જ⁀◝✩ hello everyone! you can call me lumi or L. i made this blog to share my writing and whatever else i feel like so stick around if you'd like! જ⁀◝✩
✧ masterlist
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Sukuna doesn't handle waking up in an empty bed in the middle of the night very well
Blinking awake into the dim blue-gray haze that fills the bedroom, Sukuna’s mind lingers in a heavy, half-dreaming state, and the first thing he notices is the empty stretch of mattress at his side. Fingers drift across the sheets, searching out of habit, only to find nothing but cold where warmth should be.
For a moment, he just lies there, staring up at the ceiling, trying to shake the fog of sleep that refuses to let go. Only when the red glow of the alarm clock finally catches his eye does he move, brow creasing as the numbers come into focus. 4:03.
It’s the weekend. Both of you had gone to bed together hours ago, so there’s absolutely no reason for you to be anywhere else.
Before the thought can even finish forming, his body jolts upright as adrenaline floods his veins, snapping him awake faster than his mind can catch up. The sharp thud of his heart feels almost ridiculous in the silence, but the apartment is so quiet that it only makes every instinct louder.
Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he pushes himself up, rakes a hand through his hair, and steps into the hallway, every muscle tense, ears straining for the faintest sound.
Nothing.
Moving down the hallway without hesitation, he checks the bathroom, even though the darkness behind the door already tells him you aren’t there.
The living room is empty, the couch looks exactly the same as earlier that night, with your blanket still tossed carelessly over the armrest where you left it. Maybe you slipped out onto the balcony, but the curtains hang motionless and the glass door is sealed tight. The pressure in his chest ratchets up another notch, and he moves through the flat faster now.
The last remnants of sleep are completely gone when each room confirms the same thing over and over again: you aren’t there. Each feeds the growing, irrational fear that something has happened while he slept, and by the time he reaches the kitchen, his breathing is shallow, his jaw clenches, and his hands ball into tight fists at his sides.
And then he stops.
The kitchen is bathed in dim light, just the gentle glow from the stove clock and a faint spill of streetlight through the window, enough to outline you standing barefoot by the counter. One hand holds a glass of water, the other strokes absently over Mikan’s back as the cat perches on a high chair, leaning into your touch and purring like nothing in the world could ever be wrong.
You look half-asleep yourself, hair a little messy, the hem of his shirt brushing your thighs, eyes soft and unfocused the way they get when you wake just enough to wander to the bathroom before crawling back to bed.
For a long moment, Sukuna stands frozen in the doorway, breath caught somewhere between relief and anger, adrenaline still pulsing through his veins. The sight of you, safe, slams into the fear he’s been carrying, heavy and real as anything.
Your head lifts when you notice him.
“What the hell are you doing?” The words come out sharper than he means, still edged with the panic that hasn’t left his body yet.
Confusion flickers across your face at his tone, and you blink at him, like you’ve only just remembered there’s a world beyond the counter and the purring cat pressed against your palm.
“Drinking water,” you answer quietly, your voice rough with sleep, lifting the glass slightly in explanation, like the answer should be obvious. Then, softer, as the reason for him standing there at four in the morning, staring at you like that, finally clicks, you add, “I didn’t want to wake you.”
Something in his chest finally gives, and the tension snaps all at once. Muttering a curse that barely makes it past his teeth, he walks over and catches your arm before you can get another word out, tugging you into him so abruptly that the water in your glass nearly spills over the rim. Only then does he let out a shaky breath he’s been holding since the moment he woke up.
His voice rumbles low and rough, words muffled by your hair as he pulls you tight against his chest. “You scared the shit outta me.”
His grip tightens for a heartbeat before easing. One hand slides up, fingers threading through the hair at the nape of your neck, while the other stays splayed warm and steady across your lower back. Caught off guard by the sudden intensity, you let your free hand find its way to his side, settling there gently.
“I’m sorry.” It slips out before you can stop it, even though you know you haven’t done anything wrong. Tilting your head back to meet his eyes, you find his stare heavy with something that makes it clear that he doesn’t want you apologizing for this, not ever. Nuzzling your cheek into his chest, you feel the frantic thud of his heartbeat beneath your ear. “I was only gone a minute,” you add softly, a little sheepish.
Sukuna huffs softly, and the short, weary sound carries more relief than frustration, but his arms stay locked around you, unyielding, as if letting go might let the fear slip back in.
“I know,” he mutters eventually, almost to himself, the edge of panic fading away. “I know that.”
For a few seconds, neither of you moves. The kitchen is quiet except for the slow, steady thud of Sukuna’s heartbeat finally calming beneath your cheek, and the impatient purring of Mikan weaving around your ankles, as if he’s been personally wronged by all this drama.
Then, he slips the glass from your hand and sets it on the counter, his other arm settling around your shoulders, steering you gently toward the bedroom, unwilling to let even an inch of distance creep in.
“Come on,” he murmurs, and you don’t argue.
