h0lyfrypan - Tumblr blog

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Getting inspired to write is actually really easy! All you need to do is be the busiest you've ever been in your entire life and as far away from a computer as humanly possible. Hope this helps 🥰

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realistically.......what would happen in a realistic sukuna x reader

I hope this answers it.

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ive said this before n i’ll say it again

I DONT MIND PAYING FOR TOJI’s MEAL ON A DATE BC I’D BE THE ONE SHOWIN HIM OFF. A WOMAN’s JOB IS TO PROVIDE FOR HER MAN!!!!!!

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fem stsg

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Teddy Teddy Teddy Teddy 🌷🐛

omigosh hiii!! how does it feel to be the first ask 😎

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Essentially they are both trapped and

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cr:rizurin

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My pookie is no more an 8 🙏🙏🙏

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comforting satoru in the months after the night parade of a hundred demons. you are a former classmate, who graduated alongside satoru and shoko. despite being shot down for months, you persist on trying to comfort him.

mourning, character death, no dialogue, implied satosugu if you squint. ur both not ok. i wrote this because i rely on dialogue too much. it's super short!

Satoru had changed—there was no doubt. After the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons, something inside him broke for good. Both of you had quietly hoped Suguru would return, that somehow he could avoid punishment. That day never came, despite years of waiting, and now it never would.

You vividly recall the day your cell phone rang, breaking Satoru's usual pattern of self-reliance. He was a natural at almost everything he tried (it seriously was a piss off), but on the other end of the line was a broken man. He didn’t need to voice the words; you had an innate understanding. It was always that way between you two. You knew Suguru was gone.

Satoru Gojo had a knack for keeping people at arm's length. He was 'the Strongest,' and he didn't appreciate how you could always sense when something troubled him. Your eyes softened when you were alone, the subtle checks to ensure he ate, and your consistent efforts to reach out—through letters, texts, or in person. You knew his Infinity would hinder you, but you persisted. With every brick he placed to build up his walls, you were on the other side with your own set of tools; a determined demolitionist.

The period after was a blur. Was it days? Weeks? Months? Time seemed meaningless as you sat in the morgue with Shoko, the only other person who truly comprehended what Satoru might be going through—but she was mourning, too. After all, you were once classmates and friends. The way she chain-smoked in silence, her lack of words mirrored yours. Occasionally, Satoru joined you both, but he and Shoko only discussed business. He didn't engage with you- and Shoko just wasn't as emotionally attuned as you, and that was okay, you’d never hold that against her. Everyone plays different roles in this world.

It was a while before you truly heard from Satoru again. He had a way of presenting himself as fine, radiating happiness—especially in front of his students. He engaged with them, laughed, stirred up mischief, yet emotionally, he maintained a distance. It concerned you that no one else seemed motivated to try and reach him. Perhaps they weren't as naive as you, believing they could break through. His request for you to watch his house for a few days puzzled you. It seemed unnecessary; surely he could afford to hire someone. Nonetheless, you agreed.

His apartment was cold, barebones, and modern. It suited him—a man rarely at home. Just a space for sleep when he wasn't teaching or battling curses across the country. Old clothing lay strewn about, a few dishes scattered. The ambiance felt solitary. You wondered: was he truly living, or merely existing?

Hours passed, time an elusive, unreachable concept lately. Being here for a few days justified sorting his clothes into the hamper and doing some dishes. There was nothing better to occupy your time, and he might appreciate the gesture. While rinsing cups in hot, soapy water, your mind wandered. Perhaps if you'd been closer to Suguru, you might know how to help Satoru now. Maybe Suguru could have shared the secret, but likely there was none. Suguru wasn't you, and you weren't him. Their bond was special, something you couldn't grasp. That wasn't necessarily bad, though it felt so—Ouch! Your hand under the scalding water snapped you out of that train of thought (maybe for the best).

Cold water relieved the small burn. You searched for bandages around the apartment, not eager to rummage but forced by the forming blister on your finger. As you explored cupboards and shelves, thoughts circled back to Satoru. While tending to your wound on the couch, a question arose: did Satoru always feel this way? When 'the Strongest' is down, who's there to pick him up?

