ꩇׁׅ݊ᨵׁׅᝯׁhׁׅ֮ꪱׁׅᝯׁhׁׅ֮ᨵׁׅ꯱ׁׅ֒ @mochichosoblog - Tumblr Blog

⊹ ࣪ ⑅ ֹ੭୧ INTRODUCING ME ⊹ ࣪ ⑅

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓏲ּ𝄢

HELLO! I am a small time writer who usually doesn't update much. I normally stick to head cannons and short stories with the occasional long story appearing every once in a while.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓏲ּ𝄢

Name: Arion.

Age: 20

Pronouns: She/Her

fic masterlist!

#intro post #ao3 writer

Loves weight in gold (Prequel)

Meeting Shoko's friends for the first time and it seems you've caught Suguru's eye.

The concrete steps of Tokyo Jujutsu High were usually a place of quiet contemplation for Suguru Geto. It was a rare afternoon where the weight of curses, the endless cycle of exorcisms, and the suffocating humidity of the summer felt momentarily suspended.

Then came Shoko Ieiri, trailing her usual cloud of faint clove cigarette smoke, accompanied by someone entirely unexpected.

Suguru had been told to expect a friend. Shoko had offhandedly mentioned a classmate from her middle school days before she was scouted for Jujutsu High—someone entirely separate from the jujutsu world. A "window into normalcy," Shoko had called her. Suguru had expected someone ordinary. He had expected a pleasant, perhaps slightly awkward encounter with a civilian who would look at their uniform with confusion and feel entirely out of place amidst the ancient, heavy atmosphere of the school grounds.

He was not expecting perfection.

The girl walking beside Shoko wasn’t loud or striking in a way that demanded immediate attention, but as she stepped into the courtyard, the sunlight seemed to catch her just right. She was laughing at something Shoko had said, a bright, melodic sound that cut through the heavy summer air like a cool breeze.

"Suguru," Shoko called out, waving a lazy hand. "This is the friend I told you about."

As you turned your gaze to him, Suguru felt a strange, unfamiliar hitch in his chest. It wasn’t the sudden spike of cursed energy or the adrenaline of an oncoming fight. It was entirely quiet. A gentle tug right in the center of his ribcage.

"It’s really nice to meet you, Suguru," you said, offering a soft smile.

That smile was his undoing. It wasn’t a polite, practiced smirk or the guarded expressions he so often encountered in the jujutsu society. It was entirely genuine, crinkling the corners of your eyes. In that single moment, Suguru noticed the small things. The way your hair caught the golden afternoon light, the slight flush on your cheeks from the walk up the mountain, and the gentle, curious way you looked at him—not with fear or reverence, but with simple, warm interest.

"The pleasure is mine," Suguru replied, his voice smoother than the sudden flutter in his stomach would suggest. He offered a polite bow, falling back on his practiced manners to mask the sudden, uncharacteristic wave of shyness that washed over him. "Shoko speaks very highly of you."

"Does she?" You glanced at Shoko, your eyes sparkling with amusement. "Knowing Shoko, I assumed she told you I was a menace."

"A little bit of column A, a little bit of column B," Shoko chimed in, a rare, fond smirk playing on her lips. "Come on, let's sit. Satoru is probably off terrorizing a vending machine somewhere, so we have a few minutes of peace."

They moved to the shade of a massive, ancient ginkgo tree. Suguru sat cross-legged on the grass, while you settled down beside Shoko, smoothing out your skirt with a neat, delicate motion.

Suguru found himself completely captivated by your presence. It was a sensation he wasn’t used to. Usually, he was the one observing, analyzing cursed energy flows, calculating distances, and reading people's hidden motives. But with you, there were no hidden motives. You were a breath of crisp, fresh air in a world that often felt choked by stagnation and decay.

As the conversation drifted, Suguru found himself observing the microscopic details of your behavior.

The Soft Smiles: Every time you agreed with a point or listened intently to Shoko talk about her grueling medical studies, your lips would curve into a gentle, reassuring line. It was a habit, he realized, born of a naturally kind disposition.

The Brightness in Your Laugh: Whenever Shoko made a dry, sarcastic comment, you wouldn't just chuckle; your whole face would light up, and that bright, clear sound would echo slightly against the old wooden beams of the school buildings. It made Suguru’s chest feel tight in the best possible way.

The Quiet Curiosity: You didn't press for details about their strange school or the weird uniforms, but your eyes lingered on the ancient architecture, taking it in with a sense of wonder rather than apprehension.

"You're very quiet, Suguru," you noted softly, turning your head toward him. You had tilted your head slightly, a few strands of hair falling across your face. "Am I boring you? Shoko warns me that I can talk about trivial things for too long."

"No!" Suguru answered a fraction too quickly. He cleared his throat, a faint, rare blush creeping up the back of his neck. He adjusted his posture, offering a reassuring smile. "Not at all. I was just... enjoying listening to you. It's refreshing."

"Refreshing?" you repeated, a little shyly, a soft pink hue touching your own cheeks. You looked down at your hands, tracing a pattern on your knee. "I suppose this place must be very different from regular schools. It feels so quiet here. Like time moves a bit slower."

"It does," Suguru murmured, his eyes softening as he looked at you.

In that moment, an overwhelming thought bloomed in his mind, rooted deep and sudden. You fit.

It made no sense. You were from the outside world, a world he was sworn to protect but often felt fundamentally alienated from. Yet, sitting here under the shade of the ginkgo tree, listening to the cicadas hum, you fit into his immediate space like a missing puzzle piece he hadn't even realized was lost. Your calm energy balanced his heavy thoughts; your lightness cut through his natural gravity. He found himself wishing, with a sudden and intense pang of desire, that he could keep you in this space forever.

Shoko, ever perceptive, excused herself a few minutes later, claiming she needed to check on a shipment of medical supplies in the infirmary. Her eyes lingered on Suguru for a second, a knowing, highly amused glint in her gaze that made Suguru want to look away.

"I'll be right back," Shoko said, waving her hand dismissively as she strolled away. "Don't scare her off, Suguru."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Suguru replied softly.

Once Shoko disappeared around the corner of the corridor, a comfortable yet slightly charged silence settled between the two of you. The shyness that had been bubbling beneath the surface became more pronounced. Suguru, usually so poised and articulate, found himself momentarily at a loss for words. He adjusted his high collar, his fingers brushing against the dark fabric.

"Shoko really cares about you," you said quietly, breaking the silence. You were looking out over the courtyard, watching a few stray leaves drift to the ground. "She doesn't talk about her school friends often—she's very protective of this part of her life—but when she does mention you and Gojo-kun, her voice changes. She feels safe with you."

Suguru’s heart gave a strange, heavy thud. "We try to look out for her. Her work is... demanding."

"And yours?" you asked, turning your gaze back to him. Your eyes were wide, filled with a gentle, non-judgmental curiosity. "Is your work demanding too, Suguru?"

"It can be," he admitted, keeping his voice low. He didn't want to bring the ugliness of his world into your space. "But moments like this make up for it."

You blinked, surprised by the honesty in his tone, and then another one of those perfect, soft smiles graced your face. "I'm glad. Everyone deserves a break."

You reached into your small tote bag and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped wax paper package. With careful movements, you untied the twine and opened it, revealing a small assortment of homemade lemon shortbread cookies.

"I brought these for Shoko, but... would you like one?" you asked, offering the package to him. Your fingers were small, your nails neatly trimmed and unvarnished.

"Did you make these?" Suguru asked, leaning in slightly.

"I did," you said, a bit sheepishly. "Baking is a bit of a hobby of mine. They aren't perfect, but..."

Suguru took a cookie, his long, calloused fingers briefly, accidentally brushing against yours. The contact was brief, barely a second, but it felt like a spark of static electricity. He felt a sudden, fierce urge to catch your hand and hold it, to see if your skin was as warm and soft as it looked.

He bit into the cookie. The bright, sharp tang of lemon balanced perfectly with the rich, buttery sweetness of the shortbread. It melted on his tongue.

"It's incredible," Suguru said, and he meant it with every fiber of his being. He looked at you, his dark eyes crinkling with a genuine, brilliant smile of his own. "Truly. You're very talented."

Hearing him use your given name for the first time made your breath catch. You looked away, hiding your deepening blush by focusing intently on the remaining cookies in your lap. "Thank you. I'm glad you like it."

The peaceful atmosphere was abruptly shattered by a loud, boisterous voice echoing from the far side of the courtyard.

"Yo! Shoko! I heard we have a guest!"

Suguru’s shoulders dropped slightly, a soft, long-suffering sigh escaping his lips. Satoru Gojo came striding across the grass, his white hair practically glowing in the sun, his dark sunglasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. He stopped right in front of the two of you, hands in his pockets, leaning down to peer at you with immense curiosity.

"Oh ho? Who’s this? Shoko’s mysterious friend?" Satoru grinned, his energy loud and chaotic.

You blinked, startled by the sudden whirlwind of a person, but you didn't shrink back. Instead, you offered Satoru a polite, curious smile. "Hello. You must be Gojo-kun. Shoko mentions you often."

"Only good things, I hope!" Satoru laughed, dropping down to sit unceremoniously right next to you, entirely invading your personal space. "Hey, what’s that? Cookies? Are they for me? Tell me they’re for me."

Suguru felt a sudden, unfamiliar prickle of jealousy rise in his chest. It was irrational, he knew—Satoru was just being Satoru—but seeing his loud best friend sitting so close to you, reaching for the cookies you had made, made Suguru want to pull you away, to shield you from the chaos.

"Satoru, mind your manners," Suguru said, his voice taking on a slightly sharper edge than usual. "You brought those for Shoko."

"Aw, come on, Suguru, don't be a hoard," Satoru whined, though his eyes slid over his sunglasses, looking between you and Suguru with a sudden, sharp intensity. A slow, mischievous grin spread across Satoru’s face. He noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed the way Suguru was sitting just a bit more rigidly, the way Suguru’s eyes were fixed on you, and the faint flush still lingering on Suguru’s ears.

"Actually, there's plenty," you said softly, breaking the brief tension. You handed a cookie to Satoru with a gentle smile. "Please, try one."

Satoru tossed the cookie into his mouth, chewed, and his eyes widened. "Whoa. Okay. You're officially my favorite person Shoko has ever brought here. Suguru, did you taste these? They’re amazing."

"I did," Suguru said quietly, his eyes locked onto yours. "They are."

You looked between the two boys—the loud, vibrant force of nature that was Satoru, and the quiet, intensely focused presence of Suguru. Instead of being overwhelmed, you simply laughed. That bright, beautiful laugh echoed through the courtyard again, and Suguru felt his heart entirely melt.

"You two are exactly how Shoko described," you said, your eyes shining. "Like fire and water, but somehow completely in sync."

Eventually, the afternoon began to fade into the soft, purple hues of twilight. Shoko returned, playfully kicking Satoru out of the space so she could walk you back to the school gates.

Suguru stood up as you prepared to leave. The realization that you were leaving, that you were stepping back into your world while he remained in his, brought a sudden, heavy weight back to his shoulders. He didn't want this afternoon to end. He didn't want to go back to the silence of his room without the memory of your laugh echoing in his ears.

"Thank you for the cookies," Suguru said, stepping forward. He kept his hands at his sides, fighting the urge to reach out. "And thank you for coming today. It was... truly a pleasure."

You stood before him, looking up slightly due to the height difference. The twilight cast soft shadows across your face, highlighting the gentle curve of your jaw and the warmth in your eyes.

