ꉂ dream (sum): Teens in your town are turning up dead—mutilated by their own nightmares. The solution? A government-issued pill that creates dreamless sleep. But you're taking your chances! Dreams are the only place where all the hott senior boys line up to rail you! Tonight, though, someone new joins the lineup—ancient, hungry, and hellbent on turning your wet dreams into a bloodbath. Will you survive?
ꉂ nightmares (cw): based on nightmare on elm street 2. freddy krueger. freddy! sukuna kinks: teratophilia, size difference, virgin. everyone in this fic is 18+ senior in HS. horror but also humor/crack. *warning*—this fic makes fun of small town evangelism/religious frenzy. gooner!reader. nerd!reader. sheltered!reader. wet dreams. mentions of death/murder. brief mentions of one-sided delulu!reader x other jjk men (𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮, 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐨, 𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢, 𝐭𝐨𝐣𝐢, 𝐢𝐧𝐨, 𝐤𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐨). heavier mentions of gojo (dreamjo) as readers dream bf. true form!sukuna, double pen and voyeurism, masturbation. (also a few horror movie/tv show easter eggs if you catch them!)
ꉂ kills (wc): 7.8k of ?
ꉂ a/n: hope y'all enjoy p1! had to break up as i start going crazy when the draft hits 10K.
𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐦.𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 || 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 || 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐
Your favorite hobby is sleeping.
Not exactly thrilling, but in this dead-end town? Girl, dreams are all you’ve got.
So it’s no wonder why on a Friday night you're racing up the stairs just to get in bed.
Not like a shut-in like you gets invited anywhere anyway—not since middle school at least. Your bible-thumping mother treats anything past sundown like a one-way ticket to hell.
She’s also the reason why you’re still a senior at nineteen.
After listening to your pastor’s fire-and-brimstone sermon about ‘Satan’s curriculum in secular schools’ (or whatever that means). Apparently cutting paper animals and licking glue was too “spiritually risky” so your kindergarten enrollment was delayed.
From there your social quarantine only escalated—no playdates, no sleepovers, no extracurriculars—unless it was church related.
Eventually, your childhood friends gave up even trying. You don’t even blame them. With your brick-like fossil Nokia phone you couldn’t even download any social media apps to keep up with them.
Sure, you’ve technically been a legal adult for a while but for now you’re biding your time until graduation. You’ve already got a full ride to an out-of-state college lined up behind your parents’ backs. So missing out on being blackout drunk in a field somewhere wasn’t exactly tearing you up—there would be many more opportunities in college to drink that didn’t involve trying to dodge cow shit.
But there IS one thing you definitely feel like you’re missing out on—
Dating.
Boys and dating are two things your parents, especially your mother, would absolutely not tolerate until marriage.
No exceptions.
Not even a chaste courtship with Ino—the good-natured, boy-next-door who played acoustic guitar for the church choir—was allowed.
You still cringe thinking about the first (and last) time he bought you a popsicle from the ice cream truck one summer. Of course, your mother snatched it right out of your hands then gave you both a scathing 10-minute lecture on how popsicles are a ‘slippery slope to orally sinning.’
You’d say she put the fear of God into Ino, but honestly?
Ino seemed way more afraid of your mother than of God—especially with the way he’s avoided you like some biblical plague ever since.
Not that you were too heartbroken.
Sure, Ino liked you. Like a lot.
But you mostly just liked the idea of being liked.
Still, the fact remains that beggars can’t be choosers and Ino is sweet enough that you would’ve let him be your first kiss.
With a sigh, you shut your bedroom door—not that it mattered when it didn't even lock.
Your mother has a sixth sense for depravity and always knows the worst possible moment to barge in.
You can’t even goon in peace.
So something perfectly normal for a nineteen-year-old—like a vibrator? Yeah, no.
You’d never risk bringing one into the house. Your mom wouldn’t just ground you—she’d send you straight back to the Lord himself.
Tossing your hoodie on your desk, you dig through your drawers for your favorite sleep shirt: the faded one that says Crystal Lake Camp. The yellow, worn cotton is basically the closest thing you own to illicit contraband.
It used to belong to a hot camp counselor at the church-run summer camp your parents dumped you in last year, hoping it would “instill moral character.”
(Spoiler: it didn’t.)
Thankfully, every camper and counselor got the same oversized shirt, so it was easy to swipe Counselor Kashimo’s from the laundry pile without anyone noticing.
And yeah... you shamelessly didn’t wash it for like a month. Not until the woodsy, storm-soaked scent of the punky, blue-haired hunk faded completely.
Nostalgia clings to it like old cologne as you change and enter your bathroom.
Sigh. Your nightly routine is as dull as ever. Brushing your teeth on autopilot, you rinse and glance up at the mirror. Gaze catching on your reflection, you just stare.
Same tired eyes. Same boring hair. Same pouty lips, still tasting faintly of berry chapstick—untouched by anyone else’s.
Well, anyone real. (Doesn’t hurt to stay ready, though.)
While staring in the mirror you often imagine Suguru Geto—your school’s unnervingly charming student council president—standing behind you, just out of frame. One hand ghosting over your neck, the other trailing down your spine as he leans in to whisper something unhinged in that smooth, reverent voice of his.
You don’t even need to close your eyes to picture it.
You’ve rehearsed this scene so many times before in your dreams you can practically see him in the mirror behind you.
A familiar heat pools low in your belly as you quickly flip off the light and exit the bathroom.
Eee! You’re so horny—you need to get to bed like asap!
