luckyn1ghtmares

[luckyn1ghtmares]

↳˳ ❝LOVEGAME ᵕ̈೫˚∗

❥ DEFECTED!Satosugu x reader || LEVEL 1

❥ In which you act as a double spy for Jujutsu Tech to finally take down and kill Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto. Can you fulfill your mission?

❥ gn!reader, angst, fluff for now, crack, they're kinda down bad, scratch that they're REALLY down bad, suggestive, plot, non-canon compliant, yearning, yandere-ish, more warnings tba!

♡ Taglist is open! Comment under here to be added!

<- BACK TO MAIN MENU || LOADING COMPLETE! START GAME!

When you decided to knock on this temple’s doorstep looking like a kicked puppy, you didn't expect this.

You expected yelling, to have the door shut in your face and be turned away by the two people who you once loved so dearly or in the worst case scenario— be killed right then and there. A blotched red stain on the tatami mats or maybe even eaten whole by one of Suguru’s curses.

In the best case scenario, maybe they’d let you join them. Be under constant supervision— under suspicion or go through some sort of painful hazing. Torture or some sort of sick ritual with a sacrifice. That's what you expected. That's what the higher ups told you to expect.

They had told you that Suguru Geto and Satoru Gojo were monsters. Monsters who would laugh and look down upon you for coming to them after all these years. The most dangerous cursed users who betrayed Jujutsu Tech. Betrayed you. 

Well clearly they were wrong.

Because you were being hand-fed grapes by those so-called ‘dangerous curse users’ right now. 

… The grapes were really sweet, by the way.

“Here’s another one! Say ah~” Satoru beamed, bringing another ripe and juicy grape to your mouth. You were still chewing on the one Suguru had given you seconds prior, but you opened your mouth and Satoru happily popped it in. “Thanksh.” Your voice was warbled, but you still managed to let out a quick thank you.

You had double-checked, triple-checked and hell-- Even quadruple-checked the food for any poison. Any cursed energy that could potentially enter your system and put you under some sort of trance. Nothing. With every bite, you could just taste how sweet and delicious the food was.

Still, you kept your guard up.

Suguru sipped on a cup of tea, humming in contentment as he watched you and Satoru interact. “Enjoying the fruits, sweetheart?”

Satoru popped a sliced piece of an apple in his mouth, talking in between bites. “Could be better.”

“Noted. I’ll have the servants prepare something better next time.” Suguru nodded, turning to you. “Darling, what do you think?”

You swallowed. To be honest, this past week has been.. Refreshing, in a way. You had been treated better here than you ever where and ever will be at Jujutsu Tech. It was almost scary, the way anyone who passed you would bow in reverence. Servants called you master, and yet they treated you like a god. Like something sacred that was to be feared before they were loved.

You wondered if this was how Satoru felt like growing up, if the way people treated him here was no different from back at his clan. Speaking of, the white-haired man had barely left your side. While Suguru had to leave for prolonged periods of time to preach his ideals to his followers, Satoru didn’t really like participating- When you didn’t participate too, of course.

You had joined Suguru in his sermons only once, but something about it made you sick to your stomach. You were sat on a comfortable chair beside Satoru, who looked bored out of his mind. But he didn’t say anything. Simply smiled and nodded to Suguru’s tangent about a better world. The speakers, which were way too loud from where you were, echoed every word that fell from his lips.

And with every word, you remembered what the higher ups had made sure to ingrain into you within the 10 years you had to fight alone.

‘He’s insane.’

‘He will not see reason.’

‘He cannot be saved.’

You bit your cheek so much during that sermon that you were sure it was about to fall off. The next time Suguru had cheerily invited you to another one of his sermons, you turned him down gently, excusing yourself that you had something to attend to.

He didn’t comment on it, didn’t pry. Simply smiled and told you that you were free to join him anytime you wished.

Most of your downtime was spent either eating, sleeping or in the gardens. There was a severe lack of electronics in the temple, and even your shared room- Yes, shared room with Suguru and Satoru had nothing to entertain you other than a few outdated magazines that you were sure Satoru had sneaked in, even while Suguru probably knew about them already.

Satoru had puffed up his chest in pride when he showed them to you, bragging about how sneaky he had gotten these past years. Even if you had found them near-immediately when you sat on the bed, hearing the crinkle of the pages under your weight.

“I think it’s fine.” You answered Suguru, swallowing as you brushed your thoughts away. You had all night to think about those.

Suguru smiled. "At least one of you isn’t a picky eater.”

“Hey! I’m not picky!” Satoru shrieked. “I just have taste, that's all.” 

“Ofcourse, ofcourse. Forgive me.” Suguru hummed, the sarcasm dripping from his tone left ignored. “Whatever. You are forgiven.” You could sense the eyeroll under his blindfold, the familiarity of the interaction leaving a bittersweet taste in your mouth.

“I am NOT a picky eater.”

“Yes you are.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

You rolled your eyes, biting into your burger that had a suspiciously extra amount of lettuce in it. Courtesy of Satoru. Arguing with him was like walking on a treadmill, it leads nowhere.

“We’re just saying, eating vegetables makes you stronger.” Suguru hummed, swirling his pasta with a fork as he glanced at Satoru.

“Why would I want to be stronger? I’m already the strongest anyway.” Satoru drawled. “Besides,” he grins, picking out and tossing another piece of lettuce onto your plate. “I gotta save some strength for the two of you anyway.”

Suguru rolls his eyes this time, taking a forkful of his pasta. “I thought we were the strongest already?” He voiced in between bites.

“Yeaaaahh, but you two could use some work,” He waves his burger towards the two of you, some of its oil dripping onto the table. “Especially you.” He points the soggy, lettuce-less burger at you, raising his voice in accusation. “You almost made me a part of the infrastructure today!”

You cringed at the reminder. “Sorry.” You mumbled into your burger. “My cursed technique is pretty hard to control.”

“Yeah, we can see that.”

“Now, now, Satoru. You have to give them some credit,” Suguru chimed in with that smooth voice of his, making you let out a sigh of relief. At least he was on your side-

“Last mission both of us were almost a part of the infrastructure. Having you be the only one at risk this time around is progress, don’t you think?”

Nevermind.

“Maybe next time I should do it on purpose.” You grumble, snatching Satoru’s milkshake and taking a sip. “HEY!”

“Heeeeeyyyy, earth to you, helloooo?” You flinched when a pair of bright blue eyes were suddenly in front of you. Getting jumpscared by that pair of eyes had become something akin to routine nowadays. You had woken up too many nights to count to Satoru just staring at you in the dark, his eyes cryptically glowing in the dark as he ushers you to go back to sleep.

“Oh! Sorry, I was just thinking.” You leaned backwards, awkwardly smiling as you felt your ears slightly burn from the close proximity.

Satoru didn’t look convinced at all. Neither did Suguru, who was now staring calmly at you.

“You’ve been doing that alot.” Satoru leaned closer, making you lean back instinctually. “What are you thinking about?” He pouts.

“Satoru, sit properly.”

The man himself huffed indignantly, plopping back into his seat and giving you enough room to breathe.

Suguru took a sip of his tea, taking his time before speaking. You and Satoru stay quiet, waiting patiently for Suguru to break the silence. “Our dearest is still adjusting to their new life here, need I remind you to give them space to process everything?”

“I knoooow Suguruu~” Satoru whines, rocking side to side with his legs crossed. “But it's been a week! That's enough time for them to start talking more, don't you think?”

No, you don’t think it is.

“No, it isn’t,”

Thank god

“They can take their time. Besides,” Suguru continued, putting his teacup down with a soft clink! And turning his gaze to you. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but then again, none of them did. “They’ve already told us about why they had a change of heart, no? I think that should be enough for the time being.”

Satoru sighed. “Fineee. I guess you do have a point. But I still wanna know!”

“Soon, my love.” Suguru’s eyes softened. His hand found your knee, and you pushed the urge to flinch away. You hoped that he didn’t notice how you tensed against his touch. “They’ll open up to us in time, I’m sure.” His eyes were kind, understanding.

You let out a forced smile, praying to whatever god above that they had forgotten how you truly smiled. How you smiled at them before they’d broken your heart and left. “Yeah.”

Suguru’s hand lingered a few moments longer, studying your face as his thumb continuously brushed against your thigh. You could feel the sweat trailing down the back of your neck, the light thump of your heart in your ears but you stayed passive.

Finally, after a time that felt much too long, Suguru slid his hand off of your knee and let it rest on his lap. Satoru was pouting, but that seemed enough to satisfy them. 

For now.

You fall into your bed facefirst, the sheets around you fly a few inches upwards before settling around your tired form. With a huff, you turn your head to the paper-thin divider separating your bed from the other two. The three of you had made a compromise when the two had insisted you slept beside them while you pushed for your own privacy.

This was the best they could do without Satoru whining, complaining and threatening to destroy any other wall between him and you.

You were 99% sure he meant it. Suguru was 100% sure.

Satoru peeks from the side of the divider, smiling widely when he sees your exhausted form. “Goodnight~ You're free to join us anytime!!” Satoru implied, eyes going half-lidded as he traced his eyes over your body, admiring the way your body looked in the yukata. You felt yourself burn under his gaze, swallowing thickly before his eyes met yours and he returned to his cheery demeanor. “Goodnight~” He quickly disappeared behind the divider, presumably joining Suguru in bed as far as you could tell from the rustling of sheets and soft giggles.

“..G’night.”

You flip over to lie on your back, gazing at the ceiling.

One of them blew out the last candle, the light orange hue getting replaced by the soft blue glow of the moonlight. You could barely see in the dark, but it was enough to make out the lines and intricacies of the ceiling. You don’t dare close your eyes.

You lie there for hours, barely moving— Save from turning your head to look at a more interesting view from time to time. The ceiling, the wall, the divider, the closet that was slightly ajar. You had pretty much memorized every detail you could.

Even when you feel your eyelids become heavy, your mind screaming for sleep, your will keeps shaking you awake. Your mission. Your purpose.

You remember when your purpose wasn’t to betray the two men sleeping just a few feet away from you, a time when your purpose was to protect and fight alongside them.

A time long gone. You were sure.