"The pleasure was mine, Suguru," you said softly. You hesitated for a moment, your fingers tangling in the straps of your tote bag, a beautiful, shy nervousness overtaking you. "I... I bake quite often on the weekends. If Shoko doesn't mind, maybe I could bring some more next week? If you'd like to try them, that is."

Suguru’s heart skipped a beat. The world around him seemed to quiet down completely, leaving only the sound of your voice and the rapid thumping in his chest. A slow, genuine, and incredibly tender smile broke across his face—the kind of smile he reserved for very few people.

"I would love that," Suguru replied, his voice thick with an emotion he was only just beginning to understand. "I'll hold you to that promise."

You nodded, a bright flush covering your cheeks, and gave a small, parting wave before turning to walk away with Shoko.

Suguru stood under the tree, watching your retreating figure until you vanished past the torii gates. The courtyard felt emptier now, the air a little less bright, but the lingering scent of sugar and lemon remained.

"Earth to Suguru," Satoru’s voice slurred from behind him, a heavy arm throwing itself over Suguru’s shoulders. "You’ve got it bad, huh? You looked like a lost puppy watching her leave."

Suguru didn't shrug Satoru’s arm off, nor did he offer his usual witty retort. He simply looked down at his hand, where the faint memory of your skin brushing against his still lingered, and smiled.

"Shut up, Satoru," Suguru murmured softly, his eyes still fixed on the path where you had gone. "Just... shut up."

He had fallen, quietly and completely, for the girl who fit into his world like a missing piece. And for the first time in a very long time, Suguru Geto looked forward to next week with absolute, unadulterated joy.

Tag list: @oksukuna

#jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk x you #jjk suguru #suguru geto x reader #jujutsu kaisen suguru #geto suguru #geto x reader #jjk geto #jujutsu geto #suguru geto #geto #jjk fluff #suguru fluff #jujutsu kaisen

why do i wanna change my theme again already also if you dont read my message on instagram you will perish at 12:30 pm tomorrow on the dot.

I was eating nom noms ummmmmm gimme me a second

#girl dinner #I'll be right there

my butt itch and my stomach hurts #yeah

🤔 Pains and sorrows 😔

#gotodoctor #hopefeelbetter #perhaps be anonymous next time

Loves weight in gold seeing how life is like for the two after the breakup?

I am in the midst of writing the Prequel. I hadn't though about a continuation of their life after the break up but yeah why not!

#anon ask #continuation #will do soon

Two might be enough

You've reached your limit with kids but Choso is always up for one more whenever your ready.

The kitchen island had become a tactical staging ground. On the left sat a sterile drying rack overflowing with small silicone valves, anti-colic vents, and plastic bottles with faded measurement lines. On the right, a solitary mug of coffee—long since gone cold—rested next to a half-eaten slice of toast that had hardened to the consistency of cardboard.

Between these two monuments of survival stood the two of you.

"Choso, I love you with everything I have," you began, your voice dropping into that heavy, deliberate register reserved for conversations that required absolute clarity. "But I do not have the capacity, the physical stamina, or the structural willpower to push out another human being."

You let out a long, ragged sigh, the sound vibrating against the small, warm weight bundled securely against your collarbone. You shifted your heels on the linoleum, performing that rhythmic, subconscious hip-sway that had become your default setting over the last twenty-four months. The four-month-old in your arms let out a weak, protesting squeak, her tiny fingers bunching into the fabric of your shirt.

Across the marble counter, Choso stood with his arms crossed over his chest. His signature posture—shoulders pulled high, chin tucked low—usually gave him the silhouette of a gargoyle guarding an ancient gate. But today, his sharp, angular features were softened by a thoroughly domestic, localized pout. His heavy lids were lowered, his gaze fixed on the small tuft of black hair peeking out from the baby’s swaddle.

"I know," he murmured, his deep voice carrying that distinct, gravelly hum that only ever surfaced within the quiet safety of your four walls. "I am not arguing with you, love."

"Good," you said, though your shoulders didn’t quite drop from their defensive position near your ears. "Because my body is still trying to remember where my organs belong. We are at capacity."

To say you were at capacity was an understatement. A two-year-old and a four-month-old was a volatile, beautifully chaotic combination. It was an ecosystem governed entirely by biological urgency—sleepless nights that bled into gray mornings, a relentless cycle of diaper changes, sudden and unexplainable kitchen-floor meltdowns, and the draining task of navigating the unsolicited parenting advice of practically everyone who saw you in public.

Yet, through the thick of the fog, there was Choso.

To call Choso a good father felt like an incomplete assessment of his character. He didn't simply participate in childcare; he had internalized the entire concept of fatherhood as an extension of his soul. The vast, ancient reservoir of protective instinct that had once defined his existence as an elder brother had shifted entirely toward you and the children.

He didn't wait for direction. He didn't ask for permission to handle the domestic load. He scrubbed the baseboards until his knuckles were raw, cooked calorie-dense, nutritious meals to ensure you were recovering, and managed the grocery runs with the precise efficiency of a soldier gathering rations. He regularly cleared your schedule, practically pushing you out the door or locking you in the bathroom with a tub full of hot water just so you could experience thirty minutes of silence.

But the baby fever was a distinct, undeniable force.

It wasn't a demanding urge, nor was it an expectation he placed on you. It was a quiet, almost reverent fascination with the early stages of life. You had watched him during your pregnancies—how he would sit on the edge of the bed for hours in the dark, his large, scarred hand resting flat against your swollen stomach, his forehead pressed against your skin as he whispered long, rambling histories to the fluid inside. He was a man who had been denied a conventional childhood, a man whose early existence had been defined by blood, duty, and premature loss. In the small, fragile dependency of a newborn, he seemed to find a version of peace that nothing else could provide.

"I know, baby," Choso repeated softly. He moved around the perimeter of the island, his steps entirely silent despite his broad frame. The faint, grounding scent of sandalwood, dried lavender, and cedar followed him—a familiar sensory anchor that immediately caused your pulse to slow.

He closed the distance between you, his eyes scanning your face with that intense, observational focus he used when assessing your fatigue. He didn't try to cajole you or turn your boundary into a debate. Instead, he simply leaned down, pressing a warm, lingering kiss against your temple, his lips dry and rough against your skin.

"Let me take her," he whispered.

His large, calloused hands slid beneath your daughter with practiced ease. One hand supported the base of her skull, his long fingers cradling her neck, while his other arm scooped beneath her bottom. The transition was seamless. The moment she was transferred into his arms, the relief in your lower back was so sudden it made your knees feel weak.

The baby, who had spent the last forty-five minutes letting out rhythmic, high-pitched whines against your neck, quieted instantly. She let out a small, shuddering sigh, her tiny face turning inward toward the dark fabric of his oversized knit sweater.

The genetic signature was unmistakable. She had inherited his deep, intense, almost purple eyes and the thick, stubborn black hair that refused to lay flat, no matter how much water you brushed through it.

"See?" Choso murmured, a very faint, private smile touching the corners of his mouth as he adjusted her against his chest. His hand covered her entire back, a massive shield of bone and muscle ensuring nothing could touch her. "She was just waiting for her papa."

"She was waiting for someone with a higher body temperature who doesn't smell like sour milk," you countered, though you leaned your shoulder against his arm, letting your head rest briefly against his bicep. "Don't misinterpret basic thermodynamics as a vote of confidence for baby number three."

Choso let out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated deep within his thoracic cavity—a sound that clearly acted as a sedative for the infant, whose eyelids were already growing heavy.

"I would never," he said, his tone turning serious, his eyes dropping to meet yours. "Your body has given enough. I am grateful for what we have here. I do not need more than what is in this room."

Before you could appreciate the sincerity of his words, a heavy, uncoordinated thump echoed from the hallway, followed by the familiar, dragging sound of a weighted blanket being hauled across hardwood floors.

The toddler had risen from his nap.

Within seconds, a small boy with an identical mop of untamable dark hair appeared at the kitchen threshold. He was wearing one striped sock and one bare foot, his eyes small and puffy from sleep as he dragged his favorite plush bear by its left ear. He stopped where the hardwood met the linoleum, his little mouth opening in a wide, dramatic yawn that threatened to unhinge his jaw. He looked at you, then at the bundle in Choso's arms, and let out a small, demanding grunt.

Choso’s response was instantaneous. His reflexes, honed by centuries of survival and perfected by two years of toddler monitoring, didn't falter. He lowered his center of gravity, dropping to one knee on the hard floor without a sound, keeping the four-month-old perfectly level against his chest. He extended his right arm, creating an open flank.

"Come here, little star," Choso called out softly.

The two-year-old didn't hesitate. He trudged forward, his small legs moving with the heavy-bottomed gait of a child still waking up, and buried his face directly into Choso’s side. He hooked his small fingers into the coarse knit of his father’s sweater, his thumb finding its way into his mouth as he let his entire weight lean against Choso's thigh.

Choso wrapped his large arm around the boy’s shoulders, pulling him into a firm, grounding hold while maintaining the delicate cradle of the infant with his left. He sat there on the kitchen floor, flanked by his descendants, looking like an ancient pillar around which the entire house revolved.

You knelt down beside them, your joints popping in the quiet room. You reached out, using your fingers to smooth down the chaotic bedhead at the back of your son’s neck. The boy let out a small hum of approval, his eyes closing again.

"You have that look on your face," you murmured, keeping your voice low so as not to disturb the fragile peace.

Choso looked up from the toddler's hair, his dark eyes fixed on you. There was an immense, heavy gravity in his expression—the look of a man who constantly measured the distance between his family and the rest of the world, ensuring no danger could bridge the gap. "What look?"

"The look that says you’d build an entire village with your bare hands if I gave you two more," you said, your finger gently tracing the distinct line across the bridge of his nose. "The look that says your big-brother complex is trying to manifest a small army."

Choso didn't laugh this time. He simply watched you, his gaze steady and entirely respectful of the boundary you had drawn earlier in the afternoon.

"My heart is larger than it used to be," he admitted, his voice dropping into a rough whisper. "When I was alone, I thought my purpose was small. Just my brothers. Now... I look at him, and I look at her, and I see everything I never thought I would be allowed to have. If you told me today that this is all we will ever see, I would be content. I am not greedy for more of your pain."

He leaned forward slightly, just enough to press his forehead against yours. The warmth of his skin was immediate, the steady rise and fall of his chest a constant, rhythmic baseline beneath the small, erratic breathing of the children.

"But," he added, a small, wry glint appearing in his dark eyes as he looked down at the toddler currently snoring against his leg, "if we are truly finished... I think we should discuss that appointment you mentioned last week. The one with the doctor."

You let out a soft laugh, the last remnants of the day's tension leaving your ribs. You pressed a quick, firm kiss to his lips, the taste of him familiar and safe.

"The vasectomy?" you whispered.

"Yes," Choso said, his expression completely serious, though his hand gently patted the toddler’s back in a slow, rhythmic circle. "If it ensures you can rest, I will let them do whatever they must. I have survived worse than a surgeon's knife."

"It's a standard procedure, Choso, not a battle," you reminded him, though you leaned your head against his free shoulder, watching the way your daughter’s fingers had tangled themselves into the fabric near his collarbone.

"A sacrifice for the household," he corrected solemnly, though the small twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. "I will bear it for the team."

You stayed like that for a long time, kneeling on the kitchen floor between the cold coffee and the clean bottles. The silence stretched between you, comfortable and heavy, broken only by the soft, rhythmic puff of your son's breathing against Choso's sweater.

You looked down at the tiny girl cradled so effortlessly in Choso's massive forearm. Her little chest rose and fell, completely safe, completely oblivious to the world outside this room. You thought about the labor, the sleepless fog, the absolute toll it took to build a life from scratch. You had gone into this conversation entirely against the idea of ever doing it again. The door was supposed to be shut, locked, and barricaded.