Your panties are already soaked, clinging to your heat as you kill the light and melt into the mattress—settling in like a seasoned whore slipping into her usual spot on the curb, ready for the night.
Daydreams are one thing—but lucid dreams? A whole different beast.
Vividly visceral, they’re the only place you start living the way you were meant to. There you can flirt like a slut, wear skirts with nothing underneath and kiss boys your mother would definitely deem to be demons.
And in your dreams? They might as well be devils.
Bending you over desks, pinning you to lockers, in their hedonistic hunger they are too down to stuff you full at the drop of a hat—usually more than one of them at the same time too.
You smile to yourself, already squirming just from thinking about your favorite senior boys who make up the main cast of your delusional dream harem.
First up—
Toji Fushiguro—quarterback of the football team, built like he does prison workouts for fun (which is convenient as prison is exactly where everyone thinks he’ll end up).
He’s got a sexy scar on his lip, a black ‘67 Impala he calls “Baby” and allegedly a secret kid according to the rumors.
You’re pretty sure he’s repeated a year or two if not flunked out entirely—no one’s ever seen him in a class. Moonlighting as the school’s resident plug, Toji just shows up to deal, wreck the other team on game days and rail a cheerleader in the parking lot before dipping. As long as he keeps winning, no one seems to care.
The only place to reliably spot Toji is at his part-time gig at the local auto shop. You started tagging alone so much your dad thinks you’ve developed an interest in cars—but really, your interest lay in seeing Toji. You know without fail, the second your dad’s back is turned, Toji will tower over you wearing that deadly smirk and ask if you need anything “checked under the hood” while he licks his thumb like he’s prepping it just for you.
He’s grimy and disgusting.
Far beneath any self-respecting standards of the modern woman.
And yet?
You’d let him raw dog secret baby #2 into you—no questions asked.
Even so, you could only imagine the shotgun marriage your parents would force upon you so a much safer option would be…
Gojo Satoru—the basketball star that’s six feet of snowy-haired chaos with dazzling crystalline eyes and a mouth that never shuts up.
He has no concept of the term “inside voices” and half of what he says is utter nonsense. Yet somehow the devastatingly attractive goofball still manages to be the school’s resident heartthrob.
Once you ran into him while he was skipping class on your way back from the bathroom. Thinking he’d ignore you, you were completely blindsided when he complimented your Digimon keychain like it was the coolest thing he’d ever seen—right before having the audacity to ask if he could borrow your hall pass.
And of course—like the absolute simp you are—you handed it over without a second thought before he could even finish the question.
Pleased, Gojo purred out a thanks with a wink, tongue peaking out between his lips
And then you blacked out.
No, seriously—like full-on collapsed.
You came to twenty minutes later in the nurse’s office with a goose egg on your forehead and Gojo looming over you amused as fuck at you giving him an actually legit reason to skip class.
Now he calls you ‘anemic girl’ in the halls and occasionally tosses you a hard candy like you’re some random stray he adopted. He’s given you 16 so far and you’ve kept every single one—carefully hoarded like relics—in a shoebox shrine under your bed.
Obviously.
Although there is never a dull moment around Gojo’s chaotic energy, sometimes you crave a little order. Someone more on the straight and narrow to keep you on track. Someone like…
Nanami Kento—head of the disciplinary committee.
Nanami is the only senior who people sometimes mistake for an actual teacher as he dresses like he already has 3 kids and holds down a grueling 9-to-5. One thing is for sure though, those khaki slacks that Nanami wears are most definitely working overtime as they have absolutely no business showing off just how double-cheeked up he is (and still being within the dress code).
Nanami carries a clipboard stacked with half-pre-filled detention slips like he’s just waiting for someone to fuck up. His moral compass is so rigid it could be registered as a weapon.
And if the outline in his pants is any indication—so could his dick.
One morning, you were sprinting through the halls, already late, when Nanami caught you. Flushed and fumbling, you spat out some half-baked excuse about helping a teacher.
Nanami didn’t blink. Just stared right through you like he’d already clocked your piss-poor lie and filed it and you under ‘pathetic’.
Yet in a rare show of mercy, noting your otherwise perfect attendance, he simply adjusted his glasses and let you off with a cool, “don’t let it happen again.”
You could’ve cried in relief—which, in hindsight, would’ve been way less humiliating.
Instead, nerves had you whimpering out a needy, “Y-Yes, sir.”
It was the one time you ever saw him falter—just briefly—before he smoothed it over, raising a single brow. But the faint curl of his smirk and the darkening heat in his eyes as he turned away nearly brought you to your knees.
You would’ve gladly taken in-school detention and correction right then and there—which, unfortunately, left you fantasizing whether Nanami detentions come with safewords.
Still, there were times when the thought of answering to anyone in your already sheltered life felt suffocating—and that’s when you craved someone more free-spirited. Enter...
Choso Kamo—the art freak burnout with a facetat, who’s always “getting air” behind the gym with the other stoners, the smell of weed and acrylic paint always trailing behind him.
Notorious for that pale, sleepless Edward Cullen look, Choso’s eyebags all but screamed he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since leaving the womb. And if expecting him to sparkle didn’t keep you staring at him more than the whiteboard during class, the way he toys with his labret piercing using his tongue barbell definitely did the trick.
You’ve watched him do it enough during fifth period to know—deep in your depraved little soul—that he eats pussy like it’s his last fucking meal.
But the most disarming thing about him?
That brooding emo-boy exterior melts into golden retriever sweetness any time he talks about his younger siblings.