When you were sure that both of them had gone to sleep, their heartbeats in sync with eachothers, you sat up. Slowly, as your blanket shifted around you, you make sure to only move under the noise of Satoru’s snores.

This was one of the biggest hurdles you had to pass while staying here, and it will continue to be. Not the lies, not the fake smiles and excuses, but sneaking away from the literal six eyes user and his just as sharp husband. 

You held your breath with every second you took getting up. Once you were standing, you took slow, careful steps on the tatami. Mindful to avoid the places where the floor creaked. You had memorized it in the days leading to this one.

You reach the door and grab the handle, sliding it open just enough to fit you. You take one step outside, the floorboards groan under you. 

You heard Satoru’s snores hitch. Everything pauses, and you could practically hear the crickets outside.

You stop breathing, pausing pretty much every other bodily function in anticipation. 

Silence stretched into something that felt like forever. And you were half-convinced that if you turned around, Satoru’s bright blue eyes would be beaming down at you with rage and betrayal. A familiar look. You wonder if you looked the same when you had learned that Suguru had killed that entire village.

A beat, then another.

You hear Satoru’s snoring cut back to normal with a loud huff. You let out your own sigh of relief, feeling a few tons lighter and taking careful steps out of the room and sliding the door shut.

Your footsteps pad across the hallways, practically non-existent to any ear that isn’t Satoru’s. You make your way to the farthest point of the estate, the farthest point from your bedroom. Or their bedroom. It didn’t really feel like your own, it felt too foreign and too wrong. It didn’t feel like the room that you, suguru and satoru had shared back in the school dorms. When it  felt like each other's room were an extension of their own.

This was different.

The sliding door creaked as you eased it shut behind you, the low thock swallowed by the night. You're met with the fresh night air, thick with the fragrance of flowers and damp grass. A small and humble garden, a small pond tucked away in the corner. 

You took a slow breath and stepped down from the engawa. Your sock-covered feet met the grass with a hush. You walked carefully, each step deliberate, weaving between stepping stones and a cluster of thin bamboo stalks until you reached the flowerbeds tucked into the corner of the garden.

Your eyes swept across your surroundings once more. You heightened your senses, searching for even a flicker of cursed energy nearby. From here, you could still feel the faint pulse of Satoru’s cursed energy. Still asleep. Good.

You crouched, admiring the flowers for just a moment. Your fingers sifted through the dirt beside a stone lantern, slow and methodical. The soil was cool, clinging to your skin, and you could feel the pulse of life underneath—roots, minerals, memory. Memory that you had stored just a few nights ago. You etched a sigil into the dirt. It pulsed faintly, a ripple of your cursed technique weaving into reality itself. You were careful to use the least amount of cursed energy possible, just enough for your technique to take hold.

Reality Warp.

The soil seemed to distort and crack like glass, geometric shapes unwinding from your palm and curling around the small depression in the soil. Circles spun within circles, fractal patterns blooming like mechanical flowers. The stones shifted, fusing together. The dirt reshaped itself, compressing and hardening, folding in on itself like origami.

Click.

A cold, silver burner phone. Straight out of the 90’s. Compact, dustless, unnaturally clean against the backdrop of moss and earth. You flipped it open, chunky buttons taking a moment for you to navigate and dial a number you had memorized.

It rang once, the volume making you flinch before you remembered to isolate this part of the garden. The space around you cracked and shifted, as if the world were just refracted by mirrors. There, the sound wouldn’t alert anyone. Nor would anyone see you if they were simply passing by, you were sure that your technique wouldn’t be too visible in this darkness. Not unless someone was looking for it.

It rang for a little while longer, and you felt a light feeling of dread that nobody would answer.

But finally, a familiar voice came from the phone, slightly glitchy from the poor signal. “You’re late.”

You breathed a sigh of relief. “Sorry. Had to wait for everyone to fall asleep.”

“Whatever. Your report?”

NEXT LEVEL IN PROGRESS...

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[luckyn1ghtmares]

Say My Name Like You Mean It

Pairing: Satoru gojo X F! Reader

Contains: MDNI, SMUT, soft dom Gojo, Oral (f receiving), slow sex, a tinyyy bit of agnst, bad friend, Geto cameo , fluff, lovebirds in denial.

Summary!! Dragged into a blind double date by her best friend Yumi, Y/N expected awkward conversation and overpriced drinks—what she didn’t expect was Satoru. Charming, aloof, and beautiful in a way that felt dangerous, Satoru wasn’t her date... but her heart didn’t seem to care. There’s just one problem. Satoru is falling for someone else—Yumi, the girl he wasn’t supposed to notice.

a/n : this is a part 1!!

You never meant to say yes.

It all happened so fast, like most things with Yumi do. One minute you were swearing you'd stay in, wearing that one oversized t-shirt that smelled faintly like lavender detergent and denial, and the next she was standing at your door with lip gloss too shiny for reason and a mission too loud to argue with.

"A blind double date," she says, grinning like she’s delivering great news. "You're coming."

You blink from the doorway, socked feet planted on your apartment’s cool wood floor. “Why?”

She rolls her eyes, stepping past you like she owns the place. “Because I can’t go alone. Because I lied and said my best friend was super cute and single and down. Because you owe me for ghosting that rooftop party last weekend.”

You frown. “I had a headache.”

“You had a spreadsheet and a minor existential crisis about turning twenty-five.”

Fair enough.

“I don’t even like blind dates.”

“You like food,” she shoots back, toeing open your closet with her heel. “And you like getting dressed up, even if you pretend not to.”

You don’t argue that. Not when she’s already holding up a black dress you haven’t worn in months—the one that makes your collarbones look sharp and your waist feel small.

Somehow, by the time you’re in her car, you’ve convinced yourself it’s just dinner. Not a date. Not anything that means anything. Just a way to keep Yumi from bringing it up for the next three weeks.

But then you arrive at Summer Blue, a rooftop bar near downtown with velvet curtains, rich lighting, and a view of the skyline that makes you feel like you're stepping into someone else’s night. One where the air smells like citrus and high hopes.

They're already there.

Two guys, tucked into a corner booth where the lighting dips soft and golden like honey. One of them—tall, dark-haired, a little sleepy-looking—is sipping from a glass and watching the room with a kind of stillness that feels practiced. His presence is quiet but heavy, like an unfinished thought. That must be Suguru.

Next to him is the opposite. Leaning back, legs wide, arms stretched across the back of the booth, with snowy white hair that falls carelessly over his forehead. He’s wearing sunglasses inside.

Sunglasses. But then he pushes them up onto his head, and you see his eyes—bright, pale, too blue to be real—and it hits you. Hard.

He’s stupidly handsome. In that chaotic, dangerous, “you’ll ruin my GPA and my life” kind of way.

Satoru.

They both stand when you approach. Suguru offers Yumi a handshake and a polite smile, eyes flickering with a quiet warmth. But Satoru grins like he’s just been handed a game he plans to win.

“You must be Y/N,” he says, his gaze skimming over your face in a way that makes your skin hum. “Cute name.”

You smile, tight. “You don’t look like a Satoru.”

He cocks his head. “What do I look like, then?”

“Someone who wears sunglasses indoors.”

He laughs. Loudly. Like it actually caught him off guard.

“I like her,” he says to no one in particular, lips curving around the edges of a smirk. “She’s got claws.”

You glance at Yumi. She’s already sliding into the seat next to Suguru, laughter bubbling up like it’s been waiting to escape. Their conversation picks up like it never had to start.

Which leaves you beside Satoru.

You settle in, stiff at first. His cologne is clean and sharp, something citrusy beneath the warmth. You focus on the menu to avoid how your thigh brushes his every time you shift.

They talk. You listen.

You offer a few lines here and there—safe ones, nothing too revealing. Satoru asks what you do. You tell him. He nods like he's interested, but you catch the moment he stops listening. He laughs more at Yumi’s jokes than yours. Refills herglass before yours. Always looking across the table, never beside him.

It’s not obvious, but it’s enough.

You sip your wine slower. You try to focus on Suguru, who seems quieter, thoughtful, far more tuned into Yumi than anyone else. It makes sense. She’s magnetic tonight—glowing with that effortless confidence that makes people fall in love in record time.

You don’t blame her. You don’t even blame him. But it still stings. Because when you first sat down, he looked at you like he might actually see you. And now he’s not looking at all.

By dessert, Yumi’s practically in Suguru’s lap. She’s laughing in that full-bodied way that makes other tables glance over, and Suguru, though soft-spoken, doesn’t pull away. You see it. The beginnings of something. Or maybe just a really good first date.

Meanwhile, Satoru checks his phone. You realize he hasn’t asked you a single personal question in the last hour.

The check comes. Suguru reaches for it first, insists on covering it. Yumi mouths wow at you like she’s been proposed to. You force a smile.

Outside, the city hums low, busy and buzzing with Friday-night heat. Yumi’s hand finds your arm as you wait for the car. Satoru says something to Suguru—low, sharp, something that makes him laugh.

You look at Satoru one more time. He catches you. Smiles. And just before you turn away, you catch the flicker of his gaze sliding back to Yumi.

The ride home is quiet until Yumi turns and sighs dramatically.

“So?” she asks. “What’d you think of Satoru?”

You pause. The lights from the city flash against the windows, strobing your face in soft gold and shadow. You think of his grin. His jokes. His eyes. And then you think of how none of it was meant for you.

“He’s... not my type,” you say, gently.

Yumi doesn’t push.

She’s texting Suguru before you’ve even reached the freeway.

You turn toward the window, chin resting on your knuckles. You feel something shift in your chest—barely a tremor, but real.

And you wonder why something you didn’t even want hurts just enough to feel like a bruise.

You try not to think about him. You really do.

Monday comes with the same routine as always: your alarm buzzes too early, your coffee tastes too bitter, and the world outside your window glows that soft blue-gray of a city not quite awake. The date with Satoru and Suguru feels like something that happened in someone else’s life. A movie you watched, not a memory you lived.

You tell yourself it didn’t matter. You barely knew him. He barely looked at you. It shouldn’t linger the way it does, tucked beneath your ribs like a paper cut you keep pressing just to see if it still hurts.

Yumi, on the other hand, is thriving.

She’s been smiling more than usual, texting even more than that. You can always tell when it's Suguru she’s talking to—her posture changes. She sits straighter. Her eyes get a little dreamy, her words a little distracted.