But looking at Choso—noticing the absolute reverence in his eyes, the way he bent his entire monumental existence to fit the needs of you and these children, and how deeply he respected your choices without an ounce of resentment—something in your chest softened. Just a fraction. Not enough to open the door completely, but enough to unlock it. You weren't entirely against it forever... but definitely not anytime soon.

"Just... give me a couple of years, Cho," you sighed softly, the words slipping out before you could fully think them through. "Preferably until she's in middle school."

The change in him was subtle but immediate. The tension in his broad shoulders evaporated completely. You could feel Choso smile softly against your hair, a deep, silent warmth radiating from him as he shifted slightly to rest a gentle, infinitely tender kiss on the top of your head.

"Whatever you need, my love," he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with a quiet, overwhelming gratitude. "However long it takes. I can wait."

Tag-list: @oksukuna

#jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen #kamo choso #jjk choso #jujutsu kaisen choso #choso kamo #choso x reader #jjk fluff #choso fluff #jjk characters #fluff

Quiet care of Love

Yuji who is surprisingly good at taking care of sick people despite his usual silly nature

The quiet click of the front door unlocking was the first sign that your defenses had officially crumbled.

Being sick was a rare occurrence for you, but this particular fever had hit like a freight train, bringing a blinding, throbbing migraine along for the ride. For the past three hours, you had been stubbornly rejecting Yuji’s texts. It wasn't that you didn't love him—you adored him—but his usual energy level was comparable to a golden retriever that had accidentally downed an espresso. When your brain felt like it was expanding against your skull, the absolute last thing you thought you could handle was his boisterous, hyperactive presence.

Yet, there he was.

Instead of his signature loud, crashing entrance, the apartment remained remarkably still. You heard the faint, muffled sound of his shoes being slipped off at the entryway, followed by the soft, cautious padding of his socks against the hardwood floor.

A moment later, the bedroom door creaked open just an inch. Yuji peeked his head through the gap, his usual bright eyes softened with genuine concern. When he saw you huddled into a miserable ball beneath the duvet, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with practiced silence.

"You okay, babes?" he asked softly, his voice dropping into a gentle, low register you rarely heard unless he was trying not to wake you up on a lazy Sunday morning.

"I feel like crap, Jiji," you muttered, your voice thick and raspy. You pulled the heavy blanket higher, burying your nose into the fabric, completely defeated.

Even with your eyes closed, you could hear the subtle movements of him shifting around the room. There was the distinct, crinkling rustle of a plastic convenience store bag, followed by the soft thud of things being set down. Curiosity getting the better of you, you peeked one eye out from the safety of the covers.

To your surprise, Yuji wasn't bouncing around or talking your ear off. He was methodically clearing the cluttered mess of empty mugs and crumpled tissues from your bedside table, setting them aside with careful, quiet precision. Once the surface was clear, he began unpacking his haul: two sweating bottles of cold water, a couple of bright electrolyte drinks, and a fresh pack of fever-reducing medicine.

Before you could even protest, he stepped over to the windows. With a slow, deliberate pull, he drew the heavy curtains closed, instantly plunging the room into a soothing, cool darkness that made the painful pressure behind your eyes ease up.

He walked back over to the bedside, sinking his weight onto the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped gently, and a moment later, a warm, broad hand found its way to your forehead, brushing your messy hair out of your eyes. His palm was cool against your radiating skin, and you couldn't help but lean into the touch with a weak sigh.

"I know you feel miserable right now," Yuji murmured, his thumb tracing a comforting circle against your temple. "But you need to drink some water. You’ve gotta stay hydrated, okay?"

He reached down, twisting the cap off one of the water bottles, and gently hooked an arm under your shoulders to help you prop yourself up. He held the bottle to your lips so you didn't have to lift a finger, letting you take a few small, grateful sips before resting your head back against the pillows.

"I'm gonna fix you something light to eat, or I can run out and pick up whatever you're craving," he continued, tucking the blanket securely around your shoulders. "But you've gotta get something in your stomach before you take this medicine. Just close your eyes and rest. I've got you."

True to his word, Yuji disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the door ajar just enough for a sliver of warm hallway light to cut through the dark. You expected to hear the clattering of pots and pans—the usual chaotic symphony of his cooking—but instead, there was only the faint, rhythmic sound of a knife on a cutting board and the quiet simmer of water.

About twenty minutes later, he returned, balancing a small tray in his hands. The savory, gentle aroma of hot dashi broth and ginger drifted into the room, instantly making your empty stomach rumble. He set the tray down and carefully helped you sit up again, plumping the pillows behind your back to keep you propped up.

"I made some simple egg drop porridge with a little bit of ginger to soothe your stomach," Yuji said, holding up a spoon. He blew on it gently to cool it down before offering it to you. "Open up."

You swallowed the first bite, the warmth spreading through your chest and instantly making you feel grounded. He fed you slowly, patiently waiting between each bite, his eyes locked on you with an expression so sweet it made your chest ache. It was mind-boggling how someone who usually spent his days laughing loudly and doing goofy dances could transition so seamlessly into the most attentive, nurturing caregiver.

Once you had eaten enough to coat your stomach, he handed you the medicine and another long sip of water.

"Good job," he beamed, a tiny hint of his usual bright smile breaking through his serious facade. He set the empty tray aside and started to get up, but you instinctively reached out, your fingers catching the soft fabric of his oversized hoodie.

"Don't go," you whispered, the medicine already making your eyelids heavy.

Yuji’s expression softened into something incredibly tender. "I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart."

He kicked off his socks and carefully climbed into the bed beside you, moving with absolute caution so he wouldn't jostle your aching head. He pulled you gently against his chest, wrapping his strong arms around you. He was like a human radiator, but in the best way possible—his presence was a solid, comforting anchor against the chills racking your body.

One of his large hands began to gently stroke your hair, his fingers weaving through the strands in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

"Just sleep," Yuji murmured into your hair, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head. "I'll be right here when you wake up."

Buried in his warmth, listening to the steady, calming beat of his heart, the throbbing in your head finally began to fade, and you drifted off into the deepest, most comfortable sleep you'd had all day.

#jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen #jjk yuji #yuji itadori #yuji x reader #jjk itadori #jujutsu itadori #itadori x reader #itadori x you #jjk fluff #itadori fluff #yuji fluff #sickfic

Loves weight in gold

Being in love with someone while slowly watching them become someone who no longer loves you.

The television was a soft, erratic hum in the corner of the room, casting blue and gray shadows across the floorboards. Above you, the ceiling fan spun on its highest setting, a low, rhythmic whir-whir-whir that seemed to measure the empty space between the walls.

It wasn't that Suguru wasn't home. He was. Technically, his shoes were by the door, and his heavy, dark coat hung on the rack in the hall. But the apartment felt completely hollowed out, as if his physical presence was just a monument to someone who used to live here.

On the coffee table sat a velvet box. Inside was a heavy, spun-gold bracelet—extravagant, delicate, and entirely devoid of meaning. It was the third one this month. They were peace offerings for wars he hadn't bother to fight, bribes to buy your silence so he wouldn't have to endure the exhausting chore of apologizing. To Suguru, love had become a ledger; as long as the material balance was high, your emotional deficit shouldn't matter.

He had told you he was having a "meeting." But the apartment had been dead silent for hours. No one had walked through the front door, and no one had slipped through the back. You knew, in a vague, terrifying way, about the world he inhabited. He had explained curses to you once—months ago, back when his eyes still held a spark of warmth instead of that bottomless, dark fatigue. He had told you that the things he saw were monstrous, that his distance was a shield to protect your fragile, ordinary mind.

But lately, the monsters didn't feel like they were out there in the streets. It felt like he was bringing them home in his pockets, letting them crawl into the corners of the rooms until the air itself tasted bitter.

A heavy weight settled behind your ribs, dragging you up from the cushions. Your feet were silent against the hardwood as you crossed the short distance to his study. Your hand hovered over the brass doorknob, trembling slightly, before you pushed it open just an inch.

"Suguru..." you muttered, peeking through the sliver of light.

He was sitting on the floor in the center of the bare room, one leg propped up, his forearm resting on his knee. His long, dark hair was half-unbound, falling over his shoulders like ink. For a fraction of a second, before he fully registered your presence, you saw it: a flash of sharp, visceral annoyance in his narrow eyes. It was the look a man gives a stray dog that keeps whining at the glass.

He sighed, the sound heavy and performative, as he stood up.

"I told you I’m busy," he said, his voice entirely flat. He walked toward you, the fabric of his robes whispering against the floor. He didn't stop until he was in your space, his hand coming down onto your shoulder to turn you back toward the living room.

His palm was freezing. It didn't feel like the hand that used to trace your jawline in the dark; it felt like marble.

"Was the gift not to your satisfaction?" he asked.

"I... I just wanted to spend time with you," you said softly, your voice catching in your throat. As he turned you, your eyes darted past his shoulder into the dim room. For a terrifying beat, you thought you saw something—a mass of shifting, oily violet shadows—slithering along the baseboard. "You're never here anymore, Suguru."

"We spend enough time together," he replied, his tone chillingly dismissive. "Perhaps you have grown too clingy. Most humans do."

The word hit you like a physical blow. Humans. Not people. Not you. A biological category.

You paused, pulling away from his hand just enough to look up at him, raising an eyebrow through the blur of sudden, stinging tears. "Suguru... I’m your girlfriend."

"Yes, but my way of showing affection is gift-giving," he said, as if explaining a basic mathematical theorem to a child. "I don’t see the need to be attached at the hip at all times. It’s annoying, especially when I already told you I was busy."

Annoying. The word echoed in the quiet hallway.

"I have plenty of gifts, Suguru," you argued, your voice rising just a fraction, desperate to crack through the porcelain mask he wore. "But I want you. I didn't date you for the things you could buy me."

He didn't argue. He didn't even look angry. He just looked bored. With an agonizingly patient sigh, he led you back to the couch, his hand firm on your shoulder, and guided you down onto the cushions. He reached out and patted your head twice—a patronizing, mechanical gesture.

"You can have me when my meeting is done," he said. It wasn't a promise; it was a dismissal. "Don't disturb me again."

The final sentence carried the distinct, heavy edge of a warning. He turned on his heel, walked back into the study, and shut the door. A second later, the sharp, definitive click of the lock turning cut through the apartment.

You sat frozen on the couch, staring at the dark wood of the door, listening to the fan spin above you.

A week passed, then two, and the seasons began their slow, indifferent shift. The heat outside grew oppressive, but inside the apartment, a permanent winter had settled.

You began to notice the small things first—the subtle ways a person unravels when they are preparing to leave a life behind. Suguru stopped eating the food you cooked. You would spend an hour at the stove, making the traditional dishes he used to prefer, only to watch him stare at the plate with a look of profound disgust before pushing it away.

"My stomach is turned," he would say, his voice thin. "The taste of things lately... it’s all foul."

You didn't know then about the curses he swallowed, the wretched, tasting-of-filth spheres he forced down his throat to maintain his power. You only knew that the meals you made with your own hands—hands he used to hold—had become repulsive to him.

One Tuesday evening, you woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of retching from the bathroom. You got out of bed, your heart hammering against your ribs, and hurried down the hall. The door was cracked open, a sliver of harsh fluorescent light spilling onto the floor.

Suguru was on his knees before the toilet, his shoulders shaking, his long hair falling forward into his face. He looked broken, human, vulnerable—and for a wild, desperate second, you thought the man you loved had come back.

