vampweeb

[vampweeb]

“MINE?”- TOJI FUSHIGURO

first angst story!!,no happy ending, black fem reader

You should’ve known better.

It started off like most messes do — quiet. Casual. He was around, but never all the way there. You’d see him when he wanted, hear from him when he felt like it. But when you were together? God, he made it feel real.

He’d sit between your thighs, head resting against your stomach like your body was the only place he found peace. You’d run your fingers through his hair, nails grazing his scalp, and he’d hum like a man being held for the first time in years.

“Don’t go fallin’ in love on me,” he’d joke.

And you’d laugh. But you already had.

You didn’t ask him for titles. Not at first. You were trying to play it cool — that grace where you pretend your heart isn’t showing even when it’s practically screaming through your chest.

You told yourself he was just guarded. That maybe he’d been hurt. That maybe he just needed time.

But time came and went.

Three months turned into six. You learned his habits — how he liked his eggs, the way he tapped his fingers when he was lying, the exact tone he used when he said he missed you but didn’t mean it.

And still, you waited.

Still, you hoped.

The night it broke? You were on the couch, legs across his lap, scrolling through your phone. He was talking about going away for a few days. “Business,” he said.

You weren’t stupid. You saw the signs. You just didn’t want to believe them.

“Are you seeing someone else?” you asked, voice low.

He didn’t even pause.

“Nah.”

Just like that. No emotion. No hesitation. Eyes on the TV like you hadn’t just put your dignity on the table.

You wanted to believe him.

But you didn’t.

The truth hit three days later.

A girl posted him. Hand around her waist. Face pressed to her neck. Caption: “Mine.” No tags. No mystery. Just confirmation.

It wasn’t even a private story.

He didn’t even hide it from you.

You confronted him, heart pounding, mouth dry.

“I saw the post, Toji.”

He stared at you for a second, then shrugged.

“So?”

That’s what gutted you.

Not the cheating. Not the lying. Not the months of being strung along like your time didn’t mean anything.

It was the shrug.

Like you were a mistake, not a memory. Like he didn’t even have the decency to pretend he gave a damn.

“I thought we were something,” you said, voice shaking, tears threatening.

Toji raised an eyebrow. Smirked.

“Did I ever tell you we were?”

Silence.

You felt your chest cave in — not from heartbreak, but humiliation. You’d loved a man who never once thought about loving you back. You gave him softness, patience, your whole self — and he handed it back in pieces.

“I was good to you,” you whispered.

“You were convenient,” he said.

And that was it.

No apology.

No regret.

He left you standing there, arms wrapped around yourself, breath caught in your throat like a scream you’d never let out.

Later that night, your friend texted you:

“He’s never been worth it. You didn’t lose him, he lost you.”

But all you could think was:

He didn’t feel like he lost anything at all.

And maybe that’s the part that hurt the most.

[vampweeb]

Bro I js read the Sukuna thing you posted today and i refreshed now its gone💔💔💔💔 pls pls pls it was so good

oh my gosh I didnt think anyone read it😭😭 I’ll put it back up for you!!

[vampweeb]

YOURS- SUKUNA RYOMEN

sukuna x black fem reader (fluff)

The sun was low, golden light pouring through the temple windows and casting long shadows across the stone floor. You sat near one of them, legs crossed, sipping from a warm mug of hibiscus tea. The scent of clove and rose stuck to your skin, blending with the earthy calm that always surrounded you—soft fabrics, braids spilling down your back, rings stacked on your fingers like armor.

Sukuna watched you from a distance, arms folded, lips curled slightly in amusement.

“You always this damn calm?” he muttered, voice rough with that trademark rasp.

You didn’t look up. “Only when I’m not dealing with cursed nonsense.”

He laughed under his breath, low and mocking. “Tch. Is that what you think I am to you?”

“You’re a lot of things,” you said, lifting your gaze slowly. “But right now? You’re a man trying way too hard not to sit next to me.”

Sukuna scoffed, stepping forward. “You’ve got a smart mouth, woman.”