It’s sweet, honestly. And it makes you feel like the side character in someone else’s romance arc.

She tells you about their second date on Wednesday. A gallery opening downtown, modern art and little hors d'oeuvres shaped like abstract nightmares. She wears a red dress and you zip her up with careful fingers, watching her in the mirror as she applies lipstick with hands that don’t shake.

“He’s so thoughtful,” she says softly, and you nod, even though she’s not really talking to you. “Like he sees me. You know?”

You do.

You say goodnight when she leaves, but you don’t turn on the TV or make tea like usual. You sit in the silence of your apartment, bathed in the dim light of your kitchen lamp, and wonder if you’ve ever had that feeling. The being seen.

Your phone buzzes with a work notification. You turn it over, face down.

The week creeps by.

You throw yourself into your job, into projects and timelines and the comfort of checklists. People know you as the dependable one, the calm one, the person who always has a backup plan. You like being that person.

But lately, something feels off. You’ll catch yourself staring out the window a little too long. Getting distracted by things that shouldn't matter—like the memory of Satoru laughing at something Yumi said, or the way his fingers tapped against his glass when he wasn’t paying attention.

You hate that you remember that. You hate even more that he hasn’t messaged. Not even as a friend. Not even as a courtesy. Not that he owed you anything. You remind yourself of that at least three times a day. Still.

Friday night, Yumi’s gone again.

Out with Suguru. You tell her to have fun and mean it, but when the door clicks shut behind her, the quiet feels heavier than usual. You pour yourself a glass of wine. One becomes two.

Somewhere around eleven, you scroll through your photos. Not to look for anything in particular. Just to feel something. And there it is.

A blurry candid that Yumi took at the bar. The four of you, half-smiling, a little tipsy. You and Satoru are barely in frame—his arm behind you on the booth, your body leaning subtly away. Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. His does, but it’s not for you.

You should delete it. Instead, you turn off your phone.

Saturday, the sun burns bright and careless over the city. You run errands just to get out of the house—groceries, dry cleaning, a new candle you don’t need. The streets buzz with heat and movement. You slip your sunglasses on, earbuds in, music up loud enough to drown your thoughts. And yet— Somewhere between the fruit aisle and the checkout lane, you think you see him.

White hair. Tall frame. That walk—carefree but too aware of his own magnetism. You turn your head too fast, knocking your elbow into a stranger’s basket. They curse under their breath, and by the time you glance back, the man’s already gone.

It wasn’t him. Probably. But your heart still beats wrong in your chest for a few minutes afterward.

That night, Yumi comes home glowing again. She falls onto your couch in a heap of perfume and expensive fabric, sighing like a girl who's been kissed well.

“I think I really like him,” she says, almost shy.

You smile, this time for real. “I can tell.”

She leans her head on your shoulder. “Is that weird? Is it too fast?”

“Not if it feels right.”

And the truth is—he’s good for her. You can tell in the way she smiles. The steadiness in her. Suguru has a calming effect, like he doesn’t need to be the loudest person in the room to hold attention. Yumi’s usually the sun, but with him, she doesn’t have to burn so bright.

“I think Satoru might’ve liked me too, though,” she says absently, not even meaning it as a brag. Just letting it float.

You blink. “What?”

She shrugs. “It’s a vibe I got. Just for a second. You know how some guys are.”

Your stomach turns, slow and quiet. Not in jealousy, just... recognition. Confirmation of something you already knew.

“I’m not worried, though,” she adds, curling closer into your side. “Suguru makes him look invisible.”

You laugh, but it comes out smaller than you expect. Invisible. Maybe that’s how you felt that night too.

Later, as the city quiets and your room dims to nothing but the faint glow of traffic outside your window, you lie awake longer than you should. You think of his voice. The curve of his grin. The way your name didn’t sit on his tongue the way hers did.

You tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. You almost believe it.

The rain starts sometime around noon.

Soft at first. Barely a whisper against your windowpane. But by the time you’re out on the street, it’s turned into that steady, curtain-like kind—the kind that makes people duck under awnings and tighten their scarves and mutter about weather apps being wrong again.

You don’t mind it. Rain feels honest. Quiet. Like the world has decided to soften itself for a few hours.

You’d meant to just grab a coffee. Maybe wander a bit. Something about gray skies makes the city feel smaller, easier to breathe in. But your steps drift, carried by instinct more than intention, until you’re turning onto 9th Street and standing in front of a shop you haven’t been to in months.

Hoshino Books.

It’s the kind of place that smells like cedar shelves and old pages, warm and lived-in. No music playing. Just the gentle hum of a ceiling fan and the muffled sound of traffic from the other side of the glass.

You push open the door, and the little bell above it rings—a soft chime that tugs at memory like a thread.

The shop is nearly empty. A couple of people browsing. Someone at the back in a beanie, sitting on the floor with their nose buried in a thick hardback.

You shake off the rain, fingers brushing water from your coat sleeve. The lighting inside is soft, golden, like it’s been filtered through amber. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

This is what you need. Just an hour or two to disappear into fiction. Somewhere no one can find you.

Somewhere he definitely wouldn’t be.

And then—

You hear a laugh.

Not loud. Not even fully-formed. Just a huff of amusement, low and familiar and impossible.

You freeze.

Because even if you hadn’t seen him in a week—not in person, not on a screen, not in your dreams where he somehow still grins like he belongs there—you’d know that voice anywhere.

Satoru. You turn slowly.

He’s across the aisle. Leaning lazily against a shelf in the fiction section. One foot crossed over the other, a book open in his hands like it only half-interests him. His white hair is slightly damp, curling at the edges. His sunglasses are perched on top of his head again, like they’re part of him. His coat’s unzipped. Underneath, he’s wearing a plain gray hoodie that somehow makes him look more real.

And then he glances up. Blue eyes. Direct. Sharp.

Recognition flashes across his face like a spark on cold steel.

“…Y/N?”

Your name sounds wrong in his mouth. Not because he says it poorly—he doesn’t. He says it with surprise. A softness. Maybe even something close to regret.

But because the last time he said a name out loud in front of you, it wasn’t yours.

You swallow. “Hi.”

There’s a beat. Two heartbeats, maybe three. Then he smiles. A little crooked, a little unsure.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he says, stepping closer. He closes the book in his hand and slots it back on the shelf without looking.

You try not to notice how tall he is, how easily he moves, how the rain has left a faint flush across his cheeks.

“I come here sometimes,” you say, and your voice doesn’t shake. “Didn’t think you were the bookstore type.”

He smirks. “You thought I couldn’t read?”

“I thought you’d prefer something louder.”

“Fair.” His grin widens a bit. “But sometimes I like it quiet too.”

You both stand there.

The silence stretches, long and uncertain.

You should walk away. You know that. You owe him nothing. You’re not friends. You were barely even dates. But still, there’s something about being near him again—something about the way he’s looking at you now, not past you.

Not toward Yumi.

Just at you.

“Didn’t think you remembered my name,” you say, quieter now.

He flinches—barely. But it’s there.

“I deserved that,” he says, voice lower. Honest.

The air between you shifts. It feels like the bookstore is holding its breath.

You turn, pretending to scan the shelf beside you. Your fingers trail the spines. You stop at one—Norwegian Wood. A story about memory. Loss. People who come in and out of your life like the tide.

He’s still watching you.

“I wasn’t trying to be a dick,” he says suddenly, like the words surprised even him.

You raise an eyebrow. “You weren’t?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I just... I thought you weren’t into me.”

You laugh once. Sharp. “You thought I wasn’t into you?”

He shrugs, a little defensive now. “You were quiet. Kind of distant. I thought you were just doing Yumi a favor.”

“I was. But that doesn’t mean—” You stop yourself.

Doesn’t mean what?

That he didn’t affect you?

That you noticed every time he looked at Yumi and not at you?

He looks down. “I screwed it up.”

There’s a vulnerability in him now, barely there but real. Like a crack in glass. It’s not an apology, not quite. But it’s something.

You inhale, slow. The smell of old books and rain. The sound of the ceiling fan spinning above. The fact that you don’t owe him forgiveness—but also the fact that part of you still wants to know what might’ve happened if he had looked at you just once the way he looked at her.

You reach for a book at random. Hand it to him.

“You’d like this one,” you say.

He takes it without looking at the cover. Just watches you.

“Guess I’ve got some reading to do,” he says.

“Guess you do.”

You brush past him. Your shoulder grazes his sleeve. He doesn’t move.

And you don’t look back.

Not yet.

You don’t expect him to text you.

But he does.

Not that night. Not even the next day.

It comes two mornings later—midway through your commute, while you're sandwiched between strangers on the train, earbuds in, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.

Unknown Number

heyit’s satorubookstore was a surprise. you looked good in the rainmind if i send a book rec your way sometime?

You stare at it longer than necessary. You even lock your phone and unlock it again just to make sure you didn’t imagine it.

Your heart skips—annoyingly, involuntarily—and you hate that your first instinct isn’t to delete the message.

You wait almost an hour before responding.

I didn’t give you my number.

The reply comes instantly.

yumi did wanted to return the favor. figured i owed you something also wanted to prove i can read books that don’t have explosions

You actually snort at that.

And against your better judgment, you reply.

I like stories that feel like bruises.Quiet ones.

This time, he takes a little longer to answer.

you looked like one the other night a bruise, I mean

the kind that doesn’t show up till later

You don’t respond after that.

But you think about it all day.

By the end of the week, it becomes something of a rhythm.

A message here. A sarcastic observation there. Nothing overt. Nothing intense. Just this slow circling, like you’re both walking the rim of something deep, peeking over the edge without quite falling.

He never pushes. You never invite. But still, the tether stretches between your phones like an invisible thread.

You don’t tell Yumi. You don’t know how to. This isn’t anything, not really. Just two people who happened to be in the same place, and then again, and then again—until the randomness of it started to feel deliberate.

But sometimes, you find yourself rereading his messages before bed. Sometimes, you picture his eyes from the bookstore—the way they softened when they found yours.

Sometimes, you want to text him first. You never do.

It’s a Thursday when he invites you out. You almost say no. But the day’s been heavy with clouds, your brain fogged from too much time staring at your laptop, and you’re craving something that feels like breath.