Sleep tugs at you again, heavy and insistent, and as you sink back onto the mattress, your body leans instinctively toward his warmth. Sukuna wraps himself around you, pressing his chest firmly against your back and banding one arm tight across your waist, his hand splayed over your stomach. The other slips beneath your pillow, fingers searching until they find yours and tangle together.
Now that you’re back exactly where you should be, Sukuna lets out a slow, quiet exhale as the last traces of restless adrenaline finally drain from his chest.
⁀➷ summary: ryomen sukuna has been in jail for 9 years, 3 months, and 27 days...not that he's counting. sentenced to 20 years for a crime he doesn't regret committing, life has become so monotonous and dull that he barely feels alive. it isn't until he receives a letter from someone for the first time since he's been locked up that he feels even a shred of emotion...and he's not sure if he likes that. forced to be part of the prison penpal program in order to be considered for parole, sukuna slowly unravels his defenses with each letter received. perhaps there might be something worth looking forward to after all.
⁀➷ pairing: prisoner!sukuna x penpal!fem!reader
⁀➷ tags: prison au, penpals to reluctant friends to lovers, grumpy x sunshine-ish, probably ooc, slight age gap (reader is mid twenties, sukuna is early 30s), yearning, angst, slowburn, eventual smut, mentions of death, prison, minimal use of y/n in letters only, fluff-adjacent, awkward phone calls, social anxiety from reader, self-deprecation, sukuna is royally screwed (not literally), that's for later ;)
⁀➷ wc: 5.4k
⁀➷ warning: minors/ageless blogs: do not interact!
⁀➷ taglist: open, bio/pinned must confirm age
series masterlist
For the next few months, you and Ryomen continued to exchange letters. What started as stilted and a little awkward correspondence quickly melted into something like familiarity. You could tell by the way his language changed that Ryomen was starting to relax a little and become accustomed to your written presence. Though, you still could not say for sure if the two of you counted as friends. Even as much as you wanted to be.
You really liked Ryomen. He was insightful, sarcastic, interesting, and really funny when he wanted to be. He listened without judgement and offered advice, sometimes unsolicited but still good nonetheless. The man was honest to a fault, and you found that refreshing given that you worked with defense lawyers who had to stretch the truth often.
Every time you got a letter from him, you couldn’t help but smile like an idiot, your cheeks tinging pink. You tried not to read into the sheer happiness that the letters gave you. Tried to tell yourself that there was nothing special about this. Moreso, that you were probably not anything special to Ryomen. But, god was it hard.
His most recent letter was putting this flimsy belief system to the test.
Hey [Y/N],
Glad to hear that things are slowing down at work for you. Being overworked and stressed isn’t fun, and isn’t good for you. Hopefully that pace stays the same and you can find some time for yourself. Maybe you can take up a hobby or something, I dunno. Keep yourself busy so your brain doesn’t rot from all the accounting work you do. I’ve heard that doing math can be bad for your health. At least, that’s how I felt in school. I was always shit at math.
When you mentioned your favorite movie, it made me think of my brother. I haven’t seen Pride & Prejudice, but it’s probably not really my thing. I think it's a romance movie and the feel good stuff doesn’t really do it for me. I can see the appeal, though, if that is the sort of thing you like.
My brother’s favorite movie was Human Earthworm. Ever seen it? If you haven’t yet, don’t. It’s absolutely god awful. Worst movie I’ve ever seen. But my brother loved it so much and made me watch it a thousand times. I think I could still recite it from memory. And there’s like five of them. I swear my brother funded most of the damn series with the amount of times he bought tickets and movie merch.
Things over here are obviously slow. October is a weird month for me. My birthday is on the 25th and I hate celebrating it. It just reminds me that I’m stuck here in this stupid cell wasting away and that I’m not getting any younger. My dad sometimes calls me or sends me a few bucks, but otherwise I don’t do shit for it. I can’t even remember the last time I actually celebrated it. Doesn’t feel like there’s really much to celebrate anyway.
It also reminds me that I get the luxury of growing older while Yuji didn’t. Just sucks all around. I’m going to be 33 this year so I’ll have to head into retirement soon. I know they say 33 isn’t old but I feel ancient here. So this year I’ll be throwing myself a pity-party. You’re welcome to join.
Hope your month goes better. Doing anything for Halloween? That’s coming up soon. Yuji always dressed up as the dumbass Human Earthworm unsurprisingly. Sorry I keep talking about him, he’s just been on my mind a lot lately. My go-to was usually Ghostface (the guy from Scream if you aren’t sure who that is). What do you usually dress up as?
Whatever you decide to do, hope it’s fun. You deserve some fun.
Take care and talk soon.
R.S.
Talk soon, he wrote. It made your stomach flutter with happiness. The fact that he wanted to keep talking and clearly stated it out for you meant more than he would ever know. It was such a small thing, but it really warmed your heart. Your ex-boyfriend had sometimes made you feel like a chore or inconvenience, and knowing that someone wanted your attention in some way was affirming.