Surprisingly sentimental, you once caught him tearing up at his locker over a crayon drawing his little brother Yuji hid in his lunch bag, along with the message to—“half a gud dae at skool :)” scrawled in glitter gel pen. When you handed him a tissue, he looked up at you with glassy puppy-dog eyes and whispered a broken, “Thanks,” like you’d just saved his life.
You can’t decide if you want to wreck him or swaddle him but either way?
Choso is your Roman Empire.
And finally…
Suguru Geto—class president. What healthy ovulating girl didn’t want Suguru?
Smart, commanding and terrifyingly magnetic—Suguru’s morning announcements feel more like political rallies. He’s got the presence of a world leader and the aptitude of someone who’d absolutely start a murderous apocalyptic sex cult.
One that you’d be first in line to pledge yourself to, collar, chains and all.
Especially when he smiles that polite, unnervingly deliberate smile.
Geto is always top of the class. Always ten steps ahead.
Like he could correctly guess the color of your panties—and then know exactly how to talk you out of them for "the cause."
Your parents might’ve put you off religion, but you’d still worship at his altar any day of the week—even if he was Damien in the flesh, horns tucked beneath that gorgeous spill of raven hair.
One time during an assembly, Suguru stated that, “devotion breeds obedience”—while staring dead at you.
Your panties haven’t been dry since.
All-in-all, with such a powerful teen dream starting lineup, of course it made the perfect sleepy-time goon fodder
Or at least—it used to.
Then the deaths started.
Peculiar ones. Grotesque in that slasher-movie kind of way that even left investigators rattled.
Too violent to be self-inflicted, yet no signs of forced entry, no murder weapon, no DNA—no trace of anything, really.
Like their dreams themselves were killing them.
The few who survived long enough to wake up? None of them stayed sane. Every single one was institutionalized. And all of them raving about the same thing: A pink-haired monster who crawled into their heads and twisted their worst fears into blood-soaked nightmares.
The only thing anyone could confirm? It only happens while asleep.
And it wasn’t just at night either.
A girl in your Biology lab—Riko—nearly jammed a scalpel into her own temple, convinced there was a giant bug burrowing into her brain.
She would’ve done it too, if class president Suguru hadn’t reacted fast enough—snatching her wrist and shaking her awake just in time.
Soon all over town, whispered rumors and wild theories began spreading like wildfire.
The cops blamed a new wave of hallucinogenic drugs.
Churchgoers (your mother included) pointed fingers at violent video games and action movies.
But the older folks, the ones who’d lived here long enough to know where the skeletons of the town were buried, blamed something else entirely—a curse.
An ancient and particularly malevolent one at that.
The local folklore of the town’s founding told of a vengeful spirit—one from an evil man from nearly a thousand years ago who could control the souls of others.
One who was burned, quartered and his body sealed away for his blasphemous sorcery.
Supposedly, he wasn’t even from the area and among the founding settlers of your town were the guardians of the sealed parts and they scattered his remains across it.
But these were just stories. Just silly hoodoo.
Or it was until Yu Haibara died. The pastor’s son.
Bright, kind and beloved with no moral vices nor enemies to blame—that’s when the fearful frenzy truly hit.
Yet somewhere in all the chaos, someone suggested a desperate, off-the-cuff fix—Dreamless sleep.
And shockingly?
It worked.
The deaths stopped. Just like that.
Naturally, what followed was a strict curfew along with mandatory, state-distributed, sleeping pills were handed out to every teen in town. The heavy stuff—the kind that shoved you right past REM and into a dreamless, black void.
No dreams meant no monsters.
No monsters? No mysterious murders.
Unfortunately for you, it also meant no wet dreams.
It’s been almost a week since your last one and you’re on the verge of crashing tf out.
Forget killer nightmares—at this point, it’s the built‑up tension in your core that feels lethal.
Your one escape—poof, gone. Just like that.
God, you miss getting railed in every depraved way your real life refuses to allow.
Unlike the rest of the town—currently drowning in shared hysteria—you’re keeping your head.
Thankfully, you literally just covered something like this in your psych textbook.
To you, the “dream murders” sound like a perfect storm of sleepwalking, mass panic and one very real killer no one’s caught yet. You’re not about to knock yourself unconscious any longer while everyone else plays catch‑up.
So tonight? You don’t take the pill.
The second your mother’s back is turned, you spit it into your mint tin for safekeeping.
You’d flush them, but hey—never know when they’ll come in handy.
Maybe once this all blows over, you’ll spike your parents’ nightly chamomile and finally sneak out.
Toji did say to stop by if you were ever in need of a tune‑up… and you wouldn’t mind letting him pop your hood—among other things.
Settling deeper into your pillows, you release a few cleansing breaths. You’re too eager to see who your subconscious picks tonight—or maybe something more collaborative?
Yeah.
A gangbang sounds like the perfect ‘welcome back’. Every hole and limb filled, twisted into tools of pleasure, used exactly like the desperate little slut you are.
With a hum you close your eyes and allow your mind to drift into sleep. There’s no way you could’ve known that the thing haunting this town wasn’t just real—it had locked onto you the moment your brain dared to fall into REM.
Inside of your dream world, you awake in the boys' locker room.
Nice.
Looks like you’re getting that gangbang after all.
Although you're no stranger to the boys’ locker room in your dreams, something about this time feels off.
The rows of lockers stretch farther than they should, looming taller, their metal faces dull and streaked with grime. Overhead, the lights flicker with a jaundiced glow, casting jagged shadows across pale concrete walls. The air buzzes with the sputter of dying ventilation and reeks of damp metal, mold, and something almost bloody.
Technically, it’s the same room. But it feels... wrong.