He sends the name of a café tucked behind a used record shop—nothing trendy or loud, just quiet and narrow and easy to miss if you weren’t looking.

You find him there, seated by the window, coffee in front of him, hair a mess from the rain. He looks up when you enter. No grin this time. Just a small, surprised smile, like he wasn’t sure you’d actually come.

“You showed.”

“I said I would.”

“I thought maybe I imagined that part.”

You take the seat across from him and let the steam from your drink warm your cold fingers. The café smells like cinnamon and rain-soaked wood. The lighting is soft—yellowed and sleepy.

He watches you for a beat too long before speaking again.

“You have this way of disappearing.”

You tilt your head. “You’ve only met me twice.”

“Three times now.”

“Still doesn’t make you an expert.”

“No,” he says, smiling now. “But you’re hard to read. That much, I’m sure of.”

You sip your drink. “That bothers you?”

He leans back, fingers curled around his mug. “A little.”

You glance away. There’s something dangerously easy about talking to him now. Something that’s either going to turn into nothing—or everything.

He’s wearing a simple hoodie again, dark gray, sleeves pushed up. There’s a scrape on one of his knuckles, and your eyes catch on it before you realize you’re staring.

He notices. “Basketball game got messy. Suguru plays dirty.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to say anything light.

There’s a pause. Then—

“You were right, by the way,” he says. “About the books.”

You blink. “What?”

“Stories that feel like bruises. Quiet ones. I’ve been reading one you’d like. It’s slow. Kind of sad.”

“You’re reading something sad?”

“It’s not my natural habitat, but I’m trying,” he shrugs. “Feels a little like you. The kind of story that takes a while to get under your skin.”

You can’t look at him when he says it. You stir your coffee, like it matters.

He doesn’t press.

That’s the thing with Satoru: he could be so much—loud, arrogant, cutting—but when he’s still like this, he’s almost disarming. The way a sharp blade can sometimes look like silver in the right light.

He clears his throat. “So what’s your favorite sad book?”

You raise your eyes to his. “The Bell Jar.”

“Oof. That’s not just sad, that’s devastating.” He shakes his head. “No wonder you look at people like you already know how they’ll leave.”

That makes your breath catch. You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t know why he sees it.

He opens his mouth like he wants to say more, but doesn’t. Instead, he shifts, pulling a small book from his coat pocket and sliding it across the table.

“I brought you something.”

You stare at it, surprised. It’s worn and clearly used—no cover sleeve, spine bent like it’s been loved hard.

You flip to the first page. The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

“Thought you might like it,” he says, a little too casual. “There’s this line near the end—‘The only truly serious question is whether to kill yourself or not.’ Cheery stuff.”

You snort despite yourself.

“It’s not that bleak,” he adds. “It’s... delicate. Sad in a smart way.”

You run your fingers over the cover.

“Why give me this?”

He shrugs, eyes on you again. “Because I wanted to. Because I think there’s a version of you that lives in this book.”

The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s thick. Heavy with everything unsaid.

You don’t speak until the rain starts again outside—light at first, then louder. You both look out the window at the same time, and for a moment, your reflections overlap in the glass.

You can feel his attention drift to you. Not like it did before—not with half an eye on someone else. He’s looking at you now.

And you’re afraid you might look back.

It starts with a book.

The one he gave you—worn at the edges, dog-eared like it passed through other hands before yours. You read it in pieces. On the train. Before bed. In the lonely silence after Yumi leaves for work. You underline a few lines, fold some pages, leave faint smudges on the margins. Not because you want to mark them—but because you're holding it tighter than you mean to.

One night, you text him:

The book is cruel. In a way I understand too well.

He replies less than a minute later.

yeah i think that’s why i wanted you to read it

You don’t answer right away.

Your room is dark. Your window slightly open. Rain is dripping somewhere—on leaves, on concrete, on glass. You stare at your phone. You wonder if he’s up.

And then you call him. You don’t plan it. You don’t rehearse. You don’t think.

It rings once. Twice.

“...Hello?”

His voice is hushed. Not groggy—just low. Like he was already awake.

You hesitate. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, no. It’s fine. I just... wasn’t expecting to hear your voice.”A pause. Then, quieter:“Hi.”

You let out a breath. “Hi.”

A longer silence stretches between you. But it doesn’t feel awkward. It feels like something being held in both hands, carefully.

You shift under your blanket, phone tucked close to your ear. “You read that book and thought of me?”

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

“I didn’t say it was bad.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he exhales.

“There’s this part I kept rereading,” he says. “Where she’s standing in front of all those fig trees—each fig a different version of her life—and she realizes if she waits too long, they’ll all rot and fall.”

“I remember that line,” you whisper.

“Yeah. Me too. Felt... familiar.”

You press your eyes shut, picturing it—the slow rot of imagined futures. The ache of wanting so many lives and choosing none.

“Do you ever feel like that?” you ask. “Like you’ve wasted something without even knowing what?”

“Every damn day,” he admits. “I think that’s why I talk so much. To fill the silence. To pretend I’m not stuck in my own head.”

You smile faintly, turning to face the window. “You never seemed like the type.”

“That’s the trick,” he says. “People like me are always hiding in plain sight.”

The rain picks up outside, tapping gently against your sill.

“What would you do,” he murmurs, “if no one was watching? If there were no figs to rot?”

You think about it. “Disappear. Just for a while. Not forever. Just... long enough to remember who I am when I’m not being watched.”

You hear him shift—maybe lying back now. “I think I’d follow you.”

The silence after that sentence is different. He doesn’t laugh to soften it. Doesn’t brush it off. Your fingers tighten around your phone.

“Why?” you ask quietly.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe because... being near you doesn’t feel like pretending.”

You don’t answer. You don’t know how. It’s too soon, too tender, too dangerous. And yet—you stay on the line. He doesn’t hang up.

For a long time, neither of you speak. Just the soft sound of his breathing, and the rain, and your own heartbeat pushing against your ribs like it wants out.

Eventually, you fall asleep with the phone still pressed to your ear. And in the morning, you’ll wake up to a quiet “goodnight” he whispered after you stopped answering.

The next time you see him, it’s not planned.

Not really. Yumi drags you to one of Suguru’s low-key gatherings—more “wine and weird records” than loud party. You think about saying no, but it’s been a heavy week. The kind that lingers in your shoulders and makes your apartment feel too quiet. You need a distraction.

So you go.

The place is a loft somewhere in Nakameguro—brick walls, records scattered like confetti, an old turntable in the corner humming low jazz. Satoru’s already there when you arrive, sitting on the floor with a drink in his hand, legs stretched out in front of him like he owns the room without trying.

His eyes catch yours immediately. It’s subtle—just a glance, a half-smile—but it lands like thunder beneath your ribs.

You look away first.

Yumi is busy catching up with Suguru. There’s a girl beside Satoru now, too. She’s laughing at something he said, leaning in just a little too much. You recognize her from before—someone orbiting their circle. You don’t know her name, but the way she touches his arm tells you she wants to be known.

And the worst part?

He lets her.

At least at first. But then he sees you again—across the room, your back pressed to a bookshelf, wine glass untouched in your hand.

He excuses himself from the girl gently, politely, and then he’s walking toward you. And your breath—damn your breath—actually hitches.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says softly.

“You’re not as surprising as you think,” you reply.

That makes him grin.

But there’s something quieter behind it tonight. Less teasing. More focused.

“You okay?” he asks after a beat. “You look...”

“Tired?”

“Not tired,” he says. “Far away.”

You glance down at your glass. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

You don’t smile at that. And he notices.

You feel the shift between you—barely there, like a change in pressure before a storm. He steps closer, just enough for your arms to almost touch. The music from the record player croons something sad and slow, and the chatter around you fades.

“Want to get out of here for a second?” he asks.

You hesitate. “Where?”

“Just the balcony. You look like you need air.”

You should say no. You should.

But you follow him anyway.

Outside, the city glows beneath the early night. Neon reflections blur across wet rooftops. The balcony is narrow, barely wide enough for the two of you. You lean against the railing. He stands beside you, close but not touching.

It’s quiet for a while.

Then he says, “She’s not my type, by the way.”

You don’t answer.

“I saw you looking,” he adds, more softly. “And I don’t want you thinking—”

“Satoru.”

He stops.

You glance at him, tone even. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

His jaw works for a moment. “Maybe not. But I still want to give one.”

You look back out at the sky.

“Do you do that often?” you ask. “Say what people want to hear?”

His eyes find you again. “Not with you.”

You don’t believe him. But you want to. And maybe that’s worse.

You feel the heat of his body beside yours. The way the air changes when someone wants to touch you but doesn’t. Your breath fogs faintly in the cool air, curling into the night.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he says quietly.

You swallow. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not supposed to.”

He turns toward you then—really turns. His shoulder brushes yours.

“Then why are you here?” he asks. “With me?”

You don’t have an answer. Or maybe you have too many. The space between you narrows.

He doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. But his hand lifts, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. His fingers linger for a second too long. His eyes fall to your mouth, and your pulse spikes.

You step back. Too fast. His hand drops.

You take a breath. “I should get back inside.”

He nods. But his voice is low when he says, “I’ll see you soon?”

You don’t say yes. But you don’t say no either.

Inside, the girl from before is laughing again—this time with Suguru. She’s spinning one of his records. Yumi is curled into the couch, cheeks flushed with wine, eyes bright.

You go to her. Sit beside her.

And that’s when you hear it. From across the room, Satoru says something. Laughs. But your name doesn’t fall from his mouth.

“Yumi,” he says, to someone who’s not her.

You freeze. You look up. He wasn’t talking to Yumi. He was looking at you.

Your name is not Yumi.

But that’s the one he said. His smile falters instantly. Your heart drops like a stone in water. The girl beside him glances between you, confused. You don’t stay long after that.