Even though he had started these letters by initially saying you two were not going to be friends, it was hard not to consider the way you talked to each other as anything but friendship. You could actually read and track the changes in his letters. When things started becoming more casual and more of his personality came out instead of being distant and matter-of-fact.
Take care. Ryomen often wished you well and told you to take care of yourself. Sure, he could have just been a polite or decent person, but something told you that this wasn’t typical. That Ryomen did not waste his breath or time on things that didn’t matter to him. In some capacity, you had to matter at least a little bit.
And the scarier, more thrilling thing was that he mattered a lot to you. Anymore, you thought about him often, wondering what he was doing and if he was feeling okay. It was silly, but sometimes you tried to visualize sending him good vibes or positive thoughts through the air, hoping that he could feel someone rooting for him. Ryomen seemed so alone, sometimes, and knowing how that felt made you want to fix that for him.
His birthday was coming up in the next week and he mentioned that he usually celebrated it alone. The thought tugged at your heart, because nobody should have to celebrate their birthday alone. Especially not Ryomen, when he was already going through a hard time and in one of the worst places one could find themselves.
An idea wriggled in your head like a parasite, whispering to you that maybe it could be a new thing to try. You were going to call Ryomen and wish him a happy birthday. To talk to him on the phone for the first time and hear his voice in real time.
Doing so would not only (hopefully) be a positive thing for him, but you hoped it would also help strengthen your social skills. While you still hadn’t had the courage to talk to your coworkers casually, writing to Ryomen had slowly started to build your confidence on interacting with people. Sometimes, you even shared pleasant looks and smiles with your coworkers! Perhaps if you actually talked to him, it might give you the boost that you needed to move forward in other aspects of your life.
The entire rest of the week, you actually scripted and wrote down your conversation plans with him, even going as far as to create a decision tree for different responses that he might have. You were absolutely overthinking everything, but you were determined for this to go as smoothly as possible. It was imperative to make a good first impression, as you desperately wanted Ryomen’s approval. Though it was probably unhealthy, you at least had to be honest with yourself about it.
The closer it got to his birthday, the more antsy and out of sorts you became. To try to distract yourself, you practiced your knitting skills during your breaks and in the evenings. Counting stitches became an easy repetitive action that soothed your fretting. It was your first time working on a sweater as a Christmas present for your mom, so focusing on the unfamiliar pattern further captured your attention.
There were a few times when your knitting caught a few curious glances from your coworkers, which counted as a win in your book. It meant that either you or one of them was one step closer to interacting and bridging the gap. Perhaps calling Ryomen was going to be the magic variable in the equation that would finally solve it after a long period of struggling to figure it out.
On Ryomen’s birthday, your attempt to call him did not go exactly as planned. Each step was detailed down to the minute, and you had hoped that the extensive preparation would set you up for success and be foolproof.
What you hadn’t anticipated, however, was the fact that it was apparently frowned upon to call the prison yourself. In all of your planning, you hadn’t even considered the fact that prisoners weren’t exactly immediately available to answer a phone call. They certainly didn’t have any phones or communication devices in their cells, and you could imagine that trying to use the communal phones was quite competitive.
Yet still, unknowingly, at 12:05pm you had called in and got connected with an operator. They identified the name of the prison he was housed at, confirming you had called the correct number.
“How can I assist you today?” a feminine sounding voice said on the other end of the line, sounding bored and like they had had a particularly long shift.
“Yes, I was hoping to be connected with one of your inmates there, Ryomen Sukuna. His inmate number is 0032147,” you recited by memory, voice slightly shaky with nerves.
“Oh,” the person sounded slightly surprised, making your heart stutter, “Well, unfortunately ma’am, calls into the prison are strictly prohibited. Calls have to be initiated by the inmate with approved phone time.”
Your stomach dropped into your feet. Shit, you thought in panic. Sure, you could respond to his next letter, but that would be after his birthday and you were really hoping to talk to him on the actual day. Scrambling to think of a response, you didn’t immediately say anything as you wracked your brain for solutions.
“Ma’am, are you still there?” the operator asked when you remained silent in distress. You really should have planned for this, you chastised yourself internally.
“Yes, sorry,” you spluttered, operating on pure instinct with your next words, “Is there any way you could get a message to him? I was really hoping to speak with him because it’s his birthday today.”
There was a moment of silence as the operator considered this. You felt stupid for even asking because you had clearly violated their rules and were now asking for special treatment. This is why spontaneity and last minute ideas were not exactly your strong suit. Even though the spontaneity in question had been a week in advance.
“Normally, we wouldn’t really do that, but I suppose I can make an exception this time,” they said finally, “I can’t make any guarantees that it’ll get to him, but I will do my best. What would you like to say?”
Relief coursed through your body so strongly that you swore you were going to start crying. The message needed to be brief but to also get your point across. Thinking on your feet was not a talent of yours, especially when you were under pressure.