You knelt beside him, reaching out to gather his hair back, your fingers brushing against his neck. "Suguru, let me help—"

He flinched away so violently his shoulder slammed against the sink. He looked at you, his eyes bloodshot, his teeth bared in a snarl that looked entirely feral.

"Don't touch me!" he hissed.

You froze, your hands suspended in the cold air. "Suguru, you're sick—"

"I am not sick," he breathed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at you, and for the first time, you didn't just see distance in his eyes; you saw an absolute, terrifying revulsion. It was the look someone gives a cockroach on the kitchen counter. "You don't understand. You can't understand. Just go back to bed. Your presence... it isn't helping."

You walked back to the bedroom alone. You lay on your side of the mattress, staring at the empty space beside you, listening to the shower run for an hour as he tried to wash away a grime you couldn't see.

By the third week, the apartment had become a gallery of his indifference. The velvet boxes accumulated on the entryway table like small, expensive coffins. A pair of diamond earrings. A silk scarf. A vintage watch. Each one was a physical manifestation of his absence, a message that said: Take this and leave me alone.

You stopped opening them. You left them in a neat, stackable pile by the door, a monument to a transaction you had never agreed to participate in.

You tried to talk to him. You tried to find the boy who used to laugh into the crook of your neck, the boy who used to complain about his best friend's ridiculous antics over cheap convenience store ice cream.

"Suguru, do you remember that summer we went to the beach?" you asked one afternoon while he was sitting at the kitchen table, mindlessly rubbing a thumb over the rim of a mug. "The one where you got sunburned on just your left shoulder because you refused to use my sunscreen?"

He didn't look up. His thumb kept moving, a repetitive, mindless circle. "No. I don't remember."

"You do," you pressed, leaning across the table, your voice cracking. "You laughed so hard you choked on your soda. You told me that as long as I was there, you didn't care if the sun burned you to a crisp. You remember, Suguru. Look at me."

He finally raised his head. His eyes were completely dark, like stagnant water in a well.

"That was a long time ago," he said, his voice entirely devoid of nostalgia. "People change. The things that mattered then are irrelevant now. You should focus on the present."

"The present is a tomb!" you wanted to scream, but the words died in your throat, choked out by the realization that he wouldn't care if you did. He wouldn't argue. He would just look at his watch, tell you that you were being hysterical, and walk back into his locked room.

You were grieving someone who was still breathing in the next room. You were watching the person you loved more than life itself slowly decompose from the inside out, replaced by a cold, arrogant stranger who wore his skin and spoke with his voice, but possessed none of his soul.

The breaking point didn't come with a massive explosion. It didn't come with a screaming match or a dramatic revelation. It came on a rainy Thursday evening, the water lashing against the windows with a dull, relentless fury.

You had spent the day cleaning. It was a desperate attempt to feel some semblance of control, to scrub away the invisible rot that seemed to be settling over everything. By the time the clock struck eight, you were exhausted, your hands raw from soap, your knees aching from kneeling on the floor.

The front door unlocked. Suguru stepped inside, his umbrella dripping water onto the entryway rug. He didn't look at you. He didn't say hello. He simply reached into the pocket of his damp coat and pulled out a small, heavy box wrapped in dark blue paper.

He dropped it onto the pile of unopened boxes by the door. It slid off the top and hit the floor with a soft thud.

"A necklace," he said, unbuttoning his coat. "The jeweler said the stone is rare. It suits you."

You stood in the hallway, looking down at the box on the floor. Something inside you—the last thread of a string that had been stretched to its absolute limit for months—snapped with a quiet, definitive pop.

"Take it back," you said.

Suguru stopped, his hands freezing on the buttons of his vest. He turned his head slowly, his narrow eyes tracking down to you. "What did you say?"

"Take it back," you repeated, your voice steadier than it had been in weeks. The exhaustion had burned away, leaving behind a cold, crystalline clarity. "Take all of it back."

He let out a short, irritated breath, turning fully to face you. "I don't have time for this tonight. If you don't like the stone, I can have them exchange it for a different cut. There's no need to be dramatic."

"I don't want a different cut, Suguru. I don't want the necklace. I don't want any of it." You walked over to the entryway table, your hands moving with a strange, detached deliberate precision. You picked up the stack of velvet boxes—the bracelets, the rings, the earrings, the watches—and walked over to him, dumping them onto the floor at his feet. They scattered across the wood, the lids popping open to reveal glittering diamonds and polished gold, completely worthless in the dim light.

"You can have it... you can have it all back. I don't want it anymore... I don't want any of this."

Suguru looked down at the wealth scattered around his shoes, his expression hardening into something cold and dangerous. When he looked back up at you, his eyes were sharper than you had seen them in months. The boredom was gone, replaced by a dark, simmering offense.

"Do you have any idea what those cost?" he asked, his voice dropping into a low, threatening register. "Do you have any concept of what I do to provide this life for you? You sit here in safety, insulated from the horrors of this world, while I carry the weight of it on my back. And you throw my provisions on the floor like a spoiled child."

"Provisions?" You let out a broken, breathless laugh, tears finally spilling over your lashes, though your voice didn't waver. "You think you're providing for me? Suguru, you're buying my absence! You're paying me to stay in this apartment and pretend that the man I loved hasn't become a monster!"

The word hung in the air between you, heavy and lethal. Monster.

Suguru's jaw tightened. For a single, terrifying moment, the air in the hallway grew thick, suffocatingly heavy. The shadows along the walls seemed to stretch and writhe, responsive to his sudden, spiked anger. You felt the invisible pressure of his cursed energy pressing down on your chest, making it hard to breathe, making your primitive, human instincts scream at you to run, to hide, to apologize.

But you didn't move. You stood your ground, looking into the eyes of the man who used to hold you like you were made of glass.

"You think I'm a monster?" he asked, his voice terrifyingly quiet, dropping all pretense of the polite, distant boyfriend. "Because I see the world for what it is? Because I refuse to spend my days wallowing in the trivial, pathetic emotions that you humans cling to like blankets?"

"No," you whispered, the truth cutting through you like a knife. "I think you're a monster because you used to care. I think you're a monster because you've decided that because you're hurting, everyone else is small. I didn't fall in love with a sorcerer, Suguru. I fell in love with a boy who used to make sure I got the bigger half of the popsicle. I fell in love with a man who used to look at me like I was his home."

You looked at him, searching his face one last time for any flicker of recognition, any sign that the boy from the beach was still hiding behind those cold, dark eyes.

There was nothing. Just a beautiful, empty shell.

"But he's dead," you said softly, wiping a stray tear from your cheek. "He's been dead for months. And I'm done living in a mausoleum with his ghost."

Suguru didn't try to stop you.

As you walked past him into the bedroom to pack a single suitcase of your own clothes—the things you had bought yourself, the things that didn't have his fingerprints or his money on them—he remained standing in the hallway. He didn't follow you. He didn't ask where you were going. He didn't apologize.

When you came back out, your suitcase in hand, he had moved to the living room. He was sitting on the couch, staring out the rain-slicked window, his profile silhouette dark against the city lights.

The gold and diamonds still lay scattered on the hallway floor, glinting in the dark.

You walked to the front door and gripped the handle. You stopped for a brief, agonizing second, waiting for a miracle. You waited for him to call your name. You waited for him to tell you to stay, to tell you that he was lost, that he needed help, that he didn't want to be alone in the dark anymore. If he had spoken a single, genuine word, you would have dropped the bag. You would have stayed and fought a war against his demons alongside him.

But the silence remained absolute, broken only by the rhythmic, indifferent whir of the ceiling fan.

You turned the handle, stepped out into the corridor, and pulled the door shut behind you. The click of the latch was the loudest sound you had ever heard.

As you walked down the hall toward the elevator, the weight that had been sitting on your chest for months didn't instantly vanish. It didn't turn into relief. It felt heavy, a deep, aching sorrow that made every step feel like walking through wet cement. You were leaving a part of your soul in that apartment.

But as the elevator doors closed, cutting off the view of the hallway, you took your first deep, unobstructed breath in a very long time. The air was cold, and you were entirely alone, but it was real. You were no longer drowning in the wake of someone else's descent. You had saved yourself from the wreckage, even if it meant leaving the person you loved at the bottom of the sea.

Tag-list: @oksukuna

(I don't really like this one)

#geto suguru #jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen #geto x reader #jjk geto #jujutsu geto #jujutsu kaisen suguru #suguru geto x reader #jjk suguru #angst #suguru angst #jjk angst #geto angst

EXTRA EXTRA

Finally being Married to the man you love.

"EXTRA! EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT! THE ROYAL MARRIAGE WILL BE HELD IN THE GARDENS!"

The newsboy’s voice echoed down the cobblestone streets, competing with the early morning clatter of horseshoes and wagon wheels. He tossed a tightly rolled paper onto a pristine doorstep, quickly grabbing another from his satchel to hand off to a passing baker.

The entire kingdom was suddenly in a scurry. A wave of happy whispers rippled through the markets, and more than a few citizens cooed at the thought of their princess finally marrying. For months, the rumors had flown wild, but now it was official: she was marrying Satoru Gojo. To the public, he was an enigmatic, strikingly handsome powerful figure who seemed genuinely devoted to her.

To the royal council, however, he was a wildcard.

Behind the castle’s high stone walls, the atmosphere had been suffocating. For weeks, the King and his daughter had barely spoken a word, existing like ghosts in the same grand corridors. It was a heavy, uneasy silence—an unspoken cold war born of disagreement and protective stubbornness.

Seeking sanctuary from the tension, she walked around Gojo’s quarters, a long parchment list clutched tightly in her hands.

"I want to see if our local florist in town would be willing to handle the flower arrangements," she mumbled softly, her eyes scanning the endless check-boxes. "What color scheme do you like?"

Looking up, she found Satoru lounging back against the headboard of his bed, watching her with a lazy, amused smile. His signature blindfold was off, leaving his brilliant blue eyes completely uncovered, sparkling with a mix of mischief and affection.

She frowned softly, stepping away from her neat rows of notes and walking over to him. "Would you like to be helpful, Satoru?"

"I am being helpful," he drawled, tilting his head. "I told you, I think the wine red looks really nice with the ice blue." He pointed a long, pale finger at the silk color swatches she had scattered across the duvet.

"I don't like the wine red anymore," she sighed, tossing her hands up lightly.

Satoru let out a soft, breathy chuckle, shifting his weight. "Alright, alright. Let’s see... how about this one? Sage green, powder blue, this sand-colored one, and... I think that's a darker navy blue." He spoke calmly, his eyes never actually leaving her face. He was reading her expressions, not the fabric.

"Hmmm. Okay. I actually really like that combination." She nodded, the tension leaving her shoulders just enough for her to sink onto the edge of the mattress with a tired, deflating sigh. "What about your suit? Should I call my father’s royal seamstress to tailor one for you?"

The bed shifted. Before she could react, Satoru slid closer, his long arms snaking around her waist from behind. He resting his chin on her shoulder, his white hair brushing against her cheek.

"We can do whatever you want, love," he murmured, his voice dropping to a soothing, low register. "But... you have a bit of time to plan, you know. You don't have to build the whole world in a day."

"A month to plan a royal wedding isn't a lot of time, dummy," she countered, though she didn't pull away from his warmth.

Satoru chuckled, kissing her temple before loosening his grip so she could turn around. "You're stressed, baby. Let me handle some things. You should only be worrying about your dress. I can handle getting the gardens set up, making sure the colors match, and getting the seating arrangements right."

He stretched his arms over his head, sitting up with an easy, confident grin. "Trust me. I've got it."