[luckyn1ghtmares]

no one else needed to notice

pairing — g. satoru x gn reader

synopsis : you weren’t looking for connection when you replied to a quiet post on a jujutsu forum. but what starts as late-night messages with a stranger turns into something warmer, steadier, and unexpectedly real.

sometimes, the person who sees you best is the one you’ve never even seen. until now.

tags –> one shot, 6.4k wc, non-canon compliant au, internet strangers to lovers, emotional intimacy, mutual comfort, secret voice calls, found each other online, reader is from kyoto, soft gojo satoru, extremely mild angst with a happy ending, first kisses, lighthearted moments, a little rain, stupid jokes and late-night feelings, love is about compromise, rip to gakuganji’s office chair. inspired by the song ‘no one noticed’ by the marias.

a/n : writing this made me bawl, to be loved is to be known. there’s just something about being understood by a stranger and finding solace in each other that gets to me. being known & being loved without being seen in a literal sense? sign me up :P i wanna sob because my pookie bear deserved better aaaaa

red string of fate collection m.list

you didn’t mean to answer the thread.

you never do, usually. the forum’s a chaotic sprawl, a digital graveyard of encrypted usernames—like “void_eater69” or “cursed_snacc”—and timestamps mangled by timezones no one bothers to sync. posts pile up like offerings to some forgotten curse: cryptic rants about residual energy, half-baked spell theories, or someone whining about a shikigami that won’t behave. it’s not a place for real talk. more like a dive bar at the edge of a cursed womb, where everyone’s nursing their own ghosts and shouting into the void.

but that night, your room was too quiet. the kind of quiet that creeps under your skin, heavy as a grade-two’s miasma. kyoto’s winter had settled in, and your tiny apartment felt like a box of stale air, the radiator hissing like it was mocking you. your phone glowed on the tatami, a stubborn rectangle of light that wouldn’t let you sleep. your brain was a traitor, replaying the day’s monotony: a sparring session where you’d nearly twisted your ankle, a debrief that dragged until your eyes glazed, the faint smear of cursed blood you’d scrubbed from your sleeve hours ago.

you scrolled the forum to shut it up. past a thread arguing if reversed cursed technique could fix a hangover. past some guy asking if spirits could get drunk—seriously, dude?—and then you saw it. buried under the noise, posted hours ago, short and raw, no punctuation, no pretense:

“does it ever get easier”

you stared at it, your thumb hovering over the screen. the words sat there, small and unadorned, like a stone someone had left on a path. most posts like that were traps—bait for trolls or vents that fizzled into nothing. but this one felt… different. quiet, like a whisper you weren’t meant to hear. genuine, like it had slipped out before the poster could rethink it.

you broke your own rule. typed back without letting yourself second-guess: “define easier. like, emotionally? logistically? existentially?”

he replied in under a minute.

“yes”

and just like that, you were in it.

at first, it was anonymous, the way the forum always is. two sorcerers dodging missions and boredom, tossing words into the dark like talismans. you didn’t know his name, and he didn’t ask yours. just screen names—yours a string of numbers and a bad pun, his something absurd involving mochi and a curse word. you talked about things you’d never say out loud, not to the kyoto higher-ups or the first-years who looked at you like you had all the answers. like how a room full of people could still make you feel like a ghost, drifting just outside their orbit. or how debriefs left a sour taste in your mouth, like you’d bitten into something rotten—guilt, maybe, or just the weight of it all.

he was… unexpected. not funny in a cheap, knock-knock way, but ridiculous, like he’d turned life into a stage and forgotten the script. his jokes were elaborate, stupid, sprawling things, like he was performing for a crowd that didn’t exist. one night, he typed: “i think the veil’s thinning. saw a tanuki trying to do taxes with a stolen abacus.”

you snorted into your pillow, the sound loud in your empty room. “should’ve let it,” you wrote back, fingers flying across the screen. “might’ve gotten a better refund than me. my last one barely covered a coffee.”

he sent a laughing emoji—unironically, the dork—and you could almost hear him cackling somewhere far away. it made you grin, your face half-buried in a blanket that smelled faintly of incense and yesterday’s takeout.

the chats kept going, stretching across weeks. you’d be slumped on your couch, boots still muddy from a mission, when your phone buzzed with his latest nonsense. “ever wonder if curses dream?” he’d ask, and you’d fire back, “only if they’re dreaming of paperwork. that’s the real nightmare.” he’d reply with a string of sobbing emojis, and you’d roll your eyes, but you’d keep typing, because somehow, it felt like he got it.

then came the voice calls.

always at night, when kyoto’s streets went still and the stars pressed against your window like they had something to prove. he’d call from somewhere else—somewhere alive with sound. sometimes it was traffic, a distant honk cutting through his laugh. sometimes it was the ocean, waves hissing like they were gossiping with him. once, a vending machine jingled, coins clinking as he muttered, “what do you want? melon soda? or that sweet corn one that tastes like regret?”

you laughed, your voice muffled by the scarf you hadn’t bothered to unwind from your neck. “melon,” you said, curling your knees to your chest on the couch. “corn’s for masochists.”

“noted,” he said, and you heard the machine whir, then a can crack open. “one melon soda for the meanest sorcerer i know.”

“flatterer,” you deadpanned, but your lips twitched, and you tucked the phone closer to your ear, like his voice could fill the cold corners of your apartment.

you never asked where he was. he never asked your name. it was a rule you didn’t need to speak—just a line neither of you crossed, because crossing it might break whatever this was. but he was your favorite stranger, the one who made the nights less heavy, the one whose voice felt like a tether when everything else was slipping.

the thing was, you weren’t miserable.

not exactly.

just tired, the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t touch, like a curse that’s sunk its claws too deep. your life at the kyoto branch was a loop: wake to the chime of your battered alarm clock, spar until your muscles burned, assist on missions that left your hands smelling of ash and ozone, report to gakuganji in a room that always felt too small. sometimes you mopped blood from training mats, the sponge heavy in your grip. sometimes you taught theory to first-years, their eyes glazed as you droned about residuals, your voice echoing off chalk-dusted walls.

sometimes you lay on your futon, staring at the ceiling’s chipped paint, wondering if you used to feel bigger than this—brighter, like the sky before a storm.

he changed that.

not in a loud way, not at first. it was softer, quieter, like the sound of his breath hitching when you said something sharp. like finding a rhythm with someone, even if your steps didn’t quite match. he’d ask you things no one else did, questions that felt like they were peeling back your edges.

“what color’s the sky in kyoto tonight?” he’d say, and you’d lean against your window, phone cradled against your shoulder, and answer, “pink, like someone spilled their drink on it.” he’d laugh, and you’d feel it in your ribs, a small, stubborn warmth.

“do curses feel pain?” he asked once, his voice muffled, like he was chewing something—probably mochi, knowing him.

you hummed, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “maybe. depends if they’re sentient enough to know they’re hurting. what do you think?”

“dunno,” he said, and you heard a rustle, like he was flopping onto a bed somewhere. “but i hope they don’t. makes it easier to sleep after.”

you didn’t reply right away, just listened to him breathe, steady and slow. “you’re softer than you act,” you said finally, and he made a noise—half scoff, half laugh—that made you smile into the dark.

he loved dumb questions, too. “is it immoral to laugh when a cursed spirit looks like a balloon animal?” he asked one night, and you could hear the grin in his voice, like he was picturing it.

you were sprawled on your floor, a half-eaten onigiri beside you, and you snorted so hard you nearly choked. “only if it’s a good balloon animal,” you said. “like, if it’s trying to be a dog, you gotta respect the effort.”

“fair,” he said, and you heard a clink—probably another soda can. “you’re funnier than you think, y’know.”

“and you’re weirder than you sound,” you shot back, but your cheeks were warm, and you pulled your knees up, hugging them like you could trap the feeling.

the best moments, though, were when he dropped the act. when the theatrics fell away, and his voice went low, soft, like he was afraid the words might break if he pushed too hard. one night, after a call that had stretched past midnight, he said, “sometimes… i think i only exist when i’m useful to someone. is that stupid?”

you were half-asleep, your phone slipping against your cheek, but his voice pulled you back. you blinked at the ceiling, the shadows pooling like spilled ink. “no,” you said, quiet but firm. “it’s just sad.”

he laughed—not the emoji kind, not the loud kind, but something small, like he was letting out a breath he’d been holding. “you don’t pull punches, huh?”

“you’d hate it if i did,” you said, and you heard him shift, like he was nodding to himself.

“yeah,” he murmured. “i would.”

it went on like that for months, long enough that you started noticing things. the way he yawned before he said goodnight, a sleepy hum that made your chest ache. the pauses in his sentences when he was choosing his words, like he wanted to get it right for you. the way his voice warmed when you rambled about something small—like the stray cat outside your building that kept stealing your bento scraps, or the time you’d botched a talisman and spent an hour scrubbing ink from your hands.

he’d listen, really listen, he always does and then say something like, “bet that cat’s got better taste than gakuganji,” and you’d laugh until your sides hurt.

you didn’t ask who he was. he didn’t push for your name. it was perfect, fragile, like a bubble you were both afraid to pop.

until one night, your phone buzzed, and it wasn’t the usual late-hour joke or random question. it was a call, his name—or rather, the string of nonsense characters he used—lighting up your screen. you hesitated, thumb grazing the accept button, then pressed it, curling into your futon as the kyoto cold gnawed at the window.

“hey,” he said, his voice softer than usual, like he was speaking through a held breath. there was no hum of traffic tonight, no vending machine jingle—just a faint rustle, maybe his sleeve brushing the phone, and a stillness that made your pulse loud in your ears.

you didn’t answer right away, just listened to him breathe, steady but careful, like he was standing on the edge of something. your apartment felt smaller, the night pressing against the glass, cold and heavy, like it was waiting for you to move first.

“can I…” he started, then paused, a hitch in his voice you hadn’t heard before. “can I visit you?”

you froze, fingers tightening around the phone until it dug into your palm. the words landed like a stone dropped into still water, rippling through the quiet. your eyes flicked to the window, where the dark seemed to lean closer, listening. your heart did something stupid, tripping over itself, and you bit your lip, hard enough to sting.

“like… here?” you said finally, voice low, almost lost in the radiator’s hiss. “in kyoto?”

“yeah,” he said, and it was quiet but firm, like he’d been turning the idea over for hours before daring to say it. “i’m nearby. for a mission. thought… maybe. if it’s okay with you.”

you swallowed, your free hand fidgeting with the blanket’s edge, twisting it until the fabric bunched. you didn’t know what he looked like. he didn’t know your face. but the thought of him—your stranger, your tether—standing in your city, his voice no longer trapped in static… it made your chest ache, like a curse unraveling too fast to catch.