“And yet,” you said, setting your tea down and meeting his eyes, “you keep coming back to hear it.”

He stood in front of you now, tall and imposing, pink hair catching the gold light, dark markings shifting subtly with his grin.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing? Hmph.” He crouched in front of you, two fingers tilting your chin up with just enough pressure to remind you who he was. “You act bold. Brave. But underneath that calm… I know you feel this too.”

You didn’t blink. “And if I do?”

His grin widened. “Then maybe you’re not as foolish as you look.”

He leaned in closer, voice dropping to a growl.

“You’re the only one who doesn’t cower. The only one who doesn’t flinch. It’s disgusting.”

You smiled, soft and slow. “But you like it.”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he kissed you.

It wasn’t violent. Wasn’t full of teeth or domination like you thought it might be. It was intentional. Controlled. Like he’d been thinking about it too long to let it be anything but perfect. One hand gripped your waist, the other threading behind your neck—his lips warm, moving against yours with slow hunger, like you were the first thing he couldn’t destroy.

And didn’t want to.

When he pulled back, breath still shallow, his voice came low and ragged.

“You’ll ruin me, woman.”

You touched his jaw, letting your thumb trace the edge of one of his markings. “You were never whole to begin with.”

He huffed, a sharp breath that was almost a laugh. “Tch. Still got that mouth.”

“Still got you listening to it.”

He stared at you—long, intense, unreadable—then leaned in again, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I don’t do soft. Don’t get used to it.”

“You don’t have to be soft,” you whispered. “Just be real.”

He didn’t respond with words this time.

Just stayed there, pressed close, letting the world fall silent—for once.

[vampweeb]

SEEN-GOJO SATORU

“Tell Him” – Lauryn Hill

second blog woahh, black fem reader x Gojo Satoru

fluff fluff fluff!!!

The first time Satoru saw you, you didn’t even look his way.

You were sitting across the courtyard, shades on, legs crossed, locs wrapped up in a silk scarf, scrolling your phone like the world had to earn your attention. That quiet confidence? That presence? It hit him like a curse—and he’s never believed in fate, but something about you made him wonder.

He didn’t flirt right away.

Surprisingly.

Gojo might be loud, but he knows a woman like you isn’t moved by noise. So he watched, respectfully. Made his usual jokes smaller. Sharpened his eyes. Waited for the moment that wasn’t just about charm—but real connection.

Now—months later—he’s posted up on your couch, stretched out like it’s his favorite place on Earth. One hand on your thigh, the other flipping through your playlist.

“You really got Erykah and Lauryn playing back to back?” he grins. “What are you, some kind of goddess?”

You glance over your shoulder from the kitchen. “You say that like it’s a reach.”

He laughs, but you’re not joking—and he knows that. That’s what he loves. You stand on truth, wear your beauty like armor, and move like you built the ground under your feet. Satoru never tried to dim that. He just wants to stand in the light with you.

He watches you now, as you stir the pot on the stove—bonnet slightly slipping, locs coiled and neat underneath, skin glowing. You look good. Not just “fine” good, but real good. Balanced. Untouchable in all the right ways.

“You always this fine while ignoring me?” he calls, stretching like he’s bored. “Or am I being punished for falling in love?”

You raise a brow. “You didn’t fall, Satoru. You dove headfirst.”

“And I’d do it again,” he says, walking up behind you without shame, arms slipping around your waist. His chin rests on your shoulder, lazy and affectionate. “I love when you don’t play with me.”

“I never did.”

He laughs again, soft this time. You’re the only one who gets this version of him—still loud, still full of chaos, but… grounded. Gentle. Intentional.

“You good?” he asks after a quiet beat. “Like, really.”

You let your breath out. “It’s just been a long week. Work. People talking at me, not to me. I’ve been holding it all together.”

He presses a kiss to the curve of your jaw, then your temple. “You ain’t gotta hold it all together with me. Let it fall apart if it needs to.”