Too quiet. Too empty. Like a space between spaces.
Then again, it is the boys’ locker room—nobody expects it to smell like a field of lilies.
Then you glance down at your outfit.
No cheer skirt. No pom-poms.
No thigh-highs, chokers, or themed S&M ensemble.
Just the ratty Camp Crystal Lake sleep shirt you passed out in.
Yeah… that’s definitely not normal.
“Hey, cutie…”
Oh!
Eagerly, you shove the weird vibes to the back of your mind the second you hear a familiar voice echo behind you. The setting was never the main event in your dreams anyway—you’d fuck on a cardboard box in an alley if the dick was good.
“…ya know you’re not supposed to be in here.”
Fresh off the court and glistening, Gojo rakes a hand through the messy white strands clinging to his forehead. With the other, he lifts the hem of his jersey just enough to wipe the sweat from his face.
“…but I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Your eyes trail down his exposed waist, savoring the definition of his glistening abs. You follow them as they dip into a deep V-line, the waistband of his shorts hanging dangerously low, teasing tufts of well-kept fuzz.
Gojo chuckles, clearly enjoying the way you’re eye-fucking him like he’s girl dinner.
“See something you like, doll?”
He winks.
Thank god you never pass out in dreamland, although you do erupt in shameless giggles out of glee of seeing Gojo.
Of all your guys lately, Gojo’s been showing up the most—your unofficial dream boyfriend.
So you’ve gotten used to this version of him—Dreamjo, as you’ve dubbed him.
No doubt nerfed by your subconscious, your brain probably built this version of him off that one time he called your Digimon keychain “sick as hell”—which means the man has serious dork potential.
Real-life Gojo? A walking ego-trip in Airforces.
Dreamjo? Still cocky, but also nerdy and endlessly down bad.
And you do mean endlessly.
Whether he’s center stage or getting gleefully cucked by the rest of your lineup, he plays his part.
So no—you’re not even a little mad that he’s the first to greet you after your dream drought.
“You missed my game again.” Gojo pouts, swaggering toward you until your back hits the lockers with a hollow clang. “Hard to focus on the court without my lucky charm in the stands... dressed like my personal guardian angel in that slutty Angewomon cosplay.”
You roll your eyes.
You’ve never actually worn the cosplay—even in your dreams. It’s just one of those weird lore bits your subconscious cooked up for him and now Dreamjo won’t let it go.
But that’s part of the fun—letting your mind run wild, turning fantasy into fact.
Whatever. This is your dream.
Your rules.
And Dreamjo? He always falls in line.
“Urgh, just shut up and fuck me, Toru!”
You mean it to sound commanding—but it comes out breathy, desperate and you can’t keep up the femdom act for long.
“C’mon… let’s hit the showers. You’re already filthy.” You whine as your hands roam his sweat-slick abs, fingers slipping under his jersey to grope at his pecs.
Gojo groans, gripping your waist, before dipping lower to mold his hands into your fleshy bare bottom.
“Mmm, so you did miss me…” His voice is hot against your ear, lips brushing your lobe before he nips at it. “Y’know it’s been even longer for me... especially since you cucked me last time.”
If you weren’t already feral, that line might’ve given you pause—lore aside, your dreams always reset.
But you’re so hard up your brain automatically switches off when his long fingers ghost over your already soaked folds.
Your mouth crashes on his, hungry and impatient, making Gojo groan into the kiss. Lifting you with ease, he carries you toward the showers.
Expecting to be pinned to a tile wall with steamy water pouring over you—you blink in confusion when Gojo sets you on a bench, a wild gleam in his eyes.
“Aht-aht… I’m the messy one, baby. But you’re not dirty enough for a shower. Not yet, at least.”
Great. Even your own mind is edging you.
Not that you don’t love Dreamjo’s games—his teasing is half the fun. But tonight?
You’re wound far too tight to mess around.
“C’mon, princess. Get nasty for me, please? And I’ll fuck you just how you like it.”
You pout for show but of course, you already know what he wants. Dreamjo’s wired into the most crazed parts of your subconscious afterall.
Gojo peels off his jersey and tosses it at you.
Catching it on reflex, the jersey is damp with sweat and adrenaline. You don’t hesitate to pull your own top off and slide it on instead.
Urgh, the oversized fabric soaked in jock pheromones feels clammy and damp against your skin. Sick.
And yet somehow your pussy’s even wetter than before as you bury your nose in the material, inhaling like it’s life support.
“That’s it,” Gojo breathes, voice thick as he palms his cock through his shorts. “Take a nice, lonnnnng whiff, babydoll.”
Gojo’s musky amber scent hits like a slap: the tang of salt and heat with an undercurrent of something primal. You squirm on the bench, thighs rubbing together, belly molten with slow, coiling heat.
“Heh, now turn around and show me how messy my nasty girl’s pussy gets sniffing my musty jersey.”
You think about mouthing off, maybe rolling your eyes—but the way his scent is sinking into your skin brain makes it impossible to deny him anything.
“Toruuuuu….” You whimper out complaints, but you obey—because the sheer depravity of it only makes you more desperate to be fucked.
Turning around, knees digging into the bench, you lift Gojo’s jersey around your hips.
The basketball hunk whimpers out a moan as you arch—back bowed, cunt spread—two fingers parting your folds. A thick string of slick drips from you, glossy and obscene, smearing on the bench beneath you.
Glancing over your shoulder, you catch the sight of his shorts hitting the floor—his cock already leaking globs of pre as he strokes himself slowly, eyes glued to the gorgeous mess between your thighs.