“we don’t even know what we look like,” you said, softer now, half a shield, half a truth, your breath catching as you spoke.

he was quiet for a moment, and you heard a faint shift, like he was leaning closer to the phone, shutting out the world. “i know,” he said, voice low, steady, like a vow he hadn’t meant to make. “but I think I’d recognize you anyway.”

your lips parted, but no sound came out. your heart stumbled again, and you pressed your knees to your chest, the blanket slipping to the floor. you wanted to deflect, to toss back something sharp, but his words sat there, heavy and warm, like they’d carved out a space you didn’t know you’d left empty.

“you’re weird,” you managed, but it came out too soft, too honest, and you winced, tucking your chin to hide the smile you couldn’t stop.

he exhaled, a sound that was half-laugh, half-relief, like he’d been holding it in all night. “you’re mean,” he said, and you could hear the curve of his mouth, faint but real, unguarded in a way that made your ribs tighten.

“you like it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, and your fingers hovered over the phone’s edge, like you could reach through it if you tried.

he didn’t answer right away. just breathed, slow and close, and when he spoke, it was so quiet it felt like a secret. “yeah,” he said. “i do.”

the call didn’t end, not yet. you stayed there, listening to the silence stretch, his breath a steady rhythm against the night’s weight. and that ache in your chest grew, sharp and warm, like it was making room for something you weren’t ready to name.

that morning, when he texted for the address, you gave him the name of a small café tucked just off the main street near kyoto campus—nothing fancy, barely even marked, just a warm pocket of space where time slowed down and no one asked too many questions. not because you were scared. not exactly. but the idea of him—this faceless voice, this stranger you somehow knew better than people you’d seen every day—being in your space, standing in your doorway, seeing your real life... it made something flutter behind your ribs. something you couldn’t name without sounding stupid.

it rained that day. not hard. just the kind of persistent drizzle that painted everything in shades of grey, slicked the pavement until it gleamed like wet ink, and made your sleeves cling to your wrists. your shoes scuffed softly against the tile as you pushed open the café door. inside, the air was warm, thick with the smell of coffee beans and something sweet rising from the back oven.

a couple of students in uniforms sat by the counter, arguing in low tones about spell theory. the barista barely looked up as you ordered your usual, fingers drumming a quiet rhythm against the side of your phone. you picked the window seat. always the window seat. you liked watching people go by, liked the illusion of being somewhere else.

time passed.

you checked your phone once. then again. your fingers curled around your cup, heat seeping into your palms. condensation fogged the glass. you were early. or maybe he was late. or maybe the whole thing was a joke you’d fallen for, like a damn idiot. your heart did this stupid stuttering thing every time the bell over the door moved.

then it rang.

and he walked in.

white hair, slightly mussed from the rain. the tiniest drop caught in his bangs, trailing down toward the curve of his cheek. his sunglasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, and he was tall—taller than you'd expected, even though you should’ve known—and dressed like he didn’t care how loud he looked. hands in his pockets. shoulders loose. like he’d just wandered in off some catwalk that ended in your direction.

he scanned the room once, those ridiculous glasses perched low on his nose, catching the café’s dim light like twin moons. his eyes—sharp, too sharp for any one place to hold—skipped over the students bickering about cursed residuals, the barista wiping down a steaming espresso machine, and landed square on you.

his smile cracked open, instant, effortless, like the sun spilling through a storm cloud.

“hey.”

you froze mid-sip, your mug hovering an inch from your lips. your eyes locked on his, and the world did that thing where it shrinks to a pinprick, all cinnamon air and rain-slicked windows fading out. the ridiculous truth hit you like a badly timed talisman:

holy shit. that’s gojo satoru.

your mouth opened. closed with a soft click. opened again, because apparently your brain decided to blue-screen.

“you’re fucking kidding me.”

his grin stretched wider, all teeth and mischief, as he sauntered across the floor toward you. long limbs moved like they were choreographed, raindrops clinging to his white hair like tiny glass beads, scattering light. he shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, shoulders hiked just enough to betray how stupidly pleased he was with himself.

“surprise?” he said, voice lilting like he’d just pulled off the world’s dumbest magic trick.

you blinked, unblinking, your fingers tightening around the mug until the heat stung. your face was doing something—probably a mix of shock and are you serious right now—because his laugh bubbled up, low and warm, like he’d caught you red-handed.

“you—i—you’re you,” you stammered, eloquent as a first-year tripping over their own incantation.

“i am,” he said, tilting his head. a single droplet slid from his bangs, tracing the sharp line of his jaw before dripping onto the floor. “last i checked, anyway. unless you’ve got a better theory.”

“why didn’t you tell me?”

he paused a step from the table, one hand escaping his pocket to scratch at the back of his neck. his glasses slipped lower, and you caught a flash of those eyes—crystal blue, too bright, like staring into a clear sky after a curse’s miasma. he nudged the frames up with a knuckle, but then, in a move that made your breath hitch, he tugged them off completely. folded them with a click. set them on the table like a dare.

“didn’t wanna scare you off,” he said, quieter now, his gaze unguarded and pinning you in place.

yo squinted, lips pressing into a thin line to choke back a snort. your eyebrow arched, sharp as a well-placed shikigami. “you thought being yourself would scare me off?”

he shrugged, weight shifting from one foot to the other, his coat swaying like it was in on the joke. “it usually does.”

you blinked again, slower, and something in your chest unknotted. for a split second, he looked… smaller. not the gojo satoru who could level a city block with a wink, but a guy who wasn’t sure if he was too much or not enough. his hair was a mess, sticking up where he’d ruffled it outside, and his eyelashes were wet, catching the light like they were trying to apologize.

you set your mug down with a soft clink, the ceramic warm against your palm, and gestured to the chair across from you. “sit down, satoru.”

his grin snapped back, bright as a spark talisman igniting. “yes, ma’am.”

he dropped into the chair with all the grace of a cat knocking over a vase—legs sprawling, then tucking back, elbows hitting the table before he leaned forward like he was about to spill a secret. his coat bunched at his shoulders, and he smelled faintly of rain and something sweeter, like the mochi he’d probably swiped from a vendor on the way here.

“this place smells like cinnamon and potential,” he said, voice dipping low, conspiratorial. he waggled his brows, and you swore his eyes flickered with a tease no technique could replicate. “you sure you don’t wanna marry me right now? i’d get you a ring pop. blue raspberry, your favorite.”

you snorted, the sound punching out before you could stop it. your hand flew to your mouth, but it was too late—he’d heard it, and his whole face lit up like he’d won a bet with the universe.

“you remembered that?” you said, leaning back in your chair, arms crossing like you could shield yourself from his smugness. your lips twitched, betraying you.

“‘course i did,” he said, tapping his temple with a long finger. “you said it during that 2 a.m. ramble about cursed vending machines. blue raspberry ring pop, ‘cause it stains your tongue and freaks out the first-years.” he leaned closer, voice dropping to a mock-whisper. “i pay attention, y’know.”

your cheeks warmed, and you hated how your mouth kept trying to smile. you kicked his shin lightly under the table, just enough to make him yelp—a dramatic ow that had the students at the counter glancing over. “you’re impossible,” you muttered, but your eyes flicked to his glasses, still folded neatly beside his elbow. “and put those back on, idiot. you’re gonna give yourself a migraine squinting like that.”

he blinked, then laughed—a real one, not the showy kind he threw at missions or bad jokes. “what, you worried about my eyes now?” he said, but he didn’t reach for the glasses. instead, he propped his chin on one hand, staring at you like you were the only thing worth seeing. “i took ‘em off for you, y’know. six eyes makes everything loud—too many colors, too many things. but you…” he trailed off, and his voice softened, like he was peeling back a layer he usually kept buried. “you’re clearer without ‘em.”

your breath caught, and for a second, you forgot how to be a smart-ass. your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve, and you ducked your head, letting your hair fall forward to hide the heat creeping up your neck. “that’s sweet,” you said, voice dry but wobbling just a fraction. “also stupid. you’ll strain yourself, and i’m not dragging your whining ass to a healer when you’re seeing double.”

he grinned, undeterred, and flicked a sugar packet across the table at you. it bounced off your knuckles, and you swatted it back without thinking, starting a lazy game of tabletop tag. “would you rather i didn’t see you?” he asked, catching the packet mid-air with infuriating ease. his fingers were quick, precise, like he could’ve dismantled a curse in the same motion. “c’mon, admit it. you like being seen.”

you rolled your eyes, but your lips curved, and you couldn’t quite stop it. “i like when you’re not a headache,” you shot back, snatching the sugar packet from his hand. you tore it open, dumping half into your coffee just to mess with him—he’d gagged once during a call when you’d done it, claiming it was “coffee abuse.” now, he just watched you with a smirk, like he was cataloging every move you made.

“liar,” he said, stretching his arms above his head until his shirt rode up, flashing a sliver of pale skin above his waistband. you looked away, quick, and he noticed—his smirk grew positively diabolical. “you told me last week you like my voice best at midnight. all raspy and annoying, you said. direct quote.”

you groaned, sinking lower in your chair, but your foot nudged his ankle under the table, a traitor to your own defenses. “i was delirious from a mission,” you said, pointing a stirrer at him like a tiny sword. your brows furrowed, but your eyes were bright, dancing with the kind of energy you hadn’t felt in weeks. “and you were the one who kept talking about cursed tanukis stealing your socks, so who’s the real mess here?”

he laughed again, loud enough to make the barista glance over with a raised brow. his hand dropped to the table, fingers drumming a restless rhythm, and you noticed how his pinky brushed the edge of your mug—like he was testing how close he could get without you pulling away. “guilty,” he said, tilting his head until his bangs fell into his eyes. he shook them away, and the motion was so boyish, so normal, it made your heart do a stupid little flip. “but you laughed. i heard it. best sound in the world, by the way.”

you froze, stirrer halfway to your mouth, and your eyes flicked up to meet his. he wasn’t grinning now—just watching you, steady and soft, like the rain outside had melted all his edges. your lips parted, but no snark came out. instead, you reached across the table, picked up his glasses, and slid them toward him with a pointed look. “put these on before you ruin yourself,” you said, but your voice was quieter, like you were afraid of breaking whatever this was. “i’m not worth a headache, satoru.”

he didn’t touch the glasses. instead, he caught your hand before you could pull it back, his fingers warm and a little calloused, curling around yours like they’d been waiting to. “disagree,” he said, simple as that, and his thumb brushed your knuckle, light as a feather. “you’re worth a lot of things.”

you swallowed, and the café seemed to hum quieter—the clink of cups, the murmur of students, all fading into a soft blur. your pulse was loud, though, thudding in your ears as you looked at him. his hair was drying now, curling at the ends, and his eyes were still bare, unguarded, like he’d stripped away every barrier just to sit here with you. your lips twitched into a smile, small but real, and you squeezed his hand once before letting go.