And he means that. With Satoru, the care is deep. He’ll run his fingers through your locs with oil when your scalp feels tight. He keeps your scarf in his drawer, right next to his sunglasses. He brags about you constantly—but never in a way that makes him look good. Just in a way that makes it clear you’re everything.

Later, when you’re finally curled up next to him on the couch, Lauryn Hill humming softly through the speaker and your head resting on his chest, he speaks again.

“You know I don’t just love how you look, right?”

You hum, not opening your eyes.

“I love the way you see through people. How you carry yourself like you’re never begging for space—just taking it. And how you got softness too. Not for everybody. But you give it to me.”

You open your eyes then, just a little. He’s looking right at you.

“I’m lucky,” he adds, voice low. “You don’t let everybody in. But you let me in. And I don’t take that for granted.”

You don’t respond with words.

You just shift closer, your fingers lacing with his. Because you know who you are. And now, so does he.

Satoru doesn’t love you despite your strength, your pride, your sharp tongue, your softness.

He loves you because of it.

And when he’s next to you, it’s not about saving you, fixing you, or softening you.

It’s about seeing you—and holding you down without ever holding you back.

[vampweeb]

Unspoken - GETO SUGURU

fluff, implied black fem reader!

With Suguru, it was never about the grand gestures.

He wasn’t the man sending you flowers at work for show. He didn’t blow up your phone with paragraphs or promises. That was never his style.

Suguru showed his love in the way he moved around you quiet, intentional, like he was studying a language only you spoke.

He noticed the way your mood shifted by the tone of your “hey.” Knew when you needed space without asking for it. Picked up on the small things—like how you only wore your bonnet when you were truly comfortable, or how your whole mood dropped the second your scalp started itching under your knotless braids.

He didn’t talk about love. He lived it.

And the first time you really felt it, it wasn’t even romantic.

It was a Tuesday. Humid outside. Your ceiling fan was no match for the heat, and you’d been irritated all day. Your braids were still fresh, and long, with that perfect shine—but your scalp was still tender and sore.

You didn’t complain. You just sat on the couch, pink bonnet in hand, silent and tired.

Suguru walked in, read your expression, and said nothing.

He just sat behind you.

Poured a little Mielle oil into his palms. Rubbed them together.

And started massaging your scalp—slow, deliberate, careful not to tug too hard on the braids you’d sat seven hours for.

That was the moment you knew this man doesn’t just love you. He respects you. Honors the parts of you most people overlook.

One night, you’re curled into his side on the couch—bonnet on, hoodie too big, skin bare and soft beneath. Some random documentary plays in the background, but neither of you are really watching.

Your legs are thrown across his lap, and he’s massaging lotion into your calves—slow, absentminded, like it’s just part of the ritual now.

“You always do that,” you murmur, half-asleep.

“Do what?”

“Touch me like I’ll break if you’re not careful.”

He pauses. Then continues, even gentler.

“That’s because you’ve had too many people handle you like you’re supposed to carry their weight.”

You glance at him. He’s still watching the screen, but you know he means every word.

“You think I’m fragile?” you ask softly.

Suguru finally turns his head. Meets your eyes.

“No,” he says. “I think you’ve been strong long enough. Let me be the one who doesn’t ask you to be.”

You go still.

Because you’ve had love before—loud, reckless, surface-deep love. The kind that wanted your body, your silence, your survival. But this?

This is different.

He doesn’t need your perfection. Just your presence.

You shift in his lap and lean your head against his chest. His hand moves to your back, sliding beneath your hoodie to rub soft, slow circles into your spine.

Suguru doesn’t say “I love you” often. Not because he doesn’t feel it, but because the way he loves you is the language.

It’s in the way he checks your scalp without asking. The way he’ll wrap your braids for you when you’re too tired. The way he keeps edge control in his drawer just in case you crash at his place.

And when he finally does whisper, “I love you”, on a night when you’re not expecting it—when your bonnet is slipping and you’re halfway through a bag of chips and your playlist is playing low in the background

He says it like it’s nothing new.

Like he’s just giving name to what he’s been doing all along.