“C’mon, my pretty goonette princess…” Gojo as groans his own need seeps through. “T-Touch yourself…”
Turning back around to face the lockers, your fingers circle your fluttering hole, gathering creamy juices to smear on your clit.
“S’toruuu c’mon… am I not wet enough for you yet.” You slur out his name, trembling with raw need to feel his thick cock inside you.
Exposed to the air, you squirm, the cool draft making your muscles spasm as you fight to keep yourself spread.
“Jus’ a second, doll…,” Gojo pants out. He’s so close now you can feel his warm breath tickle your soppy folds, “...lemme get a better look.”
The sounds of a lewd schlick-schlick, fill the room as Gojo fists his cock. You’re tempted to groan remembering how stupid sensitive he is—almost as bad as Dreamcho (Choso)—who often busted from just one look at your sloppy pussy.
Gojo better not fuck around and cum before actually stuck his dick in you.
“Hurry up, ’Toru n’ fuck me before you c—”
You freeze as warm liquid splashes your backside as wet gurgles bubble up behind you.
He came.
Urgh fuck—fine.
You’re taking matters into your own hands now. You’ll just have to ride his twitchy, oversensitive cock until it’s hard again, no matter how much he cries or begs for mercy.
Wait. You’re cooking, not a bad plan, all things considered.
As much as you wanted to be manhandled, bent over and used like his personal onnahole—there’s something equally delicious about wrecking Satoru. Riding him half-hard while he sobs under you, limbs quivering from overstimulation, his cock slipping in and out of your creamy cunny before you grind your clit against the feathery soft hair on his pubic bone.
Yup, you’ll take it—you’re still gonna give him plenty shit about it though.
“Toruuuu! You dummy, I told you not to—”
Whipping around, you stop when you don’t see him.
He’s gone.
What?! He was just right behind you!
Wiping a hand over your backside, you roll your eyes when your fingers come back slicked in thick red liquid.
Blood.
Oh. My. God—did that dork seriously get a nosebleed before even putting it in again!?
Well… wouldn’t be the first time the little perv squirted blood mid-thrust trying not to cum too fast.
But where the hell did he go?
Not like you can see anything now with steam rolling in the area like a tsunami, swallowing everything until the whole room’s bathed in a sickly haze.
Looking around frantically you spot it: a single bloody footprint leading deeper into the locker room.
Okay. That’s way too much blood for a nosebleed.
Your stomach tightens.
“S’toru?” you call, voice pitching high. “It’s okay, I’m not mad! Wouldn’t be the first time you bled all over me…”
Shit. Maybe the sleeping pills are still in your system, messing with your ability to lucid dream. Or maybe your poor, dick-deprived subconscious has finally snapped.
Okay. This dream is officially a bust.
And with nothing to show for all that buildup with Gojo, there’s no way in hell you can stay still. Your hips rock against the bench, chasing friction like a dog in heat.
No, girl—focus!
You sit up, close your eyes, force a breath.
With a shaky sigh, your fingers snake back between your thighs—just a few light circles. Just enough to quiet the needy throb at your clit so you can concentrate.
“Okay. Malaysia. Beach. Gangbang. Any guy—go!” You chant it under your breath like a spell.
Nevertheless when you open your eyes, you’re still in the same musty old locker room full of steam.
Fuck. Well at least the blood’s gone.
But Satoru is too, every single trace as realize you’re right back in your old sleep shirt.
What the actual fuck!?
BANG!
You jump as a loud crash echoes from the far entrance near the football field.
Heavy footsteps drag as the sound of metal screeches like nails on a chalkboard.
“Toji?!” you call out. Though your gut’s already telling you that’s no football cleat.
The steps stop.
Silence.
The hiss of steam thickens it’s angrier and choking what little visibility you have left in front of you.
BAM!
A locker slams shut—closer this time.
You squeak, heart jackhammering... but your fingers don’t stop.
They move faster now, shaking with horny panic, the tension somehow is making you even hotter.
God, you just want some cock is that too much to ask!?
“T-Tojiiii…daddy? Is that you? I’m really pent up—come fuck n’ me already…”
Still no answer.
Fuck—maybe if you could just get off a lil, maybe you could reset this weird dream spiral?
“Toji, stop playing around! I’m serious—I’ll…urgh, I’ll even eat your ass this time…how does that sound?!”
Yeah, you were getting pretty fucking desperate alright if eating that caveman’s ass was now on the table.
A low growl resounds through the locker room just as the lights above stutter—then flicker violently.
Then—
Blackout.
Every bulb dies at once… except one.
It buzzes overhead, flickering weakly, drowning you in static and shadows. A singular light casts you in rouge.
The rest of the room disappears into heavy black fog.
Unnerving? Sure.
BUT—the red haze reminds you of something.
That sleazy adult video store you snuck into when your parents allowed you to visit your aunt’s place in the city for your bday—who, frankly, didn’t give a single rat’s ass what a nineteen-year-old got up to.
The place was sensory overload—neon buzzing like a live wire, shelves of sex toys and cursed DVDs. You remember the sticky faux‑leather peep booth seat, the moaning through the wall—and that flicker of real flesh on the other side of the viewfinder.
And now?
It’s like you’re the star. On display. Center stage.
And the idea of one of your dream boys dragging you into a sleazy backroom for a “demo”… yeah, you’re already dripping for it.
Your fear slips the leash, devoured by the hunger igniting in your core.
Well you might as well put on a show then!
Your frame control is shaky, but you force it—closing your eyes and gritting your teeth until it appears in your hand: a long, fat, ridged pink dildo. It’s curved just right for maximum g-spot stimulation and features a giant knot sitting atop two heavy balls at the base.