“Um, just tell him that I’m wishing him a happy birthday and that I’d love to talk with him over the phone if he’s comfortable,” you settled on.
After that, you gave the operator your full name and phone number and they repeated that they would do their best but there were no guarantees. The second you got off the phone, you slumped over on your couch with a frustrated sigh. There was likely no way you were going to get to speak to him on his birthday.
Perhaps it really wasn’t meant to be. Perhaps you were forcing something that shouldn’t be, doomed to repeat the same mistakes as your last relationship. The more you thought about it, the worse you felt. You should have asked him first or looked up the stupid rules that the prison had for phone calls. They were ridiculous rules, really.
It was also presumptuous to think that he actually wanted to talk to you in the first place. As the day went on, you fully convinced yourself that you were delusional and that you shouldn’t have left that message. Unease bled through you when you thought that maybe he would consider this as crossing a boundary. He had never once indicated he wanted to talk to you in real life, and you selfishly assumed that he would magically be okay with it. Grateful, even.
Your mind worked itself into knots, twisting and turning between logic and irrationality like a roller coaster from the bowels of hell. Even knitting didn’t help distract you, as you were unable to get over the fact that you had potentially ruined everything with Ryomen. The first person that you had felt some sort of connection with since your breakup. The thought alone was devastating.
So engrossed were you in your hellscape of a mind that you didn’t think twice when your phone rang. You picked it up on instinct, assuming in your distracted state that it was your mother or a telemarketer, whom you never had the heart to hang up on. They were just doing their jobs, after all.
A robotic voice crackled through the phone announcing that it was from the prison, with a disclaimer that the call was being recorded and monitored. Your heart almost stopped beating in your chest. When it asked if you still wished to proceed, the poor muscle leapt in your throat, making it almost impossible to speak.
“Yes!” you nearly shouted in response, desperately trying to cling to any semblance that not all hope was lost.
“Confirmed. Connecting to inmate number 0-0-0-3-2-1-4-7,” the voice slowly sounded out. Impatience made you twitchy and you almost shouted at a literal robot to hurry the hell up. Not exactly your finest moment.
Then, the line ceased its fuzzy, electronic hum. Your pulse raced through your veins like a stallion running in the wild, tossing its head around in agitation. Anticipation crept up your spine until you thought you might snap into two pieces.
“Hello?”
It was Ryomen. His voice was a lot deeper than you had imagined, gruff around the edges in what you had to assume was a response to being in prison for a long period of time. He sounded like someone whose bad side you did not want to get on. Yet, there didn’t appear to be any malice or annoyance in his tone. At least, you didn’t think so. It was hard to tell from a single word.
Your mind went blank. It was actually Ryomen. He was on the phone speaking to you. It wasn’t a figment of your imagination or a dream you were having. You even pinched yourself to check. When you heard him calling your name in a searching manner, you realized you hadn’t even responded to his hello.
“You still there? This the right number?” he pressed, snapping you out of your internal reverie.
“Hi!” You blurted out, sounding like a bird chirping in alarm. It made you wince in embarrassment, but you powered through it, “Hi, yes, it’s me. Did you get my message?”
The second the words left your mouth, you instantly felt foolish. Of course he had gotten your message, that was the entire reason he was calling. A blush warmed your cheeks when you swore you heard a soft huff of air like a half-chuckle on the other end of the line. God, you were an idiot.
“Yeah, I did,” Ryomen said. Again, it was hard to read his tone, but it didn’t seem like he was making fun of you. Maybe more like he was mildly amused with your antics.
“Oh, that-that’s good,” you stammered, further adding to your growing list of humiliating things that were happening during the phone call.
In all of your preparation, you hadn’t actually imagined how nerve wracking and emotional it would be to talk to him. Sure, you had scripted what you wanted to say, but you hadn’t imagined actually saying it. Your voice sounded squeaky and unsure despite how hard you tried to keep it controlled. All of your scripting had been thrown out the window.
“What did-”
“I just wanted-”
Both of you spoke at the same time and instantly went quiet when you realized you had interrupted each other. At this point, you wouldn’t have been surprised if Ryomen never wanted to speak to you again. After an awkward pause, he was the one to break it first.
“Go ahead,” Ryomen said.
“Oh, um, sorry, I just wanted to say happy birthday,” you said quickly, “I hope it’s been okay.”
“Thanks,” he responded, his voice becoming something that you almost could’ve categorized as gentle, “It’s been…a day, I guess. Same as any other day.”
“Good, at least, I think that’s good. Sorry, I know this is kind of out of the blue, and I probably should have checked with you first, but I read your letter and I just thought it would be nice to call you on your birthday because I…just thought it would be nice to do it by phone and talk to you,” your words tumbled into one another like rocks down a cliff. None of it really made sense and you probably sounded like an incoherent fool.
“You didn’t have to,” he said after a moment. Your blood ran cold. The only possible reason he would say that is because you had upset him, right?