Over the next few days, Satoru actually kept his word. He deliberately distracted her from the mounting chaos of state logistics, stepping in to manage the stubborn decorators and the endless catering menus. Yet, he was never autocratic; every few hours, he would pop his head into her rooms to triple-check a detail, ensuring everything aligned perfectly with what she envisioned.

Because of him, she finally had breathing room. Which brought her to today: the final fitting.

The dress was breathtaking. It was elegant and deeply regal, flowing around her like a waterfall of silk and delicate lace, perfectly catching the light. As she stood on the wooden pedestal, looking at her reflection, she felt genuinely beautiful.

A sharp, hesitant knock rattled the heavy wooden door.

"If that's you, 'Toru, it’s bad luck to see the bride in her dress before the wedding!" she scolded softly, keeping her arms steady as the seamstress pinned a section of the intricate train.

The door creaked open, but the tall, boisterous presence of her fiancé didn't fill the room. Instead, it was her father.

The King stood in the doorway, looking remarkably small despite his royal robes. His posture was awkward, his expression clouded with a heavy, visible guilt. But as his gaze drifted up to see her standing there, his eyes instantly softened.

She tensed, her breath catching in her throat. For months, their only interactions had been sharp words and bitter arguments. He had demanded a traditional match; he had wanted "better" for her, distrusting Satoru’s unconventional nature.

"Dad," she whispered, her voice suddenly feeling very small.

"You look... just as beautiful as your mother did," the King said. His voice cracked slightly, filled with a sudden wave of sadness and distant reminiscence. He stepped fully into the room, waving a dismissive hand to the seamstress. "Leave us for a moment, please."

The seamstress bowed quickly and scurried out, closing the door behind her.

An unbearable silence threatened to fill the space, but the King broke it first. "I came to apologize. For my actions. For everything I’ve said over these past weeks." He cleared his throat roughly, looking down at his polished boots before forcing himself to meet her eyes.

"I am just worried about you," he explained softly, exposing a vulnerability she had never seen from the sovereign. "That man... Satoru. He has never had a day of traditional responsibility or royal duty in his life. He plays by his own rules. He doesn't offer the kind of predictable security I wanted for you."

He took a step closer, his hands gesturing helplessly. "What happens when you get overwhelmed with the reality of the crown? The endless council meetings, the state papers, the trade routes, the laws, the burdens of taking care of our people? Could a man like him truly handle that weight beside you, or will you be left swarmed in work all alone?"

The King took a deep breath, the harsh exterior of a ruler completely melting away. "I won't be here forever, my flower. The thought of giving you away like this... it terrifies me. But I am not blind. I understand that he loves you. I've seen how happy you have been since he returned to your side. He fixed a sadness in you, brought a light back to your eyes, that I simply could not provide as a father."

Hearing his words, the last remnants of stress completely evaporated from her body. In a sudden rush of clarity, she realized she had never actually been stressed about the marriage itself. She had been mourning the fracture between herself and the one person who had always been there—the man who raised her, protected her, and built her into the woman she was today. She had been terrified that he wouldn't be there to bless her next chapter.

"If you'll still have me," her father whispered, his eyes shining with unshed tears, "I would very much like to walk you down the aisle. And I would like to give Satoru my blessing."

A broken laugh escaped her lips, and she felt hot tears finally spilling over her lashes. "Of course, Papa... but it's quite rude to make a bride cry while she's in her wedding dress."

The King let out a wet, genuine laugh, reaching out to gently pat her shoulder, careful not to wrinkle the fabric. "You'll get me back, I am certain. I fully intend to cry through the entire ceremony. The whole time."

From that day forward, the dark cloud over the castle lifted. Time seemed to move both slower and simpler. With Satoru and the King working together, the atmosphere turned vibrant. It was a bit awkward at first—watching a traditional monarch interact with a man who actively refused to acknowledge royal protocol—but Satoru was entirely in his element. He cracked jokes, showed profound respect when it mattered, and put a genuine effort into making amends with the man who held his bride's heart.

And then, the day arrived.

The royal gardens had been transformed into an ethereal wonderland. The color palette Satoru had chosen was flawless: deep sage greens blended seamlessly with the natural flora, while soft powder blues and warm sand tones draped elegantly over the grand archways. Thousands of early-blooming white and blue flowers lined the stone walkway.

Beyond the hedges, the murmurs of the kingdom created a beautiful symphony. Nobles, foreign dignitaries, and hundreds of townspeople filled the tiered seating, leaving tables overflowing with beautifully wrapped gifts and handwritten notes of warm blessings.

Inside the bridal pavilion, the nervous excitement was palpable. The princess sat before a grand mirror as her maids put the final touches on her hair, carefully securing the sparkling royal crown atop her head. Her heart hammered against her ribs—a thrilling, terrified, beautiful pounding. Today, she was marrying Satoru.

A soft knock sounded, and her father stepped in, dressed in his finest ceremonial armor. He offered his arm, his eyes already suspiciously bright. "Are you ready, my flower?"

"Ready," she whispered, placing her hand over his sleeve.

The heavy brass doors of the pavilion opened, and the outdoor orchestra struck a magnificent, sweeping chord. The crowded gardens instantly fell into a dead, reverent silence as everyone rose to their feet.

As they stepped into the warm afternoon sunlight, her eyes immediately locked onto the end of the aisle.

There stood Satoru.

He was wearing a perfectly tailored navy suit that made his broad shoulders look impossibly striking. Those mesmerizing, infinite blue eyes locked onto hers, and for a split second, the legendary, cocky Satoru Gojo looked completely breathless. A soft, incredibly tender smile spread across his face.

The walk down the aisle felt like a dream. On her left, her father walked with a proud, measured pace, keeping her steady. On her right, the faces of her people blurred into a tapestry of smiles and unshed tears.

When they finally reached the altar, the King stopped. He looked at Satoru, the silence stretching for a poignant moment. Then, the King took his daughter's hand and placed it gently into Satoru’s large, warm palm.

"Take care of her," the King said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "Or face the wrath of the entire kingdom."

Satoru closed his fingers securely around hers, his expression turning uncharacteristically solemn and deeply sincere. "With my life, Your Majesty. Thank you."

With a final, supportive nod, the King took his seat in the front row, immediately pulling out a handkerchief, true to his promise.

The High Priest stepped forward, raising his hands to bless the gathering, but the world had already narrowed down to just the two of them. Satoru reached up with his free hand, gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His thumb lingered on her cheek, erasing a rogue tear she hadn't realized had fallen.

"You look entirely unfair," he whispered, his voice a private murmur just for her. "I might actually faint."

She let out a watery giggle. "Don't you dare, Satoru. We have a kingdom to run."

"As you wish, my Queen," he smirked softly, his eyes burning with an absolute, unwavering devotion.

The priest spoke of duty, of love, and of a bond that transcended the stars, but it was their vows that sealed the air. When it was Satoru's turn, he didn't read from a script. He held both of her hands, his gaze piercing right into her soul.

"I’ve spent a lot of my life feeling like I was above the world," Satoru said, his voice carrying perfectly over the quiet garden. "But with you, I finally found a place I actually want to anchor myself to. I promise to be your strength when the crown feels too heavy. I promise to share every burden, to listen, and to make you laugh every single day. You are my home."

Tears blurred her vision as she spoke her own vows, promising her heart, her trust, and her future to the man who had brought joy back into her life.

"By the power vested in me," the priest’s voice boomed, smiling warmly at the couple, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. Satoru, you may kiss your bride."

Satoru didn't hesitate. He stepped in, his hands sliding up to cup her face, tipping her head back just enough to press his lips against hers. The kiss was deep, passionate, and filled with a lifetime of unspoken promises.

The garden erupted.

Cheers, applause, and a roar of pure celebration shattered the quiet afternoon air. Rose petals threw a cascade of color over them as Satoru pulled back, a triumphant, blinding grin lighting up his handsome features. He kept one hand firmly wrapped around hers, turning to face their cheering people.

They walked back down the aisle together—no longer burdened by the weight of expectations or the fear of isolation. They were partners, equals, and completely, irrevocably in love.

Tag-list: @oksukuna, @lunarevia

#jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #gojo x reader #i love gojo #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo #jujutsu gojo #jujutsu satoru #satoru #Satoru marriage #jjk au #jjk x reader #domestic gojo

Matching Pajamas

Convincing Choso to get matching Pajamas because you love him.

You had been scrolling mindlessly through your feed for the past hour when the craving hit. It started with one video: a laughing couple doing a silly transition dance in matching, oversized fleece pants. Then another. And another. Soon, your entire algorithm was a cozy montage of couples looking adorable and coordinated.

Naturally, your mind immediately went to Choso.

It wasn't like Choso would care much about what he wore. In fact, he basically did everything you wanted without questioning it, always eager to please and even more eager to do anything that involved domestic comfort.

"Cho?" you called out from your nest of blankets on the couch.

Choso was currently in the next room, thoroughly engrossed in a gaming session with Yuji. Despite the digital chaos of whatever shooter they were playing, his ears were always tuned to your voice. Barely a minute later, the door clicked open and his head peeked out.

"Yeah?" he asked. His usual twin top-knots were a little loose, and his gaming headphones were pushed off his ears, resting snugly around his neck.

"Wanna get matching pajamas?"

Choso blinked, his expression shifting from focused gamer to mildly confused, but entirely attentive. He didn't ask why. He didn't say it was silly. He just nodded once, a soft look settling over his sharp features. "If you want to. Do you have a pair in mind?"

You grinned, eagerly tapping the screen of your phone to show him your digital shopping cart. You had already picked them out: matching Hello Kitty pajamas. For you, a soft white tank top featuring Hello Kitty’s iconic face, paired with incredibly plush, oversized pink fleece pajama pants covered in a pattern of tiny red bows and matching kitties. For him, a matching set of the fleece pants, and matching tank top.

Choso walked over, leaning over the back of the couch to look at the screen. He stared at the little cartoon cat with the red bow for a few seconds, then looked at you.

"She doesn't have a mouth," he noted softly.

"She speaks from the heart," you replied with absolute seriousness.

Choso’s lips twitched into a rare, faint smile. He reached down, gently tapping your forehead with his index finger. "Order them. Get whatever size you think will fit me."

Two days later, the package arrived. You practically tore the cardboard open, washing the fleece immediately so they would be perfectly soft and smell like fresh laundry by bedtime.

When evening finally rolled around, you changed into your set first. The fleece was like a warm hug, and the tank top was perfectly cozy. Grabbing Choso’s pair, you padded down the hall and knocked on his door. When he opened it, you shoved the folded fabric into his hands.

"Your turn! Put them on!"

Choso looked down at the bright pink, white-and-red pants in his hands, then looked at you, fully decked out in your matching gear. A soft, genuine warmth flooded his dark eyes. Without a word, he closed the door to change.

When he stepped out a few minutes later, you had to bite your lip to keep from squealing. Choso was a tall, imposing man with a dangerous aura when he wanted to have one—but right now, wearing bright pink Hello Kitty fleece pants and the matching tank top, he looked like the world’s largest, most adorable stuffed bear. The pants were comfortably baggy on him, pooling slightly over his bare feet.

"How do I look?" he asked, looking a bit shy as he tugged at the waistband.

"Unbelievably cute," you beamed, throwing your arms around his neck.

Choso caught you easily, his large hands resting on the small of your back. The plush fleece of your pants rubbed against his, creating a pocket of absolute, static-y warmth between you. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of the fresh laundry detergent.

"They are very warm," he murmured, his voice rumbling against your skin. "And soft. Like you."

"We have to show Yuji," you teased, pulling back just enough to look at him.

Choso let out a soft huff, though there was no real heat behind it. "He will never let me hear the end of it."