Sigh. It’s a start.
“Looks like I’ll just have to fuck myself againnnn, if no one wants to put their big fat cock in my wet lil holeeee!” you shout into the haze, voice frustrated with need.
Equipped too with a suction at the bottom, you hurriedly slam it down onto the metal bench as you straddle it. Steeling yourself, thighs trembling, you sink down—inch by greedy inch—until a desperate moan tears from your gut.
You’re being extra loud on purpose, hoping someone hears. Anyone.
Oh sweet relief! The ridges scrape perfectly along your walls. Building up more pleasure, you tweak your nipples, moaning again as they stiffen with every flick.
Not enough.
Dropping your hips hard, the toy slides in deep with a wet, obscene squelch, knot popping past your entrance, stretching you wide.
“Mother-fuck!”
Spasming around it, you feel a wave of release rippling through you.
But even gasping, hunched over on the bench, your thighs clenching—
You wouldn’t be satisfied with mere solo play.
“Slutty ass nerd, ya mean you couldn’t even wait f’er me, ma?”
Relief washes over you—Toji!
Oh thank fuck!
Finally, sweet salvation.
Wet from the showers, water carving down golden skin and sculpted muscle to soak into the towel slung low on his hips, tented over his girth.
He looks positively delectable coming out of the fog.
And unlike Dreamjo, Dreamji didn’t fuck around—he just fucked.
Except… something’s wrong again.
Argh! You try to shove the thought away—desperate to stay in the moment—but then you see it.
The scar.
It’s on the left. It’s supposed to be on the right.
You’re not Toji.
The second the thought crystallizes, the illusion ruptures.
To your horror, Toji's skin begins to bubble like wax in a furnace, melting off in thick, gleaming globs. His flesh is sloughing off from the bone, muscles bulging as his left side bursts open, a chuck missing from his torso.
You scream, unable to move—still speared on the knotted toy, legs paralyzed. Your hands fly to your face, eyes clenched shut like a child praying the monster away.
The air fizzes with something sinister as you fight to reboot your dream once more.
Yet when you dare peek one eye open.
The locker room is normal again.
Pristine and silent, no corpse, no red blood nor haze.
But your heart seizes as realization sinks that you are not alone.
A foreign presence consumes the room. It’s overwhelmingly oppressive.
For a moment you struggle to even breathe under its weight.
Then a voice cuts through the silence, soaked in venomous delight that grips you in feat.
“Figures the only other person in this pathetic town who knows how to control their dreams is a filthy little whore.”
A masculine figure steps into view.
There’s a bleeding red aura clinging to him as he looms above the lockers—eight feet of muscle and malice—shoulders squared beneath a haori that drapes from him prominently like a war banner. His chest is bare, skin the color of desert stone, marred with old scars and writhing with black markings—symmetrical, like incantations meant to cage something.
There’s just too much of him. Too much presence. Too much mass. Too many arms.
Wait—four? Four!?
You count again, just to be sure—fuck.
Yep. Still four. Each one outfitted with razor sharp claws too.
Yet most striking of all is his face—almost beautiful in a twisted, uncanny way. Four fiery crimson eyes glower down at you. Two in the right place. Two more set in a mangled, flesh-twisted mask along his right cheekbone.
Buffer than Toji.
Taller than Gojo.
More tattoos than Choso.
And with a commanding presence that would put both Nanami and Geto to shame.
Oh, this creature is giving major demon daddy vibes …and is that?
Holy Shit.
Your eyes widen at the monstrous grin stretching across his stomach—teeth jagged like carved ivory, lips peeled back around an obscenely meaty, drooling tongue.
Okay….This is definitely not where you thought the dream was going.
Your imagination is good—but this?
This had to be aftereffects from the pills. You haven’t even been allowed to watch enough sci‑fi or fantasy to dream of something this elaborate.
But one thing’s for certain—you abso-fucking-lutely have a monster-fucking kink now.
Sukuna growls as he stalks forward toward you, moving in the space like gravity bends for him alone.
“One, two…Sukuna the Curse King’s coming for you.”
Releasing a shrill cry, your pussy pulses feverishly around the dildo inside of you—shit you almost came from just looking at him—omg, how humiliating! (although you now sympathize a bit more with Dreamjo and Dreamcho).
Watching you wiping spittle off of your chin, with damn-near hearts in your eyes, Sukuna’s upper lip curls as he feels your fear lessening the closer he gets.
“Couthless woman.” Sukuna sneers. “Did you hear what the fuck I said?”
You nod rapidly, biting your lip, every nerve in your body screaming for you to run is easily overpowered by your pussy practically sobbing for you to stay.
“Uh‑huh,” you breathe excitedly, eyes still focused on that vulgar looking tongue flicking out from his stomach, “I, uh—something about you… cumming in me?”
Sukuna stops dead in his tracks, blinking with all four eyes.
“…You—What? No, whore. I said I’m coming for you, brat—as in I’m going to fucking kill you.”
Lost in your arousal, your dream brain doesn’t register the actual threat—it just chalks it up to your slutty-ass subconscious cooking up its most diabolical scenario yet.
Guess you weren’t so immune to the hysteria after all, well might as well enjoy it.
“Yeah—demon daddy, mmm fuck—murder this pussy!” you moan, desperate to swap the plastic for cock inside you for a real one.
If the rest of him was any indication, his dick would be like a goddamn tree trunk.
Oh you’d break for sure.
You can’t wait!
“Demon?” Sukuna snarls, eyes flashing. “I’m a curse, you insolent brat.”