“I’m so sorry, I should have-” you started to say, but he actually cut you off, much to your shock.
“Hey, stop apologizing. It’s fine. It is a nice gesture,” Ryomen reassured you in that almost monotone manner of his, “I usually only speak to my dad and he didn’t call this year.”
You wondered if you were the only person who had wished Ryomen a happy birthday today. If he had any friends on the inside that would pat him on the back or whatever it was that men did to celebrate each other. If he and his dad had a good relationship or not. If he was disappointed by the fact that his dad didn’t call. If he was grateful that you did.
Scrambling to think of anything to say, you again completely forgot about your script entirely and blundered down the path of the conversation like Sisyphus' cursed rock.
“Did you do anything fun?” you asked suddenly.
It was like you had no control over your mind or tongue at all. What an utterly ridiculous question, you winced. He was in prison for fuck’s sake, it wasn’t like they threw him a party at an amusement park with a paper crown on his head or took him to a bar to celebrate and do shots.
“Kinda hard to do anything fun in here,” he answered with another huff that you hoped was laughter and was not a frustrated admonishment of your poor conversation skills.
“No, right, of course. That…maybe that wasn’t the best question, sorry,” you mumbled, seconds away from banging your head against the coffee table in front of you.
There was a brief pause, and you actually thought about lying and saying you had something important to do so you could put him out of his misery and end the call, when he broke the silence once more.
“You always apologize that much?” he asked simply.
Nobody had ever pointed such a thing out to you, yet in this conversation alone you realized that you had apologized at least four times in the span of five minutes. If you really thought about it, you often did apologize to people. Especially to people you cared about or people at work. The amount of times you had apologized to Hiromi for bothering him had to be some sort of world record.
“Oh…I never really noticed,” you admitted sheepishly.
“Yeah. You keep apologizing for shit you don’t need to,” Ryomen said firmly. It didn’t sound like he was admonishing you, but you still felt like you were being scolded in a way.
“God, I’m sorry, that’s so ridiculous,” you lamented, putting your head in your hand with a sigh.
“You just apologized again,” he pointed out.
“I did? Sorry - dammit!” you swore as you caught yourself, pinching the bridge of your nose.
Then, Ryomen actually laughed. It wasn’t an ambiguous huff of air or even a slight chuckle. It was an actual laugh that made your insides feel warm and gooey. You had made Ryomen Sukuna laugh. It felt like you hadn’t made an actual person laugh in years. It was brief, but warm and rich with the timbre of his soothing voice.
“You’re fine, it’s all good,” he said, then sounding slightly hesitant, he asked, “How was your week?”
What started as a stilted, awkward conversation blended into something far more comfortable. The more you talked to him, the more it felt like you were slipping into a cozy cocoon of familiarity. Even if it wasn’t supposed to, it did feel remarkably like the two of you were old friends catching up. While his initial demeanor had been gruff and slightly intimidating if you were being honest, you found that to be mostly a facade. So far, your conversation with Ryomen made you feel…safe, in a way.
The phone call ended up lasting almost thirty minutes on the dot before Ryomen had announced that he needed to leave. Apparently phone call time was strictly enforced due to the popularity of it and he had already gone past his allotted time. Saying goodbye felt intrinsically wrong, but there was something like the hint of a promise as you disconnected the call that you couldn’t ignore.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Ryomen Sukuna had broken several of his major rules for human interaction, especially the ones he had arbitrarily made up for you in his head. The first being that he had actually returned your damn message.
His birthday had begun like any other abysmal day at that stupid prison. Sukuna had awoken in a foul mood that was typical for his birthdays, but something about this year had felt particularly offensive and annoying. Perhaps it was everything that had been brought up while exchanging letters with you and his recent nightmares about Yuji’s death that had made the entire affair more sour than usual.
On top of that, that dumbass Noaya seemed like he was up to something. Every time Sukuna happened to glance near him in the lunchrooms or in the courtyard, the motherfucker looked like he was scheming. Plotting. Talking with people whom Sukuna had had prior run-ins with in the past. It didn’t sit well with him.
On top of that, his father didn’t call this year. It wasn’t like they were particularly close or anything. Sukuna knew that Jin blamed him for Yuji’s death; most of his family did. Nobody had been shy about stating as such, and none of them had ever visited him in prison. In a way, he didn’t fault them for that. Sukuna mostly blamed himself, too.
His dad calling each year was a constant that he could rely on, even if they didn’t talk about anything of value. It was his one connection to the outside world, his outside world that he had previously known. He didn’t want to admit it, but he had actually been disappointed when his father didn’t call for once.
Briefly, he wondered if something bad had happened, but quickly dismissed that line of thinking. He was probably busy or had just decided to finally fuck off and leave Sukuna in the dust. If something bad had happened, none of the family would likely reach out, and there wasn’t really much he could do from in there. It would also just depress him to think about, so he did what he was used to with most emotional topics: stopped fucking thinking about it and shoved it as far away in his psyche as he could manage.