Grieving for Suguru lately made you furious. Did Suguru not comprehend Satoru's willingness to let him return? That Satoru would have done anything to anyone to ensure his safe return to Jujutsu Society?  Suguru's flawed philosophies often left you contemplating and upset. Blaming a dead man for everything was too easy, but unjust.

Surveying the showroom-like apartment, your frustration grew and you teared up. You weren't Suguru, you weren’t strong– but maybe you were strong enough to lift Satoru—if only he allowed it.

Satoru had convinced himself there was no one else. Back in high school, he accepted it. There would never be anyone like Suguru Geto—no one coming close to understanding the weight he bore. To be a weapon before a human, a tool with a face, a means to an end. Yet, you persisted. He detested (perhaps a strong word) how you saw through him, how deeply you cared.

In truth, he wanted that. He just wished it didn't feel so vulnerable. He wasn't meant to be vulnerable—or that's what he felt. He appreciated every ignored text, every rejected hug, every lunch left on his desk at Jujutsu Tech, but fear overwhelmed him. How did you see through him so effortlessly? How could he be sure you wouldn’t leave?

He resented himself for not letting you in. He wanted to, truly, but the walls he built didn't just bar others out; they trapped him too. Coming home to find you asleep on the couch, curled up, blanketless and tear-stained, changed something. Maybe it was your unintended display of vulnerability, the secluded setting, or his own exhaustion. The reason mattered little.

With care to be quiet, he slipped into his bedroom, retrieving the comforter from his bed—the sole blanket in the apartment—and gently draped it over your sleeping figure. Kneeling by your side, he gently wiped away the tear stains from your cheek. It had been a long time since he allowed himself to touch you, or anyone for that matter. His breath caught when you stirred, your eyes meeting his. For once, you were unobstructed by any blindfold or infinity.

Without hesitation, you shifted from the cushion, pulling him into your arms, guiding his head to rest against your neck. He loathed this—knowing you understood his unspoken desires, yet grateful he didn't have to verbalize them. This vulnerability was taxing enough. He reciprocated, wrapping his arms around you.

And then, he cried.

It felt awful, comforting, almost amusing. Only a few silent tears fell before he composed himself, easing into your embrace as best he could from their awkward position. He almost chuckled at himself—for all the fear he harbored about opening up, finding such reassurance in your arms made it seem absurd. Shifting slightly, he settled back on the couch, intertwining both of your limbs and enveloping both of you in the blanket.

As you moved to speak, he gently hushed you with a finger to your lips. You understood, as you always did—this wasn't something he wanted acknowledged aloud. Bodies pressed together, his head nestled against your chest, holding onto you so tightly it felt as though you might meld into one. He was utterly exhausted.

Time remained elusive, now for a different reason. Your fingers combing through his soft hair, the sweet scent of his shampoo lingering in the air. The rhythm of your breathing and heartbeats creates a tempo for this rare and peculiar intimacy. For the first time in ages, perhaps since high school, Satoru didn't feel like 'the Strongest’. He felt painfully human, finding safety in your embrace.

This apartment, that was never quite a home, suddenly felt like one in your arms.

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Jujutsu Kaisen

wordless - gojo satoru // 1.2k - oneshot

comforting satoru in the months after the night parade of a hundred demons. you are a former classmate, who graduated alongside satoru and shoko. despite being shot down for months, you persist in trying to comfort him.

Chainsaw Man

nothing... yet!

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it's chill here !!

minors please don't follow me! all my work is SFW but i have NSFW reblogs.

all content written about characters under 18 will be explicitly aged up !! i WILL change how they look and act to align with my own headcanons so please keep this in mind

no requests (right now), but i'm happy to chat about scenarios, headcanons, etc with you <3

i will only post my work here and on my ao3. do not post, translate or copy my work in any way, thank you!

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my rules + my masterlist hey !! i'm teddy, i use they/them pronouns, and i'm 21. i like writing sometimes! everything on this blog will be sfw! (please expect canon-typical violence and other themes in the respective source media. i just do not write smut)!

most content i make here will be jjk, or csm. i may occasionally post something else on a whim but those are my two major interests right now. expect reblogs to be anything ahaha

i love oc's, i don't write fics about them or anything, but if you ever wanna chat abt them or info dump abt ur fave characters, or headcannons and stuff pls send me a message!

other than that i'm just very new to using tumblr so hi? pls be nice <3? thanks for reading !!