With a lazy flick of his claw, a gash splits open across your thigh.
The pain hits instantly. You scream as blood gushes—hot, thick, and far too real.
“Keh. Figures,” Sukuna sneers. “Bet if I cracked open that slutty little skull, all that’d ooze out is cum.”
A white-hot bolt of agony surges through you leaving your nerves tangled in something raw and electric. Confusion coils tight in your gut as the pain on some level feels exhilarating.
Shit. Knife play too? Really?
You’d laugh at your ever-expanding kink list if you weren’t seconds from blacking out.
The pain doesn’t fade, it gets worse.
No dream logic. No mercy failsafe. Nothing kicks in to soothe it.
Okay, this is getting a lil too real.
Frantic, you clamp your eyes shut, trying to force him out. Force the pain away.
But it’s still there—throbbing louder, sharper, deeper.
There's a siren blaring through your soul. Telling you something’s pushing in, peeling apart your dream from the inside out, cracking open your subconscious like a ribcage.
And the more you resist, the more it hurts.
Your breath falters. Your chest tightens.
All that shit you brushed off—the whispers, the rumors, the monster hiding in the dreams?
It’s real.
“Bingo, you ditzy whore,” Sukuna purrs evilly. “Finally catching on? If I kill you here—in your dream—you die for real.”
Your eyes fly open, breath hitching.
He’s inside your thoughts too?!
“Of course I am.” Sukuna’s grin widens.
“If I can crawl into these vapid, dick-obsessed dreams of yours, I can root around wherever else I like as well. There’s nothing you can hide from me.”
Those last words bypass your ears entirely—hot and sticky, slithering straight into the depths of your mind.
“I don’t just know your fears... I bathe in them.”
Well damn…
“Ahhh, so you get it now,” Sukuna drawls, laughter echoing off the lockers.
“You’re fucked—and not the kind you’re so desperate for. But don’t fret. One of us’ll enjoy it, pet. I’ll take my time… peeling the ski—”
“Wait!” You throw your hands up—palms out, halting.
“Sorry—, not to interrupt but... speaking of fucked...,” you cut in, words tumbling as your brain trips over the spiral it's in. “Just walk with me here—let’s say you did actually fuck me—would I lose my v-card in real life too?”
Sukuna stops. Not dramatically. Not ominously. Just... stops.
His whole face slackens in unfiltered disgust that anyone could have terminal brainrot to this degree without quite literally being braindead.
To add insult to injury, you simply blink up at him in earnest, like you actually expected him to take that obscene drivel seriously.
You had to be categorically insane.
Sukuna grits his teeth. “Exactly what in the fuck is wrong with you, woman?”
You have to fight to suppress a giggle at that—beacause honestly?
A lot.
But you do not have the time—nor emotional bandwidth—to unpack all of that right now. Not when the only problem you care about is still leaking so audaciously around the knotted dildo still lodged inside of you.
“Look, uh, Sukuna, right? This cut sucks,” you wince poking at it, “but I’m still not totally sure you’re real. I’m like, 85–90% there.”
You cross your arms, unconvinced. “There’s just this stubborn little 10% whispering that I made you up to rail me. I mean… there’s a mouth on your tummy for crying out loud! Why else would you have a tongue that big if I’m not supposed to ride it!?”
Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, resisting the urge to slam his head into the nearest locker.
You have no idea how powerful your dreams are. Consuming your soul would amount to dozens of others. Your subconsciousness is a loaded weapon—and you’ve turned it into a hedonistic fuck circus, it’s pitfull.
“It’s to tear the flesh off the bones of women and children before I devour them.”
Sukuna roars, the sound shaking the lockers with unseen force. The mouth on his stomach splits wider—dagger-like teeth bared, tongue thrashing like a whip—clearly meant to terrify you.
Unfortunately for him, all it does is make you cream harder around the dildo as you tilt your head, genuinely considering it.
“Mmm. Yeah, okay I can see that too—but it honestly looks wayyyyy better suited to devouring pussy and breeding children, Curse Daddy.”
Curse Daddy!?
Sukuna lets out a guttural snarl as his aura lashes out in fury—but it’s no use.
If he had the power to kill your infuriating ass, he would’ve done it ten minutes ago.
But it’s been a week since he last fed.
The whole town’s gone dark—one big dreamless dead-zone.
And you?
Even with fear buzzing under your skin, your brain short-circuits the second you look at him. There’s no room for survival instincts in that slutty little head of yours.
Just one thought on loop:
What his monstrous tongue, thick n’ velvety, would feel like thrashing inside of your pussy, flicking at your cervix.
For once, the Curse King is at a loss.
He’s fed on nightmares for centuries.
Roamed the minds of tyrants, zealots, serial killers—hell, even a few professional whores.
But never—not once—has he met a creature so catastrophically, proudly down bad.
Did you never leave your house?!
“With my mom? Tuh. I’m lucky she lets me go to school,” you snort, catching his thoughts.
You grin as his face falters.
“Figured if you’re poking around in my brain, I could poke around in yours. It’s called home field advantage, Curse Daddy. You’re in my dream, remember?”
Malice hums in the air and the tile beneath Sukuna’s feet cracks.
But you don’t flinch.
Because Sukuna has already said too much and upon that confirmation the power dynamics decidingly shift.
“Anyway, judging by how much this fucking leg hurts, I’m bumping you up to a solid 99.9% real. And since you’ve already murdered your way through half this shithole town, you already know how ass-backwards it is.”
You press on.