"Please?" You gave him your best puppy-dog eyes.

Choso sighed, defeated instantly. He could fight off curses, but he stood absolutely no chance against you. "Okay. But only for a minute."

Hand in hand, the two of you walked into the living room where Yuji was raiding the fridge. When the younger brother turned around, holding a juice box, he froze. He looked at you, then looked down at his older brother’s bright, cartoon-patterned legs.

The silence lasted for three seconds before Yuji burst into a fit of breathless, delighted laughter. "No way! Choso, you look like a giant marshmallow!"

"It is a cohesive couple's aesthetic, Yuji," Choso said with immense, deadpan dignity, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you flush against his side. "You wouldn't understand."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Hello Kitty," Yuji choked out, wiping a tear from his eye as he headed back to his room, still chuckling.

Choso looked down at you, raising an eyebrow. "Are you satisfied?"

"Extremely," you giggled, leaning your head against his chest.

With the teasing out of the way, Choso wasted no time guiding you back toward the bedroom. He pulled the heavy blankets back, ushering you into the bed before climbing in right beside you. The combination of the heavy duvet and your matching fleece pajamas made the bed feel like a cloud.

Choso pulled you into his chest, his long legs intertwining with yours. His body heat was naturally high, acting like a personal space heater. He rested his chin on top of your head, one large hand gently stroking your back, tracing the outline of the Hello Kitty graphic on your tank top.

"Thank you for buying these," Choso whispered into the quiet room, his grip tightening just a fraction, holding you close to his heart. "I like matching with you."

Wrapped in fleece, warmth, and Choso's unconditional devotion, you closed your eyes, completely content.

Tag-list: @oksukuna

#jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen #choso kamo #jjk choso #choso x reader #kamo choso #jujutsu kaisen choso #yuji itadori #jjk yuji #itadori

A little of the top

Sukuna got a new look, and you aren't sure whether to pounce on him or demand he go back and get it fixed. (He can't fix it)

It was later that evening, and the rhythmic quiet of the apartment was broken only by the sound of you tidying up the living room. You had just finished wrestling a fresh pillowcase onto a throw pillow when the front door finally swung open.

The heavy, distinct thud of Sukuna’s footsteps echoed down the hallway.

"You're home la—" The words died in your throat the second he stepped into the living room light.

Your brain completely short-circuited. Where was his hair? His beautiful, luscious, soft hair that you loved running your fingers through? The pillow slipped from your suddenly limp hands, hitting the floor with a soft thud.

Sukuna stopped in his tracks, leaning his broad frame against the doorframe and raising a pierced eyebrow at your frozen state.

"What?" he asked. His tone was so casual you’d think he hadn’t just completely altered your brain chemistry with a pair of clippers.

It was infuriating, really. Who gave him the right to shave his head and somehow look even hotter? The sharp lines of his jaw, the intricate tattoos mapping up his neck, the intense, piercing crimson of his eyes—everything was suddenly on full display, amplified tenfold by the brutal, clean-cut look. You truly didn't know whether you wanted to pounce on him right then and there, or burst into tears over the loss of his pink locks.

"What do you mean 'what'?" You huffed, crossing the room to stand right in front of him. You looked up at him like he had just committed a federal crime. "When you left this morning, you had a full head of hair. Now? It’s gone!"

"My hair was getting on my nerves," he admitted seamlessly. A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he looked down at your utterly devastated expression. His large, tattooed hands found their familiar place at your waist, his thumbs tracing small circles into your skin through your shirt. "You don't like it?"

"I didn't say that!" You protested, your hands instinctively reaching up, hovering just inches away from the fuzzy new texture of his scalp. "It's just... new. Very new."

Before your fingers could make actual contact, Sukuna’s grip tightened on your waist. With an effortless, breathless lift, he swept you completely off your feet. You gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist out of pure instinct as he walked over to the couch, sinking heavily into the cushions and bringing you right down onto his lap.

Straddling his thighs, you found yourself eye-to-eye with the culprit. He leaned in, his breath warm against your lips, his eyes gleaming with dark, predatory amusement.

"Good new or bad new?" he murmured, tilting his head slightly.

"I haven't decided yet," you mumbled, finally letting your palms rest against the sides of his head.

The buzz cut was prickly, sharp, and incredibly warm under your hands, completely different from the soft strands you were used to burying your face in. It sent a strange, thrilling shiver straight down your spine. Your fingers trailed slowly down to the nape of his neck, feeling the solid, unyielding heat of his skin and the prominent set of his shoulders.

Without the hair framing his face, his expressions felt heavier, more intense. Every glance felt like a demand.

Sukuna let out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated right through your chest. He leaned into your touch, his eyes lidding with pure satisfaction as you continued to explore the new texture.

"Take your time," he whispered, his hands sliding down from your waist to grip your hips, pulling you flush against his chest. "But I suggest you make up your mind before I decide for you."

Looking down at the sharp, dangerous edge the new haircut gave him, you had a feeling "good new" was an extreme understatement. You leaned down, burying your face into his neck, realizing you were definitely leaning toward pouncing.

Tag-list- @oksukuna

#jujutsu kaisen sukuna #jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #i love sukuna #sukuna #jjk x reader #jjk au #sukuna ryomen #jjk sukuna #buzzcut #buzzcut Sukuna

Missed Trains

All Gojo had to do was Apologize but he was too blind to see that he was losing something so dear.

The silence in the apartment didn’t just sit there; it heavy-pressed itself against your chest, thick with the scent of his cologne and the sharp, metallic tang of a dying argument.

Satoru had left three hours ago. The front door hadn’t slammed—no, he was too untouchable for something as mundane as a slammed door. It had just clicked shut, a final, mocking punctuation mark to a fight that had stripped you raw.

You looked at your hands. They were shaking.

How had it gotten this bad? Satoru Gojo was the strongest. He reminded you, the world, and himself of that fact every single day. But somewhere along the line, that strength had curdled into a suffocating arrogance. He was so wrapped up in his own godhood, so utterly obsessed with the narrative of his own infallibility, that he had forgotten how to be human with you. He couldn't admit he was wrong. He couldn't clear up the misunderstandings that had been piling up like kindling between you for months. When you asked for explanations—where he had been, why he had left you behind, who he was protecting when he was supposed to be protecting you—he merely smiled that blinding, infuriating smile and told you not to worry.

“I’ve got it covered, babe. I always do.”

But he didn’t have you covered. He was letting you drown in the quiet spaces he left behind, assuming your love for him was an infinite resource, as boundless as his cursed energy.

You were drained. You were so deeply, agonizingly tired. And the worst part—the part that made you want to scream until your throat bled—was that you still loved him. You loved the boy beneath the blindfold, the one who used to let his guard down when the world wasn’t watching. But you couldn’t survive on crumbs of a ghost anymore.

With a numb, mechanical precision, you pulled your suitcase from the top of the closet.

Every item you packed felt like a betrayal. You took what you could fit: a few sweaters, your journals, the mundane pieces of a life you had tried to build in the shadow of a god. You left behind the shirt of his you used to sleep in. You left the jewelry he’d bought you to apologize for missed anniversaries—expensive trinkets meant to buy your silence.

When the suitcase was zipped, you sat at the small vanity table. Your reflection looked hollow, dark circles bruising the skin beneath your eyes. With a trembling hand, you grabbed a piece of scrap paper and a pen.

Satoru, you wrote, your breath hitching. I can’t keep waiting for a man who is already gone. You never cleared the air. You just let me choke on it. I love you, but I am empty. Don't look for me.

You didn't sign it with "Love." He already knew that part, and it hadn't been enough to make him stay. You set the note on the dresser, placing his silver house key directly on top of it so it wouldn't blow away.

You were going to catch the first train out at dawn.

The night dragged on like a slow execution. You lay on the edge of the mattress, the sheets freezing against your skin. Every creak of the floorboards made your heart leap into your throat, thinking, He’s back. He’s coming up the stairs. He’s going to open the door, pull me into his arms, and finally, finally say he’s sorry.

But the door never opened.

When the weak, grey light of morning began to filter through the blinds, the space beside you remained pristine and untouched. He hadn't come home. He hadn't even bothered to check if you were still there.

A choked, pathetic sob escaped your lips as you finally stood up. You hadn't slept a wink. Your mind was a vicious loop of what-ifs. If you left now, was it truly over? Could you really walk away from Satoru Gojo? Did anyone ever truly walk away from him, or did he just let them drift out of his orbit when he was bored?

Your feet carried you to the station through sheer muscle memory. The morning air was biting, stinging your raw eyes.

Now, you stood on the platform. The translation phone was clutched so tightly in your hand that your knuckles were white. Your suitcase sat in front of you, a stark barrier between your past and your unknown future.

Huuuuuuuuuuh.

The distant whistle of the train blew, a mournful, screeching sound that echoed through the concrete station. The tracks began to vibrate.

Within minutes, the massive metal beast pulled up, hissing steam and screeching to a halt. The doors slid open. You watched, frozen, as a handful of sleepy commuters stepped off, their faces blank, rushing toward their mundane lives. Other people boarded, shuffling past you.

Your phone screen stared back at you. Your thumb hovered over his contact name. Just Satoru. Not a nickname anymore. Just him.

Just call me, you prayed to whatever cruel gods were listening. Answer the phone. Say anything. Just give me a reason to kick this suitcase into the tracks and run back to you.

You pressed call.

You held the phone to your ear, counting the seconds.

“The mobile customer you are trying to reach is currently unavailable or outside the coverage area. Please leave a message after the—”

A hollow laugh escaped your lips, turning into a shaky breath that fogged in the cold air. Unavailable. Of course he was. He was the strongest; he didn’t need to be available to anyone.

The train conductor called out for final boarding. The whistle blew again—a sharp, deafening blast.

You lowered your phone. You didn't leave a voicemail. There was nothing left to say that hadn't already been ignored. Grabbing the handle of your suitcase, you lifted your chin, blinked away the tears that threatened to blind you, and stepped onto the train.

As the doors slid shut with a heavy, definitive thud, you felt a piece of your soul snap cleanly in half.

Across town, high above the Jujutsu High campus, the wind was biting and clean.

Satoru sat on the edge of the roof of one of the traditional shrines, his long legs dangling over the eaves. His blindfold was off, stuffed carelessly into his pocket. His striking blue eyes, usually vibrant and electric, were dull, staring unseeingly at the treeline as the sun slowly crept over the horizon.

His phone lay a few feet away from him on the wooden tiles. Dead.

He knew exactly where his charger was. It was plugged into the outlet right next to your side of the bed, where he usually left it because he was too lazy to buy a second one. It had died somewhere around two in the morning, but he hadn't cared enough to go inside and plug it in.

He was angry. Mostly at you, but beneath that thin layer of childish spite, he was furious with himself.

The argument from last night replayed in his head, each word cutting deeper now that the heat of the moment had passed. He remembered the look on your face—not the anger he was used to dealing with from superiors or enemies, but the absolute, crushing exhaustion. He had seen the way your shoulders slouched, the way your voice cracked when you told him that his silence was killing you.

He should have cleared up the misunderstanding. He knew he should have. It would have taken two sentences to explain that the secrecy wasn't because he didn't trust you, but because the higher-ups were watching his every move, searching for a weakness—searching for you.

But Satoru didn't do explanations. He didn't do vulnerability. To admit that he was trying to protect you from his world was to admit that he couldn't completely control the world. It was an admission of a limitation, and Satoru Gojo did not have limitations. So instead, he had mocked your anxiety. He had chosen to be smug. He had chosen his pride over your peace of mind.

“You’re overreacting,” he had said, a casual wave of his hand dismissing the tears in your eyes. “If I wanted to leave you, I’d just do it. Stop suffocating me.”