Imagine his surprise when the inmate who distributed mail had slid a piece of note paper through the bars of his cell later that day. It wasn’t a letter like he was used to expecting, and it was a bit soon for your response to his previous one. No, it was a memo from the prison phone operators from you. You had tried to call him.
It didn’t compute in his brain at first. Why the hell would you want to call him? The two of you had never discussed anything like that. Sukuna had been very careful not to do so. Had been very careful not to delve into any line of thinking that what you had between the two of you was nothing more than cordial penpals.
Yet, you wanted to call him. You had called him. Worse, you wanted to wish him a happy birthday. Because you were just that fucking nice. Sometimes it sickened him, but he knew that was probably his way of distancing from anything that bordered on affection or care. Affection and care got people nowhere good in prison. It certainly hadn’t done him any fucking favors in his life.
Sukuna knew he should ignore it. That he should pretend he never got the message and feign ignorance if you asked about it in the future. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that it got lost in translation or seized by the prison guards as suspicious. Sukuna should continue to operate as normal and toe the line between friendship and acquaintance. A category strictly reserved in his mind just for you.
That sickening, horrible curiosity burned in his gut, however. Like an infectious disease eating at his insides, he wondered things. Wondered what you wanted to say and how you would say it. If you were doing this only because you felt bad for him or because you actually cared. More humiliating, he really wanted to know if you sounded as sweet as you wrote.
Against all of his better judgement (which he attributed to temporary weakness due to the emotional state of his pathetic birthday), he booked time to make a call. He asked the operator to dial the number you had left and tried to pretend he was nonchalant about the entire thing. Even though his heart stuttered when the call actually connected.
To his utter horror, you did sound as sweet as you wrote. Your voice was unlike anything he had ever heard. Sweet, melodic, like a fucking siren luring him to the depths of the sea. Sukuna wanted to slap himself; he was being ridiculous. You were the first woman’s voice he had heard in years, so that was probably why it stood out to him so much. That was all.
His second mistake was being gentle with you. If he had had any amount of sense, he would’ve kept things no nonsense. He should have accepted your well wishes and ended the call. Yet he didn’t. He spoke with you for thirty fucking minutes. Worse, he comforted you when you seemed unsure and apologetic for literally no reason at all.
It hadn’t even been something he thought about. Sukuna reacted on instinct. He could tell that you were nervous and something in him had wanted to soothe that. The precedent was dangerous and he didn’t care for it at all.
His third mistake was allowing himself to be casual with you. By the end of the conversation, the two of you were chatting like old friends, chuckling at jokes and anecdotes like it was something that was always done. You were really easy to talk to, especially once you got more comfortable. The beginning of the call had started with you being spooked like a newly born fawn, and by the end you had melted into reassured, but quiet confidence.
Selfishly, it had felt good to talk to someone that actually wanted to talk back to him outside of being paid to do so like Suguru. That actually listened and seemed to care. It was foolish and he knew better than that. He knew that everything he touched was ruined. That when he cared, it blew up in his face every time. Yet he had still allowed himself to let you in. For fuck’s sake he had smiled. Laughed, even. Pathetic. Horrifying.
His fourth mistake was when the call ended. You had said something to the effect of, “we should talk again soon,” and he had stupidly agreed. This type of dynamic wasn’t something he should be encouraging. It really wasn’t. Right? Lord, he was already questioning his principles and that was never a fucking good thing. None of this was good.
The phone call ate away at him for the better part of the week. Given that there weren't many exciting events in prison, it was easily all he could think about. The conversation with you played in his head over and over. Even if he didn’t want it to, it gave him a strange warmth in his chest as he recalled it. Especially when he remembered your soft, sugary voice.
Bad, bad, bad. It was horrible. This was not good. Even more, detrimentally worse, your next letter came in, responding to his previous one.
Ryomen Sukuna, Inmate#0032147
Dear Ryomen,
I hope this isn’t strange to say, but I really enjoyed speaking with you on the phone last week. You could probably tell, but I was incredibly nervous. Not because I was scared of you or anything, but I didn’t want to sound like a fool. Well…that didn’t exactly work out. But you were really nice about it, so thank you. Funnily enough, I had actually written out a script of things to say and didn’t follow any of it when you actually called back.
Hopefully I didn’t scare you off or weird you out. If it’s okay, I think it would be really nice to talk on the phone again in the future. You know how I told you I have social anxiety? Well, the phone call really helped me and I think I could keep building my skills if we kept talking like that. Of course, I want to keep sending letters to you, too. It’s also a bit selfish, but I just really like talking to you and want to hear you again.
As far as your last letter, I decided to take your advice and get back into my hobbies, which has been a welcome distraction. While I had already known how to knit (not well, but decently enough), I hadn’t done it since my break-up because I didn’t have the energy or mental capacity. For the past few weeks, though, I’ve started getting back into it and it’s really soothing. I’m working on a sweater for my mom since Christmas is basically just around the corner, and I hope I don’t completely fuck it up. I’ll keep you posted, haha.