“you’re gonna regret saying that when i steal your last mochi later,” you said, leaning back to break the spell, but your foot stayed pressed against his under the table, warm and steady.

he gasped, clutching his chest like you’d cursed him. “not the mochi,” he wailed, but his eyes crinkled, and he leaned forward, stealing your stirrer to twirl it between his fingers like a baton. “fine, but only if you say ‘satoru, you’re my hero’ first. gotta earn it.”

“in your dreams, pretty boy,” you shot back, but you were laughing now, soft and easy, and the sound made his whole face soften, like he’d been chasing it all along.

you stayed in that café for hours, trading sugar packets and stupid stories, your shoes bumping under the table, his glasses still untouched. the rain slowed to a drizzle, painting the windows in lazy streaks, but neither of you noticed. the world was just this—cinnamon air, warm mugs, and the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted to see clearly.

and somewhere in between the rain tapering off and your drinks going lukewarm, something shifted. not abruptly. not dramatically. but gently, like gravity starting to lean in a different direction. he was exactly the same—annoying, charming, impossible—but there was a quiet steadiness beneath it all. like he looked at you and saw not just a person, but a place. somewhere he could stay.

all while you were still trying to wrap your head around the fact that gojo satoru had been the idiot on the forum sending you tanuki memes at 3am.

he called you a cryptid. you called him emotionally constipated. he told you your voice was the only one he actually waited to hear. you told him he needed better taste. he laughed so hard he knocked his knee on the underside of the table.

when the café finally closed, the barista shooing you out with a tired smile, satoru held the door open, his clear umbrella already unfurled against the drizzle. it was comically small for his ridiculous height, barely shielding his broad shoulders, but he angled it carefully, keeping the rain from kissing your hair. his sleeve darkened, soaked through where the mist clung, but he didn’t seem to care. the night was quiet, steeped in that velvet hush that trails a long rain, streetlights casting blurry halos through the mist, like half-forgotten curses glowing in the dark.

his footsteps matched yours, slow and deliberate, scuffing softly against the wet pavement. he didn’t need to adjust his stride—you noticed how he shortened it, just enough, like he was savoring every second of this walk. his fingers brushed yours once, a fleeting warmth against your knuckles. he didn’t grab your hand. brushed again, lingering, like a question he wasn’t sure he could ask. you didn’t pull away, your pinky curling slightly, grazing his, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward, like he’d caught a secret.

“can I see you again?” he asked, glancing down at you, his voice stripped of its usual swagger. it was quiet, raw, like a wish he’d whispered to the night before daring to say it aloud. his glasses slipped low, catching the streetlight’s gleam, and his eyes—too blue, too open—held yours like you were the only thing tethering him to the ground.

you tilted your head, pretending to mull it over, your lips pursing to hide the smile tugging at them. your scarf fluttered in the breeze, and you tugged it tighter, catching the way his gaze flicked to the motion, like he was memorizing it. “I’d kinda like it if you called me first,” you said, voice dry but warm, your eyes darting to his before skittering away.

his smile softened, reverent, like you’d handed him a talisman he hadn’t earned. he ducked his head, damp hair falling into his eyes, and pushed it back with a quick flick, scattering droplets. “yeah?” he said, and it was so soft, so hopeful, it made your chest ache like a bruise you didn’t mind.

“yeah,” you said, and your fingers brushed his again, deliberate this time, a spark in the quiet.

he didn’t kiss you. not yet. but the way he looked at you—head tilted, eyes tracing your face like he was mapping a new constellation—felt louder than any words. like maybe, finally, he’d found the place he was meant to land, and you were standing right there beside him.

you kept walking, the umbrella tilting as he leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours. the mist curled around you like a veil, and he started humming—some off-key pop song he’d probably heard on a mission, the kind you’d mocked him for liking during one of your calls. you shot him a look, eyebrow arched, and he only grinned, utterly unrepentant.

“you’re gonna ruin my reputation,” you muttered, but your lips twitched, and you nudged his arm with your elbow, just enough to make him sway.

“too late,” he said, voice lilting like he was sharing a conspiracy. “you laughed at my tanuki tax joke. you’re already doomed.”

you snorted, the sound sharp in the quiet, and he laughed—low, warm, like it was his favorite sound in the world. “you remember that?” you asked, glancing up at him, your scarf slipping to reveal the curve of your neck. his eyes followed it, then snapped back to your face, like he’d been caught.

“‘course I do,” he said, tapping his temple with a long finger. “filed it under ‘proof you’re secretly fun.’ right next to you admitting you like my midnight voice.”

your cheeks warmed, and you shoved your hands into your pockets, muttering, “delirious ramblings don’t count.” but you didn’t step away, and he didn’t either, the umbrella wobbling as he tilted it to keep you dry.

then he stopped walking, abrupt enough that you turned to face him, a brow raised. “what?”

his expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between mischief and something heavier, like he was about to say something that could tilt the world off its axis. his hair was wet now, silver strands curling at the ends, clinging to his forehead, and his glasses fogged slightly at the edges, making his eyes look softer, closer.

“come work in tokyo,” he said, the words spilling out like they’d been waiting all night.

you blinked, your breath catching. “satoru.”

“no, I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer, the umbrella dipping until a stray droplet grazed his cheek. he didn’t wipe it away, just kept looking at you, earnest in a way that made your throat tight. “same uniform, better pay, vending machines that don’t eat your coins. plus—” he leaned in, voice dropping to a mock-whisper—“you get me. scientifically proven to make life less boring.”

you laughed, sharp and startled, and it broke the tension like a snapped thread. “you’re the cause of my stress,” you said, poking his chest with a finger, your nail catching on his damp coat.

“and I’ll keep causing it,” he said, catching your hand before you could pull back. his fingers were warm, curling around yours, and he tilted his head, grin softening. “but I’ll be closer. way better than those kyoto stiffs who don’t know how you take your coffee.”

you froze, lips parting, because he did know—black, no sugar, the way you’d grumbled about during a 3 a.m. call when a mission had you wired. “you’re ridiculous,” you muttered, but your voice wobbled, and you didn’t yank your hand away.

“you don’t belong there,” he said, quieter now, his thumb brushing your knuckle, light as a wish. “they don’t see you. not like I do.”

you opened your mouth to deflect, to toss back something sharp, but nothing came. because he was right, and the way he looked at you—steady, unguarded, like you were more than a shadow in a debrief room—made it impossible to argue. you closed your mouth, exhaling through your nose, and he smiled, small and real, like he’d won something bigger than he’d planned.

two weeks later, after one strongly worded proposal, two forged signatures, and a very public argument with gakuganji that ended with a chair launched across a meeting room, satoru showed up at your apartment, leaning against the doorframe with a grin that screamed trouble. his coat was slung over one shoulder, and he held a crumpled paper bag that smelled suspiciously like mochi.

“congrats,” he said, voice bright as a spark. “you’re moving to tokyo. pack a toothbrush.”

you stared, one socked foot still on the tatami, a half-packed box of books at your side. “what the hell did you do?”

“justice,” he said, tossing the bag onto your counter, where it landed with a soft thud. he stepped inside, kicking the door shut with his heel, and winked like he’d just saved the world. “also, maybe a little bribery. you’re welcome.”

and just like that, you were tokyo’s problem now.

on your first day, he was waiting at the jujutsu tech gates, a paper flower crown perched crookedly on his head, petals fluttering in the breeze. he held a sign—scrawled in marker, “WELCOME HOME, CRYPTID”—and two matcha lattes, one wobbling dangerously in his hand as he waved like a kid spotting their best friend. the other sorcerers passing by shot him looks, but he didn’t care, his grin wide enough to rival the sun spilling over the campus.

you tried to scowl, to keep your cool, but your lips betrayed you, curling into a smile that felt like surrender. “you’re ridiculous,” you muttered, stepping into his orbit, close enough to smell the sugar on his breath and the faint cedar of his cologne.

he looped an arm around your shoulder, easy as breathing, like the space beside him had been yours all along. his lips brushed your temple, a fleeting warmth, then lingered, soft and deliberate, like he was testing if you’d pull away. you didn’t.

“and yet,” he said, voice low, teasing, “you never left.”

you rolled your eyes, but your head tilted into his touch, just a fraction, and you felt him exhale, like he’d been holding it in. “I’m not wearing the flower crown,” you said, flicking the sign with a finger, making it wobble in his grip.

“not yet,” he said, adjusting the crown on his head, petals catching the sunlight like tiny flames. he handed you a latte, the cup warm against your palm, and you noticed he’d drawn a tiny cat face on the lid—lopsided, with one ear missing, like your stray back in kyoto.

“not ever,” you shot back, but you took a sip, and the matcha was perfect—sweet, not too bitter, exactly how you’d mentioned liking it months ago during a call about bad coffee stands.

he laughed, a sound like summer breaking through clouds, and you looked up, catching the way his eyes crinkled, the way his hair glowed gold in the morning light. his thumb brushed your cheek, featherlight, like he was confirming you were real.

and then he kissed you—no fanfare, no dramatic build, just the quiet press of his mouth against yours, soft and certain. it was the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for permission because it already belonged. like the final word in a sentence you’d both been writing in secret.

his lips were warm, moving against yours with a reverence that made your breath catch. his hand cupped the side of your face, fingers splayed gently against your jaw as though afraid to press too hard, like you were something delicate, worth holding and not breaking.

your eyes fluttered closed. the air between you and the world seemed to hush, like even the breeze knew not to interrupt. your fingers curled into the fabric of his coat—soft, heavy, smelling faintly of rain and something that had to be him.

your knees went a little soft. your heart, stupid and loud, climbed up into your throat.

he pulled back just barely, but didn’t let go. his forehead rested against yours, breath fanning across your lips, sweet with matcha and something sweeter beneath it—something like hope.

his grin was criminal. boyish. blinding. like he’d stolen something precious and gotten away clean.