“Hate to break it to you, Curse King—but your reign of terror? Yeah, that’s over. Everyone’s doped up on prescription elephant tranquilizers. Nobody’s dreaming about anything anymore.”
Sukuna growls something under his breath about modern bullshit—how no tincture or herb in his time ever blocked dreams, only enhanced them.
“I’m SAYIN’!” You throw your hands up, equally annoyed. “We need our dreams! I haven’t been properly fucked in a week and it’s starting to show!”
Your leg throbs, pulsing hard enough to break your focus.
Wincing, you groan and slowly lean forward, using the leverage of your body weight to slide off the dildo. There’s a salacious pop that echoes once you are free of it, catching Sukuna’s attention as his eyes track the tantalizing trail of slick shimmering as it drip-drops down your plush thighs.
Indecorous slut.
Yet staring a moment too long, Sukuna’s eyes immediately flick to your face.
Oop, busted! You smirk. “Anyway, if you’re really just a dream demo—”
“Dream curse,” Sukuna sneers. “I’m The Curse King, you crude little cumdump.”
“Right,” you mutter, rolling your eyes.
Big difference.
“So, as I was saying—If you kill me, you lose your only power source. You feed off nightmares—but you’re still standing here, aren’t you? That means you can survive in normal dreams too. So if I’m gone then you’ll fade away, huh?”
You cross your legs and fold your hands in your lap, playing fake diplomat which leaves Sukuna scowling at you harder.
“Let’s cut a deal, then!”
Sukuna narrows his gaze but allows you to continue, he had little choice otherwise.
“I let you squat in my dreams—for now. But no nightmares. No trying to murder me nor anyone else, seems fair, right?”
Sukuna scoffs at you, all four of his arms crossing. “Tell me why the fuck would I want to squat in some horny brat’s cock-crazed delusions?”
“Because you’d be alive, jackass! Uh.. and maybe…” You clear your throat. “...maybe I could make it worth your while?”
Sukuna glares at you menacingly, seeing your pathetic attempts at tempting him.
“If I have to suffer, so do you,” he snarls. “And you think, someone as powerful as I would stoop to fucking some sad twitchy virgin who’s desperate for male validation?”
Biting your inner cheek, you bristle, your hands clenching into fists as you stand to face him, bare and bloodied.
“I never said I wanted your approval, you dream creeper!”
Sukuna laughter is full of dark amusement.
“No, you didn’t—and yet that vulgar ass cunt of yours is practically penning me a puddle of love poems every time you glance at my stomach.”
You don’t need to look down to know he’s right.
Yet the vibes are still undoubtedly set to ‘fuck this guy’ as your indignation builds.
“You’re nothing but a fraud, you know that!?”
Rage, arousal, and defiance crackle through you like live wires.
“You couldn’t kill me even if you tried. You’re too weak. You’re nothing but a big sad bully,” you snap.
“And now that I have an idea of how this whole dream shit works—you don’t even scare me anymore!”
In a flash Sukuna is in front of you. The size-difference apparent as his body dwarfs yours and all light cast upon you.
“So do what you want. Cry. Brood. Fap in the corner for all I care!”
Your determination only grows stronger as you stand your ground, finally assuming your the title of deity of your own subconscious domain.
“Fuck you, because after I fix this leg and I’m going and getting my shit wrecked like I should have been doing all along!”
Because god knows how much time has actually passed—you might have to wake up soon!
You challenge Sukuna, eying him up and down. “And that's worse right? Sentenced to rot slowly, not quite dead but wholly dismissed in the mind of a ‘silly little slut’ who you couldn’t even scare enough to kill.”
For a moment it’s quiet, only your huffs of exertion filling the space.
Then, just as suddenly, the room shakes more violently than before as rows of lockers begin to explode in shockwaves, the ceiling cracking like it might collapse entirely.
Through the chaos and rubble, Sukuna’s eyes glow sharply, locked on your form.
“I’ll kill you yet,” he hisses, “That’s a promise.”
Ignoring him, you fling open the door of a mangled locker that has fallen on its side.
What pours out is an otherworldly light, bright and swirling, reshaping into a portal to the deeper parts of your mind where your real sex-crazed dreams await you.
Glancing back over your shoulder, you blow him a kiss.
“Try it then, Curse King. Let’s see whose kingdom this really is.”
And with that, you step through—the portal vanishing along with you.
The realm rapidly dissolving, Sukuna seethes in the crumbling dark.
𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼? then please 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 or 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠! you can also join my gen. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 or contribute to the 𝐛𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐨$𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐝.
ꉂ a/n: i will release p2 of plug!reader (final edits), incel!naoya, elevator p2 and then come back to this before working on invisible man!gojo. [if i didnt mention it no im not working on it right at this second, yes i do plan to finish it, please don't bug me about it :) ]
accepting p2 tags below (100 cap) if you are already on gen or kinktober list you will be tagged automatically.
the rise of conservatism and gen z puritanism while still simultaneously trying to be hip and woke is so annoying because you have these people saying "match my freak" and then they get mad at ageplay and petplay and cnc and somno and anything raunchier than a pair of fuzzy handcuffs. you're not a "freak" if you think having a fetish is synonymous with being evil
add me to your discord server so I can do the online equivalent of arriving at a party saying hi to the people I know then standing awkwardly in the corner for the rest of the night
sometimes i wonder if we have forgotten that sharing creative work is, fundamentally, a bid for human connection. like I'm not posting art or fic for 'engagement' i'm posting it looking for other sickos to play with! i'd be making it anyway for my own gratification because there's something wrong with me, i'm sharing it hoping we can have something wrong with us together <3
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