I had never heard of the Human Earthworm series, actually! In Yuji’s honor, I decided to do a marathon this past weekend. They were delightfully weird. Yes, they’re kind of bad, but it’s almost charming in a way. It even made me a bit emotional because I know how much you bonded with him over this and it was nice to get a glimpse into that. I don’t normally dress up for Halloween, but maybe I’ll be one of the characters this year to answer trick-or-treaters at my apartment door.
I can’t believe it’s already November and we’re well into autumn. It feels like just yesterday it was blisteringly hot and I had just gotten the courage to send you a letter. How time flies, huh? The holiday season is approaching, which means I’ll have to be around my family. We don’t necessarily have a bad relationship, but it’ll be the first one since the break-up and my mom can be a bit…critical at times. Does your dad ever reach out for holidays? I hope he does! Maybe we can chat during one of them?
Things at work have continued to be steady, which is preferable to being painfully slow or mind-numbingly busy. I’ve been working on my sweater at my desk, even! And I’ve only had to take it apart, like…10 times! Trust me, that’s an improvement.
I hope this letter finds you well and that things over there are going as decent as they can. Stay warm in these cooling months, okay?
Talk soon!
Sincerely,
[Y/N]
It felt like a bomb had dropped inside Sukuna's chest. You actually liked talking to him and said as much. Wanted to keep talking to him, even. You had watched the stupid ridiculous Human Earthworm films despite him warning you they were terrible. In Yuji’s honor.
Yeah. Sukuna was absolutely, irrevocably fucked. This was not going to end well for either of you. Of that, he was certain.
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⁀➷ a/n: sorry it took a bit longer for this chapter! i had started out on a good stride but life happens and i had some struggles writing down what i wanted to write. this is also a bit of a longer chapter but has some really good deposition and fluff :) hope you enjoyed!!
Hey everyone! I did decide to put together a taglist since a few people requested it. If you would like to be added, please let me know by either interacting with this post in some way, replying to the lftw chapters, or sending me a message/ask. I'll add you to a running list I have. If you've already responded and asked for a taglist, consider yourself already added :)
IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: this story contains mature, explicit, nsfw themes and is 18+ only. MINORS, AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT. while i do not have the time/energy to look through each blog that interacts with my actual fics and operate on the honor system - i do check every blog being requested to be added to my taglist. in order to be added to my taglist - your bio or about me MUST confirm that you are not a minor/under the age of 18. if it doesn't, i will have to block you.
hey everyone, just a reminder to please have your age and/or some sort of confirmation that you are 18+ in your bio/pinned post if you want to be added to the taglist!
hi! i am trying to get into ur fanfic but could i suggest being less descriptive of Y/N? reads like a self-insert or OC at times. nothing bad with that ofc but not rlly a Reader x Blorbo to me. tc!
i'm not really sure what you mean, to be honest. i don't really describe y/n physically (or have tried to avoid doing so to the best of my ability) so maybe you are meaning personality? it certainly isn't meant to be self-insert or oc, though i do have my own experiences of anxiety that i draw inspiration from in a way
in my opinion, really a lot of longform reader insert y/n stories are going to have some sort of element where y/n is an original character in a way and have character elements to further the story along without it being a choose-your-own-adventure since you can't really cater to every reader specifically. i suppose there's a [y/n] [your eyecolor] [your hair color] route i could take, but i personally don't like that in 2nd person writing and avoid it in my own. there might be times where you wouldn't say something that y/n says or do something y/n does, but that is inevitable imo as we all think and process things differently
i think it can be easier with one-shots or just writing standalone smut scenes since those don't require a lot of background or characterization in most cases, but with longer series like this one, it becomes a bit unavoidable without losing depth to the story. i suppose i could leave out some background and imposition on the reader character or y/n's thought processes but then it feels a bit flat to me and struggles to create a meaningful connection between all the characters in story. really that's just my perspective on it
if you aren't a fan of it or the way i write, then that's completely fine! perhaps it may just be this specific piece or my writing in general doesn't really resonate with you
⁀➷summary: ryomen sukuna has been in jail for 9 years, 3 months, and 27 days...not that he's counting. sentenced to 20 years for a crime he doesn't regret committing, life has become so monotonous and dull that he barely feels alive. it isn't until he receives a letter from someone for the first time since he's been locked up that he feels even a shred of emotion...and he's not sure if he likes that. forced to be part of the prison penpal program in order to be considered for parole, sukuna slowly unravels his defenses with each letter received. perhaps there might be something worth looking forward to after all.