The memory made his stomach twist into an uncomfortable, burning knot. It was a ugly thing to say. He knew it the second it left his mouth, but his stubbornness had anchored him in place, refusing to let him apologize. So, he had walked out, thinking a few hours of breathing room would make you realize how ridiculous you were being.

He sighed, leaning back against the sloping roof, resting his weight on his elbows. He felt like this was far past a simple conversation now. He’d have to bring home those expensive sweets you liked from the bakery near the station. He’d have to endure your quiet treatment for a day or two, let you vent, and maybe—just maybe—he’d mutter a half-hearted "sorry" while pulling you into his lap. You’d forgive him. You always did. Your love for him was a constant, fixed point in his chaotic universe.

The wind blew softly, ruffling his snow-white hair, carrying the scent of pine and early morning dew.

And then, through the quiet breeze, a sound drifted up from the valley.

The train whistle.

It echoed once, a sharp, distant cry that cut through the morning stillness.

Satoru didn't move, his eyes tracking a bird flying across the sky.

Then, it blew a second time. A longer, more agonizing note that sounded almost like a weep.

"Jeez... you can really hear those things from far away, huh..." he mumbled to himself, his voice raspy from the cold and the lack of sleep.

He stretched his long limbs, a lazy yawn escaping him as he finally pushed himself up into a standing position. He rubbed the back of his neck, squinting at the rising sun. It was still incredibly early.

A small, confident smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he thought of you. By now, you were probably still tucked under the heavy blankets of your shared bed, the anger from last night fading into grogginess. You’d be waiting for him. You’d complain about his cold hands when he crawled back into bed, but you’d still let him hold you. You always waited.

"Time to go home," he murmured, picking up his dead phone and sliding it into his pocket.

He adjusted his blindfold back over his eyes, blocking out the world, completely blind to the fact that his world had just boarded a train and left him behind.

The train ride was agonizingly smooth. The rhythmic clack-clack, clack-clack of the wheels against the tracks felt like a countdown, distancing you further and further from the life you were tearing away from.

You pressed your forehead against the cool glass of the window. The city was fading, replaced by sprawling fields of green and grey.

Your phone buzzed in your hand. Your heart stopped. You tore your eyes open, looking at the screen with a desperate, pathetic hope that made you despise yourself.

It wasn't him. It was a calendar notification. Satoru’s day off.

You closed your eyes, a single, heavy tear finally escaping and tracing a wet path down your cheek. He wouldn't even know you were gone yet. He was probably just getting back to the apartment, walking up the stairs with that casual, arrogant stride, expecting to find you exactly where he left you.

You wondered what his face would look like when he saw the note. Would he be angry? Would he break something? Or worse... would he just shrug, crumble the paper, and throw it in the trash, relieved that the burden of your expectations was finally gone?

The uncertainty was a physical pain, a dull ache in your chest that made it hard to breathe. You clutched your jacket tighter around yourself, pulling your knees up to your chest on the fabric seat. You were completely alone. You had chosen this, you reminded yourself. You had chosen survival over a love that was slowly turning you into dust.

But as the train sped up, plunging into a dark tunnel, you realized that surviving didn't mean it stopped hurting.

Satoru unlocked the apartment door with a quiet click.

"I'm home," he called out, his voice deliberately soft, testing the waters.

Silence answered him.

He smirked slightly, stepping inside and kicking off his shoes. Still mad, he thought. Classic.

He walked down the short hallway, the floorboards creaking under his weight. The apartment felt strangely cold, the air stagnant, as if no one had breathed in it for hours. He bypassed the kitchen and headed straight for the bedroom, expecting to see a lump under the duvet.

The bed was empty. The sheets were pulled neat, but they were cold when he reached out to touch them.

"Hey," he called out, turning around. "If you're hiding in the bathroom, I brought those strawberry daifuku you like. Don't be petty."

No response.

Satoru frowned, his Six Eyes picking up the distinct lack of cursed energy signatures in the room besides his own. You weren't here. A spark of irritation flared in his chest. Had you gone out this early just to avoid him?

He turned to walk toward the closet, intending to change out of his uniform, but his foot caught on something on the floor. He looked down.

It was a hairpin. Yours. The one he’d offhandedly mentioned looked nice on you a year ago, the one you wore almost every day. It was sitting alone on the hardwood floor, dropped and forgotten.

A strange, unfamiliar coldness began to creep up Satoru’s spine.

He slowly turned toward the dresser.

There, sitting in the center of the dark wood, was a small square of white paper. And resting on top of it, catching the morning light, was his silver spare house key.

Satoru stared at it. His brain, usually capable of processing infinite amounts of information in a fraction of a second, completely stalled. He walked over to the dresser, his movements suddenly heavy, the casual grace gone from his posture.

He picked up the key. It felt freezing against his palm.

He unfolded the note.

As his eyes scanned your handwriting—the messy, hurried slant of your pen—the world around him seemed to lose its color.

I can’t keep waiting for a man who is already gone... I am empty... Don't look for me.

"What?" Satoru whispered, the word sounding hollow in the empty room. "What is this?"

He read it again. And again. His six eyes searched the paper, analyzing the ink, the microscopic tears where your hands had shaken, as if he could find a hidden meaning, a punchline to a joke that wasn't funny.

Don't look for me.

"No," he said, a sudden, sharp spike of panic hitting his chest like a physical blow. "No, no, no."

He threw the note down, ripping his phone from his pocket. He remembered it was dead. With a frustrated curse, he practically tore the charger from the wall, forcing the plug into the phone. The screen lit up with the charging icon. He waited, his chest heaving, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

Come on. Come on, damn it.

The phone finally buzzed to life. He didn't even wait for the home screen to fully load before he slammed his thumb against your contact name and pressed it to his ear.

“The mobile customer you are trying to reach is currently unavailable—”

He hung up and called again.

“The mobile customer—”

"Answer the phone!" he roared into the empty apartment, his voice cracking with a raw, ugly emotion he hadn't felt in years. "Answer me!"

He dropped the phone onto the bed. He spun around, tearing open the closet doors.

Your side was half-empty. The suitcase was gone. Your favorite jackets, your boots—gone.

The realization hit him like a tidal wave, knocking the breath straight out of his lungs. You hadn't just gone out for a walk. You hadn't gone to a friend's house to cool off.

You had left him.

Satoru stumbled back a step, his hand flying to his mouth. The arrogance, the god-complex, the untouchable barrier of his Infinity—it all crumbled, leaving him raw and bleeding in the center of the bedroom.

The train whistle.

The memory of the sound flashed through his mind, deafening and mocking. He heard the train whistle go off... once... then twice.

You had been at the station. While he was sitting on a roof, feeling smug and sorry for himself, thinking you were tucked safely in his bed waiting for his forgiveness, you were standing on a cold platform, pulling a suitcase, leaving him behind.

He could have stopped you. If he hadn't been so stubborn, if he had just come home last night, if his phone hadn't been dead, if he had just teleported to the station the moment he heard the whistle—

But he hadn't. He had assumed he had time. He had assumed your love was a guarantee.

Satoru sank to his knees on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands. The note lay on the floor by his feet, a stark reminder of his failure. For the first time in his life, Satoru Gojo felt completely, utterly powerless.

The strongest man in the world sat alone in a quiet apartment, clutching a silver key, suffocating in the space you had left behind.

tag-list: @oksukuna

#jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk angst #jjk drabbles #gojo angst #jjk gojo #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jujutsu satoru #jjk satoru #i love gojo #angst fic

HAPPIEST BIRTHDAY CUTIEE 🩷🩷

OMGOSH THANK YOU GORGEOUS 🩷🥺

I turned 20 today so have these pictures of my cat. Also gonna upload today again lol.

#birthday #idk how to tag this #fic later maybe

Getting her first hat- Suki's adventures

Sukuna wants to take his daughter to get her first ever proper hat, but work seems to be getting in the way.

An Au from the writer of Back to Me @oksukuna. I just adore Suki so much. I did get permission to write this. I highly recommend you go check out their work it is absolutely amazing and worth it.

The sun was an unapologetic weight, pressing down on the rolling acreage of the Ryomen ranch with a dry, golden intensity. Heat shimmered off the rusted corrugated roofs of the outbuildings, and the cicadas had already begun their rhythmic, buzzing drone—a soundtrack to the sweltering peak of July. Despite the heat, the atmosphere near the main house was one of focused, gentle industry.

You stood by the edge of the porch, the green garden hose pulsing in your hands like a living thing. The cool well water splashed into the colorful plastic of a toddler-sized wading pool, the sound a refreshing contrast to the parched silence of the surrounding fields. Your focus, however, wasn’t on the rising water level, but on the small, whirlwind of energy currently navigating the grass of the new waterfowl enclosure.

"MAMA duck!" Suki’s voice was a high-pitched trill of pure, unadulterated joy.

She was a vision of chaotic toddler cuteness. Her pink curls—a vibrant inheritance from her father that she wore with far more grace than he ever did—had been wrangled into two lopsided pigtails. Sukuna had spent nearly twenty minutes that morning, his massive, scarred hands looking absurdly large against her small head, huffing with uncharacteristic patience as he tried to get the hair ties even. He had failed, of course, but the result was endearing. One pigtail sat higher than the other, giving her a perpetually quizzical look.

"Yes, honey, be careful with them," you called out, your voice softening as you watched her crouch. "They’re still babies, just like you. They get scared easily."

Suki stopped mid-stride, her little brow furrowed in deep concentration. She took your words to heart with a gravity that always tugged at your heartstrings. While she possessed her father’s stubbornness and his penchant for loud demands, she had inherited a soul of pure empathy. She didn't have a cruel bone in her body, especially when it came to the creatures that called this ranch home.

"I careful," she announced to the world, her voice dropping into a determined whisper.

With the calculated precision of a seasoned ranch hand, she squatted down, her diaper-clad bottom hovering just inches above the clover. One of the ducklings, a fuzzy yellow ball of nerves, wandered close enough for her to scoop it up. She didn't grab; she gathered. Her small hands formed a warm nest around the creature, and she stood up with a triumphant beam.

As you turned the nozzle on the hose, cutting the flow of water, you watched the procession. Suki marched toward the pool with the duckling held against her chest, and to your surprise, the other five ducklings trailed after her in a waddling line, as if recognizing her as their giant, pink-haired leader.

"Suki, baby," you chirped, wiping a stray bead of sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand. "Don't get too messy. Daddy mentioned he wanted to take you into town to get fitted for a proper sun hat if he manages to finish the south pasture fencing early today."

The mention of her father acted like a physical pull. Suki perked up, her eyes widening. The duckling was gently deposited back into the grass—much to its confusion—as her priorities shifted instantly.

"Papa?" she mumbled, her head tilting.

The ducklings were forgotten in a heartbeat. She turned toward the horizon, where the silhouettes of the horses moved lazily in the distance. She knew exactly where he would be. Sukuna didn't just work the ranch; he dominated it. Whether he was breaking a stubborn colt or repairing a collapsed gate, he did so with a raw, magnetic competence that you still found yourself staring at, even after all these years.

"Papa!" Suki cried out, her pace increasing from a waddle to a determined trot.

You followed at a distance, leaning against the gate of the enclosure and watching her small form retreat toward the stables. As you rounded the corner of the barn, you saw him. Sukuna was stripped down to a dark work vest, his muscular arms slick with sweat and dusted with hay and grime. He was currently hauling heavy bags of feed into the troughs, his movements rhythmic and powerful. Even covered in the grit of the ranch, he looked incredibly, infuriatingly attractive.

