” a familiar voice says, making your head snap to the door. “thought i could get special treatment.” 

his leather jacket shines dangerously. built frame somehow making the empty store feel incredibly small. amusement drifts with each step that he saunters into the shop with a predator’’s level of casualness. 

“there’s no way you already finished all the pie.” 

sukuna chuckles. “i didn’t,” he reassures, arms crossed over his chest, tattoos stretched across his rough skin. 

“had another slice and realized that wasn’t what i was craving today.” 

you perk a brow. oh. 

“what were you craving,” you ask innocently, curiously. 

he swipes a strand of your hair, fingers brushing over the tops of your shoulders as he does so. 

there it is again. that stare. the unexplainable heat that seems to tie like a knot between you and him. 

“let me show you.” 

…

“oh my god,” you cry out. 

the glass is cold against your flushed skin. one hand smacked against it as the other comes to thread in sukuna’s pink hair. 

you’ve got a leg wrapped around the back of his neck, the other one shaking like a leaf as it barely supports you on the ground. 

you hadn't expected his show to include him getting on his knees right in front of you. right in the middle of the damn store. 

you weren’t exactly complaining as his long tongue traced all around your clit, pushing in and out at your dripping hole. 

“fuck,” you whine, pushing your hips up into his greedy mouth. 

“so sweet,” he grumbles out, strong hands digging into the flesh of your ass pulling you impossible close to his lips. 

he pushes a thick finger inside, mouth never leaving your pussy even as he says, “been craving this all day.” 

you moan, shuddering when he curls two fingers against the spot that’s making you see stars pop. 

you can’t help but grip him hard. but sukuna doesn’t mind the pain. in fact he grins against your cunt like it’s turning him on. 

“please,” you gasp out, head rolling back, his fingers hitting in deep. “don’t stop.” 

he sucks your clit, pops off it for just a second. 

“not until you cum on my tongue.” 

shit. he sounds entirely different. darker. more menacing. like if he doesn’t get what he wants he’ll fuck you dumb until he gets it. 

you clench at the thought of that. his cock piercing you. harsh voice calling you his little baker. 

it’s messy the way he eats you like you’re the best dessert served here. 

slick glosses against his nose, his chin. shining every time he pulls his fingers out from your greedy pussy and shoves back in. 

you can feel your orgasm coming, filling your blood with molten lava. 

“sukuna,” you groan, warning, eyes rolling back into your skull. 

he likes the way you say his name, thrusting into you faster, harder. 

“my little baker gonna cum on my face huh?” 

you’re nodding dumbly. gaze meeting his starved one as he ravishes you. 

pain blooms from where he’s gripping your ass hard enough to leave bruises. but you don’t mind. the perfect recipe of pain and pleasure that has you coming all too suddenly. 

sukuna’s teeth graze you against your sensitive flesh, tongue soothing over the ache you didn’t know you had until now. 

“oh,” you gasp when it hits you. “don’t stop. don’t stop.” 

your pleas only urge him on, groan vibrating against your cunt. 

he doesn’t stop curling inside you. doesn’t stop drinking from you like you’re the most divine thing he’s tasted all day. 

your legs still tremble after it all. fingers softening in his hair so he can pull his head back enough from your overstimulated cunt. 

your chest is heaving, heart pounding a mile a minute, breasts nearly spilling from your tank top. 

his tongue swipes at the glisten stuck on his bottom lip as he stands, easing your legs down,  towering over you. 

chest pressed to yours, hands possessive on your waist, you crane your head to face him. 

“satisfied,” you breathe out in question. 

something predatory lurks in his sharp smile. wicked. dangerous. 

“not quiet, pet.” 

you’re spun in an instant, hands clutching the glass display, ass pressed against where he’s rock hard against you. 

you bite your lip, fear mixing with your excitement as the promise that’s wedged against you. 

your favorite customer really was hard to satisfy. 

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

[losing-consciousness]

Ryomen Sukuna x Reader

Masterlist Recommendations

Sukuna Recs Because I’m Unwell.

Please look at author tags. Updated 4/23/26.

⛩ Heinan Era ⛩

A Distant Thunder - pomegranate_nectar

Malevolent Mercy - zeezee90

Beneath the Silk - phyx_morgan

Cursed Ascension, Darkly Earned - Syllable907

Cor Unum - vampyr_sm

Unholy Vows - sweetnemesis

👑 Royalty 👑

The rise of a king and the fall of a queen - EsperanzaHebras Eventual

We move swiftly - Drenched

Ceaseless - yenayaps

To Distant Lands - sukunahs

When Silence Feeds The Souls - hiyorimiki

💥 Modern JJK Universe 💥

Twisted Remnants - etchpicture

📖 College 📖

Sanctioned - bookaib

The Final Semester // Prof!Sukuna x Reader - sullibonk

🌶️ One shots 🌶️

Blood Moon - Logothetis

Shrike's nest - EwNasty (BogDing)

Ensnared - zarameraki

chaos makes the muse - tetsukki

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

small thing I'd like to add here is that there is no bad fic as long as it's done with love <3

[roxanne8x]

!!!!

[sixx-strongest]

What’s better than sex? Screaming out the lyrics of your favourite song without a care in the world…😌

You know what? That's gotta be top five for sure. What's your favourite song, sweetheart?

[cielacruzvt]

Ya know what? In celebration of his new movie, I’m gonna say “Beat It” by Michael Jackson💃