“told you you’d like tokyo,” he said, voice low, still laced with laughter.

and before you could even think of dodging, he plucked the flower crown from his head—now slightly lopsided from the kiss—and dropped it gently onto yours.

you blinked. scowled. felt your cheeks catch fire.

you shoved it back onto him, petals scattering onto his nose, and he sneezed, dramatic and loud, making a passing student jump. “shut up,” you said, but you were laughing now, full and bright, and his fingers laced with yours, warm and steady, like they’d never let go.

and in that moment—the sun dusting your cheeks, his hand anchoring you, you knew one thing for sure:

no one else needed to notice.

because he did.

and that was enough.

(and yeah, he’d submitted three fake transfer forms in your name, because apparently love means committing light fraud. you’d yell at him later. probably.)

tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @k0z3me

[luckyn1ghtmares]

Putting my coding knowledge to good use, Interactive book (eventually) be upon ye!

[luckyn1ghtmares]

Nom

His pov:

[luckyn1ghtmares]

Suguru boobs on full display geto or suguru put them away slut geto?

[luckyn1ghtmares]

Sleepy reader, separate sections for Satosugu cuddles.

The faintest, lightest touch traces over your back, enough to make you uncurl and relax further into Suguru's arms. Warm fingers trace and brush against every single part of your body, impossibly gentle as he accounts for every last one.

You blink one heavy, sleepy eye open. Using it to trace the face of your lover. Your eyes meet doting purple, before a particularly soft touch causes your eyes to shut again.

A few minutes crawl peacefully by like that, before Suguru gently moves his hand away from you to slip out of bed. Causing you to weakly grumble and reach out with long, grasping fingers to curl into his shirt. Only to met with air as a weight lifts off the bed.

A louder whine pulled from your throat as you mumble out, “Where are you going?” Refusing to open your eyes as you blindly grope through the air.

You pout a little as Suguru chuckles, “I told you I have an early morning meeting, sweetheart.” He cooes, knowing better than to lean down and kiss you lest he wants to he forcibly pulled back into bed.

You sprawl out further as you debate whether to ask to come with, or to soak up the fading warmth of the bed for a little while longer.

Eventually, your decision is made for you as soft, warm lips press to the back of your hand before dodging your grip.

“Love you, Darling, I'll see you later.” Suguru says, before rudely leaving you alone in the room.

You frown, wanting to complain but feeling too warm and comfy to care all that much, eventually deciding to close your eyes and drift peacefully off.

-

Later, you are woken up by a weight sinking into the bed, your eyes open again in an attempt to gage how long you've been asleep. Only to be shushed by a gentle voice that didn't belong to Suguru.

“Satoru…” You mumble, shifting your body to face him, and then proceeding to wrap your arms around him and cling onto him.

“Hello sleepy,” Satoru croons, amusement in his voice. You don't need to open your eyes to picture the teasing smile on his face. “Suguru tells me you've been sleeping all day.”

You grumble, wanting to say you haven't, but not wanting to lie to Satoru. “Hi.” you settle on. Relaxing into his side as a gentle hand runs through your hair.

“What time is it?” You ask, interrupted by a straw being brought to your lips and pushed inside. Drinking the water obediently.

“Don't worry about it.” Satoru decided. “You hungry, or still tired?”

“Tired, wanna go back to sleep.” You mumble, allowing sleepiness to fog your mind once more as gentle hands soothe you back to bed.

[luckyn1ghtmares]

Former hockey player Suguru, and Formerly abandoned reader meet again after a few longs years.

It was a few years after Suguru left that you finally saw him again, His long black hair swaying in the wind with two hands cupping a cardboard cup of gas station coffee. The sight of him stole the breath from your lungs the same way it did so many years ago.

You freeze, not moving a muscle, like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. Why was he back here? After so many years? The only thing you could think of was the word ‘why?’, running on repeat in your head.

You’re finally broken out of your shock when Suguru finally notices you, looking over at you through the steam of his coffee, his eyes light up as he notices you, warm purple shining like all the stars and nebulae in the sky. “Hey!” He shouts out in greeting, taking the first few steps to walk over to greet you.

You almost, almost debate standing there and letting him walk over to you, but your feet and legs seemingly decide to do otherwise for you, turning around and beginning to walk away. Hunching your shoulders over as you begin walking, then speed walking.

“Come back!” You hear distantly behind you before you break into a run, all those annoying, complicated emotions swirling around inside you as you flee from sight, his sight.

You only slow down when you cross a few roads and have been out of sight for a good few minutes. You lean onto a lamppost, panting and heaving from the sudden exercise. You can’t believe it, you would refuse to believe it. If the proof wasn’t right there in front of you. Why in the flying hell had Suguru Geto come back here? Back to this place? Back to you?

Suguru Geto was formerly a pro hockey player, having become one straight out of college with a degree in Political Science, he had been scouted by a pro team straight out of college, with them saying that he had some of the greatest potential they’d seen for a major hockey player. He had remained in the major league for six years before suffering a few major bone breaks paired with concussion that caused him to permanently decide to leave the sport.

Suguru Geto was your ex, the man who had promised you the sun, the moon, and everything in between. You had both dated for most of your college tenures, with you daydreaming about eventually getting married to him after life settled down. You had even been prepared for the arduous hours Suguru would have to put into being a major Hockey Player, but no. He decided to end the relationship.

Not by telling you, of course, but by getting up and leaving in the middle of the night straight after graduation without a single word! He had never responded to your texts or phone calls and instead just… blocked you!

But why was he back? Why not? And why did he decide to call out to you?

You almost felt tempted to turn around, run back over to Suguru and demand answers, but you wouldn’t, you couldn’t, it would hurt too much.

So, with your plans for the day ruined, you walked back home to your apartment, curling up on your couch with some ice cream and watching- but at the same time not really watching- some television, your brain too fired up to really relax. You decided to take a lazy day and not go outside, at all, maybe even never again.

Your plans were so rudely interrupted when a few gentle knocks rang out from the front of your door, causing you to flinch and almost drop the spoon you were using for your ice cream. With weary, cautious eyes, you peer towards the front door. Staring for a solid few moments before a few more knocks ring out, this time louder.

You sigh, and stand up, moving slowly towards the door before pulling it open, almost slamming it shut when you realize who was standing behind it, before your rage takes over and you instead hiss out. “You. What the hell are you doing here?”

Suguru Geto stood almost awkwardly in front of your door, balancing a bag of… something in the crook of his arm while his other hand was raised to knock on the door again. It only takes a few seconds of shock before a warm, gentle smile spreads across his lips and he’s looking down at you with a soft expression, like you’re something fragile to care for.

“I wanted to see you,” the words spill from his lips in a soft, gentle croon. Giving you an up and down look as he smiles at you.

The words make you bristle, like a porcupine flaring its quills. “Why?” You snap, “Was ditching me six years ago not enough for you? You had to come back and do it again?” Your knuckles pale as you grip the door and door frame and glower up at Suguru.

You can almost, if you strain, see Suguru’s lips twitch as he hears you. But his smile didn't drop as he gently reached out to place a hand on the doorframe, right on top of yours. His heavy, warm palm enveloping yours. “No, I’m sorry, sweetheart.” the words spill from his lips gently as he stares fondly at you. “When I left, I didn’t mean to give you no explanation. The Hockey team needed to pick me up in the middle of the night and took my phone for a week for intensive training. When I got it back, you had blocked me.”

The words took the wind out of your sails slightly, causing you to deflate and untense slightly, still glowering at Suguru with all of your strength. “You should have tried harder.” You mumbled, kicking slightly at the ground as you refused to look back up into Suguru’s eyes, not wanting to see the love, adoration, and patience in them.

“I know, I should’ve.” He gently agreed, “There’s no excuse for how I left you alone for six years.” He took a step forward

You’re about to say something, to snap at him, to scream at him. But all of the words were sucked straight out of your throat as gentle, calloused fingers lifted your chin up to meet his eyes. “But if you’d have me, I’d do anything to regain your trust and love.” He crooned, leaning in like he wanted to kiss you, but also wanting to do things at your own pace.

Tears unwillingly fill your eyes as you sniffle. “You’re an asshole,” You attempted to huff, but unfortunately it came out as more of a whimper. You slowly close the distance into a chaste kiss. A tangled knot of feelings forming in your chest as you sniffled.

Pulling away after a few seconds, Suguru softly coos, “I know, I know.” he brought you back into a kiss, before walking you backwards into your apartment, closing the door behind you and placing the bag he was carrying down onto your couch.

You’re the first person to pull away this time, walking back a few steps so the devil of a man can’t tempt you into a kiss once more. “If you want to get back into my life, then you’re going to need to do it as a friend, and you better make up for all the shit you did.” You grumble, crossing your arms over your chest.

Suguru hummed softly, turning the bag to show it was a home-cooked meal of one of your favorite foods, along with some junk food.

“...That’s a good start,” You decided, staring down at the junk food as you allowed Suguru to take the first, slow steps back into your heart.

The pacing and ending irritates me a little on this one, but whatever.

[luckyn1ghtmares]

Satoru Gojo

Empty so far! Come back later.

Suguru Geto

Former Hockey player!Suguru meets reader a few years after abandoning them. (1.3k words)

Poly SatoSugu

Sleepy reader with separate sections for Satosugu (450 words)

[luckyn1ghtmares]

About Me - Masterlist - Rules

18, He/Him, currently obsessed with Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto (jjk). Was 🐍non on @ysaefinn 's blog.

(Creds to Saradika Graphics for headers)

[luckyn1ghtmares]

reblog if your name isn't Amanda.

2,121,566 people are not Amanda and counting!

We’ll find you Amanda.

[luckyn1ghtmares]

Sometimes a creative outlet is a fun little hobby and sometimes it's a lifelong affliction. Like I crochet because making little woven animals sparks joy and I'm a writer whether I like it or not because I'm tormented by visions