Suki reached the heavy wooden fence that separated the barnyard from the grazing path. She began to babble loudly, a stream of consciousness that only a parent could translate, her little hands slapping against the timber.

Sukuna didn't look up immediately. You saw the corner of his mouth twitch—the telltale sign that he knew exactly who was there. He hoisted a final bag of grain, pouring it out with a flourish, deliberately keeping his back to the fence. He was playing his favorite game: ignoring my toddler.

"Papa! Papa! I here!" Suki shouted, her voice rising in pitch as she realized she was being ignored.

Sukuna finally turned, but he didn't look down at the toddler screaming for his attention. Instead, his crimson eyes drifted upward, locking onto yours where you stood by the barn door. A sharp, wolfish smirk spread across his face.

"Came over all by yourself, sweetheart?" he teased, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the humid air. "I could have sworn I heard a particularly annoying little runt follow you out here, but I must have been mistaken. Just the wind, I suppose."

Suki’s face crumpled into an indignant pout. She began to jump, her tiny sandals kicking up puffs of dust. "No Papa! I here! I right here!"

She reached her arms as high as they would go, stretching her fingers toward the top rail of the fence as if that extra three inches would suddenly make her visible to the man who stood nearly six and a half feet tall.

Sukuna let out a short, rough chuckle—a sound he reserved only for the two of you. He finally dropped his gaze, looking down at the miniature version of himself. The hardness in his eyes didn't vanish, but it shifted, turning into something fiercely protective and uncharacteristically fond.

"There's the little gremlin, Suki," he said, his voice softening just a fraction.

"Hi, Papa!" She waved with both hands, her previous frustration evaporating instantly. "All done work? Suki get hat? Big hat like Papa?"

Sukuna’s expression shifted from amusement to a mock-scowl. He straightened up, wiping his hands on a rag tucked into his belt, and shot a sharp look over Suki’s head toward you.

"I see your mother can't keep her mouth shut for a damn second," he grumbled, though there was no real heat in it. "It was supposed to be a surprise, brat. I wanted to see if you'd even notice we were going to the Milliner"

You gave him a cheeky shrug, leaning back against the barn wood. "She was asking about the sun, Sukuna. I couldn't lie to the girl. Besides, look at her. She’s ready to go."

Sukuna looked back at Suki, who was practically vibrating with anticipation. He let out a long, weary sigh, the kind that came from a man who knew he was about to disappoint his favorite person. He looked back at the unfinished tasks—the fence line that still needed bracing, the tractor that was leaking hydraulic fluid, and the horse that needed its hooves picked and trimmed.

"Dad has a lot of work today, princess," he said, reaching over the fence to ruffle her pink curls, effectively ruining the pigtails he had worked so hard on earlier. "The cows don't care about hats, and the fence won't fix itself. If I don't finish, we don't go. No promises."

Suki’s shoulders slumped slightly, but she nodded. She understood the rules of the ranch: work came first. "Okay, Papa. I help?"

"Go help your mother stay out of trouble," he countered with a wink.

The rest of the day was long and grueling. The heat didn't break until well after seven, and even then, the air remained thick. You watched from the kitchen window as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and burnt oranges. Sukuna didn't come in for dinner. The sound of his hammer and the low growl of the truck engine continued long after the stars began to poke through the haze.

Suki eventually fell asleep on the rug in the living room, a picture book about farm animals splayed open across her chest. You carried her up to bed, her small body heavy with the exhaustion of a day spent chasing ducks and waiting for a trip to town that never happened.

When Sukuna finally trudged into the house around midnight, he was a ghost of a man—covered in grease, mud, and sheer exhaustion. He didn't say a word, just took a long, cold shower and collapsed into bed beside you, his skin smelling of cedar and hard work.

The next morning, the sun rose with a renewed ferocity. You woke up early, as usual, but the side of the bed where Sukuna slept was already cold.

You walked down the hallway to Suki’s room, expecting to find her twisted in her sheets, mid-dream. Instead, the door was slightly ajar. You pushed it open quietly and froze.

Suki was sitting up in her toddler bed, her eyes wide and sparkling with the remnants of sleep. On the pillow beside her sat a miniature, hand-tooled leather cowboy hat. It was a perfect replica of the one Sukuna wore—the same dark tan, the same braided band, even a tiny silver buckle on the side.

Propped up against the lamp on her nightstand was a small, grimy note written in Sukuna’s jagged, aggressive handwriting: Town was closed by the time I finished. Woke up the milliner at 2 AM. Don't let your mother lose this one. Don't ruin it either...it was expensive leather.

you smiled, knowing full well that by noon, that hat would likely be used as a water bowl for a duckling-and that Sukuna wouldn't say a word of protest. Maybe a quick sigh before moving on with his work.

Suki looked up at you, then slowly reached out to touch the brim of the hat. A slow, triumphant grin spread across her face.

"Papa got hat," she whispered, her voice thick with awe.

She shoved the hat onto her head. It was slightly too big, sliding down to rest on her ears and squishing her curls, but she didn't care. She scrambled out of bed, her feet hitting the floor with a thud, and marched toward the door.

"I go show Papa!" she cheered.

You followed her down the stairs and out onto the porch. There, in the middle of the yard, stood Sukuna. He was leaning against his truck, a cup of black coffee in one hand, looking like he hadn't slept a wink. When he saw Suki come charging out of the house, the oversized hat bobbing with every step, he didn't laugh.

He simply stood up straighter, adjusted his own identical hat, and gave her a sharp, respectful nod.

"Morning, Deputy," he called out. "Grab your boots. We’ve got a ranch to run."

Suki stopped at the top of the porch steps, saluting him with a chubby hand. The heat of the day was already rising, but for the moment, the world was perfect—a sea of golden grass, the smell of coming rain, and a little girl in a big hat, following in the footsteps of the only man she’d ever truly feared and loved.

#sukuna x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk #jjk sukuna #ryomen x reader #domestic sukuna #cowboy sukuna #au of another story #jjk ryomen #ryomen sukuna #sukuna fluff #sukuna x you #girl dad sukuna #sukuna #i love sukuna #back to me #oksukuna #Ryomen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen sukuna

Accepting confessions

Megumi is finally done denying himself of your love.

Megumi was confused as to why someone of your nature would like him. He was reserved, wasn't the best at communicating, and usually oblivious...but he couldn't be not when you had professed your undying love for him twice which made his ears burn bright red as he looked away and turned you down each time. "Theres just something so vexing about you?" So when you confess for the third time what makes him give in?

The air in the Jujutsu High courtyard was thick with the scent of damp moss and the metallic tang of oncoming rain. Megumi Fushiguro stood near the stone steps, his posture a rigid line of practiced indifference. He was a man built of shadows and silence, someone who treated conversation like a tactical retreat.

Then there was you.

You were a riot of color in his grayscale world, a persistent hum of static that he couldn’t seem to tune out. You had cornered him twice before near the vending machines, and twice more during training—each time dropping "undying love" into the conversation with the casual weight of a hand grenade.

Now, for the fifth time, you were standing in his personal space.

"Megumi," you said, your voice cutting through the silence."I’m in love with you. I think I’ve been in love with you since the first time I watched you try to summon Divine Dogs and you accidentally tripped over them."

Megumi didn’t look at you. He couldn't. His gaze was fixed on a stray blade of grass, but he could feel the familiar, traitorous heat crawling up the back of his neck. His ears were already glowing a vivid, painful red.

"You’re doing this again," he muttered, his voice barely a rasp. "Why? I’ve told you no. Four times."

"And you've looked like you wanted to jump out of a window all four times," you countered, stepping into his line of sight. "But you haven't actually walked away yet. That’s a win in my book."

"There is something so deeply concerning about your nature," he snapped, finally meeting your eyes. His sea-dark iris flashed with a mixture of irritation and something far more frantic.

"I’m reserved. I’m difficult. I don't know how to do... this. I spend my days thinking about death and Shikigami, and you’re here talking about 'undying love' like it’s a hobby."

He was lying. The lie felt heavy in his chest, a jagged stone he’d been carrying since the second time you’d confessed. He had spent weeks memorizing the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were nervous and the specific, chaotic energy you brought into a room that made the shadows at his feet settle into a comfortable hush. He liked you.

He liked you so much it felt like a curse he couldn't exorcise, but admitting it meant letting someone into the fortress he’d built to keep the world’s ugliness out.

"It's a tactical error," he said, though his voice lacked its usual bite. "Liking me. You should find someone... easier."

"I don't want easy, Megumi. I want the guy who buys two drinks from the vending machine just because he saw me looking at the slot of my favorite brand, when I was a dollar short." you said softly.

Megumi froze. He had thought he’d been subtle about that. He’d done it under the cover of night, leaving the extra can on the bench.

"I didn't—"

"You did," you interrupted, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. "And you do. You're oblivious to a lot of things, Fushiguro, but you're not oblivious to me. Stop pretending."

The silence that followed was suffocating. A low rumble of thunder rolled over the school grounds, and the first few drops of rain began to splatter against the pavement. Megumi looked at you—really looked at you—and felt the final support beam of his resolve buckle.

He had spent so much energy denying the way his heart hammered against his ribs whenever you laughed. He had told himself he was protecting you, or protecting himself, but standing in the rain, watching you wait for a rejection he no longer had the heart to give, he realized how exhausting the theater of indifference had become.

"We're going to be a disaster," he whispered, his shoulders finally slumping.

You blinked, taken aback by the change in his tone. "Excuse me?"

"You. Me. This," he gestured vaguely between the two of you, his face still flushed but his gaze unwavering. "It’s going to be chaotic. I’m bad at this. I’m going to forget to text you back because I’m fighting a Grade 1, and I’m probably going to stay silent for hours when I’m in a mood."

A slow, radiant grin spread across your face. "Is that a yes? Are you finally giving in?"

Megumi reached out, his fingers hovering for a second before he gathered the courage to catch your wrist. He didn't pull you away; he just held on, his grip firm and grounding.

"I’ve been 'in' for a while," he admitted, the truth coming out in a rush of hot, embarrassed breath. "I just... I didn't want to admit that someone as thoufht provoking as you managed to make me feel this way. It’s annoying."

"I know," you laughed, stepping fully into his space. "That’s part of my charm."

"It’s not charm," he grumbled, though he finally let a ghost of a smile touch his lips. He leaned his forehead against yours, the cool rain mingling with the warmth of his skin.

"It’s a headache. But I suppose I’d rather have the headache than the silence."

He didn't need to say "I love you" back. Not yet. The way he tightened his hold on your hand, shielding you from the worsening rain as he started to lead you toward the dorms, spoke loud enough. He was still confused, still reserved, and still remarkably red in the ears—but for the first time, he wasn't looking away.

#jjk #megumi x reader #fushiguro megumi #jjk fanfic #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen #megumi x you #jjk megumi #jujutsu kaisen megumi #jjk confessions

MASTERLIST

Gojo: The Princesses Jester, The Star and The Moon, Missed trains, EXTRA EXTRA,

Nanami: Shiny things, The flowers die on Monday

Sukuna: One just out of reach, New roommate, Masquerade, Quiet studies & distracted glances, Getting her first hat, A little of the top

Megumi: Violation, Accepting confessions

Yuji: Bf!Yuji buys you things without asking, Quiet care of love

Choso: Two might be enough, Matching Pajamas

Suguru: Loves weight in gold, Loves weight in gold (Prequel)

#jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #masterpost #masterlist #jjk x you

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

ꩇׁׅ݊ᨵׁׅᝯׁhׁׅ֮ꪱׁׅᝯׁhׁׅ֮ᨵׁׅ꯱ׁׅ֒