⁀➷ pairing: prisoner!sukuna x penpal!fem!reader
⁀➷tags: prison au, penpals to reluctant friends to lovers, grumpy x sunshine-ish, def ooc, slight age gap (reader is mid twenties, sukuna is early 30s), yearning, angst, slowburn, mentions of death/blood/violence, depression/anxiety, mentions of drug use/cigarettes, prison, violence, minimal use of y/n in letters only, explicit nsfw themes, eventual smut, tags to be updated with each chapter
⁀➷ taglist info (bio/pinned must confirm age)
⁀➷ warning: minors/ageless blogs: do not interact!
⁀➷disclaimers: while i am doing my best to keep the fic accurate, this is heavily based on the american prison system and i am by no means an expert. locations are kept intentionally vague. suspend ordinary belief and just join me on the ride lol. also clarification: for the purposes of this story, his first name is ryomen and last name is sukuna. sorry if that causes any confusion!
⁀➷ summary: ryomen sukuna has been in jail for 9 years, 3 months, and 27 days...not that he's counting. sentenced to 20 years for a crime he doesn't regret committing, life has become so monotonous and dull that he barely feels alive. it isn't until he receives a letter from someone for the first time since he's been locked up that he feels even a shred of emotion...and he's not sure if he likes that. forced to be part of the prison penpal program in order to be considered for parole, sukuna slowly unravels his defenses with each letter received. perhaps there might be something worth looking forward to after all.
⁀➷ pairing: prisoner!sukuna x penpal!fem!reader
⁀➷ tags: prison au, penpals to reluctant friends to lovers, grumpy x sunshine-ish, probably ooc, slight age gap (reader is mid twenties, sukuna is early 30s), yearning, angst, slowburn, eventual smut, mentions of death, prison, minimal use of y/n in letters only, fluff-adjacent, awkward phone calls, social anxiety from reader, self-deprecation, sukuna is royally screwed (not literally), that's for later ;)
⁀➷ wc: 5.4k
⁀➷ warning: minors/ageless blogs: do not interact!
⁀➷ taglist: open, bio/pinned must confirm age
series masterlist
For the next few months, you and Ryomen continued to exchange letters. What started as stilted and a little awkward correspondence quickly melted into something like familiarity. You could tell by the way his language changed that Ryomen was starting to relax a little and become accustomed to your written presence. Though, you still could not say for sure if the two of you counted as friends. Even as much as you wanted to be.
You really liked Ryomen. He was insightful, sarcastic, interesting, and really funny when he wanted to be. He listened without judgement and offered advice, sometimes unsolicited but still good nonetheless. The man was honest to a fault, and you found that refreshing given that you worked with defense lawyers who had to stretch the truth often.
Every time you got a letter from him, you couldn’t help but smile like an idiot, your cheeks tinging pink. You tried not to read into the sheer happiness that the letters gave you. Tried to tell yourself that there was nothing special about this. Moreso, that you were probably not anything special to Ryomen. But, god was it hard.
His most recent letter was putting this flimsy belief system to the test.
Hey [Y/N],
Glad to hear that things are slowing down at work for you. Being overworked and stressed isn’t fun, and isn’t good for you. Hopefully that pace stays the same and you can find some time for yourself. Maybe you can take up a hobby or something, I dunno. Keep yourself busy so your brain doesn’t rot from all the accounting work you do. I’ve heard that doing math can be bad for your health. At least, that’s how I felt in school. I was always shit at math.
When you mentioned your favorite movie, it made me think of my brother. I haven’t seen Pride & Prejudice, but it’s probably not really my thing. I think it's a romance movie and the feel good stuff doesn’t really do it for me. I can see the appeal, though, if that is the sort of thing you like.
My brother’s favorite movie was Human Earthworm. Ever seen it? If you haven’t yet, don’t. It’s absolutely god awful. Worst movie I’ve ever seen. But my brother loved it so much and made me watch it a thousand times. I think I could still recite it from memory. And there’s like five of them. I swear my brother funded most of the damn series with the amount of times he bought tickets and movie merch.
Things over here are obviously slow. October is a weird month for me. My birthday is on the 25th and I hate celebrating it. It just reminds me that I’m stuck here in this stupid cell wasting away and that I’m not getting any younger. My dad sometimes calls me or sends me a few bucks, but otherwise I don’t do shit for it. I can’t even remember the last time I actually celebrated it. Doesn’t feel like there’s really much to celebrate anyway.
It also reminds me that I get the luxury of growing older while Yuji didn’t. Just sucks all around. I’m going to be 33 this year so I’ll have to head into retirement soon. I know they say 33 isn’t old but I feel ancient here. So this year I’ll be throwing myself a pity-party. You’re welcome to join.
Hope your month goes better. Doing anything for Halloween? That’s coming up soon. Yuji always dressed up as the dumbass Human Earthworm unsurprisingly. Sorry I keep talking about him, he’s just been on my mind a lot lately. My go-to was usually Ghostface (the guy from Scream if you aren’t sure who that is). What do you usually dress up as?
Whatever you decide to do, hope it’s fun. You deserve some fun.
Take care and talk soon.
R.S.
Talk soon, he wrote. It made your stomach flutter with happiness. The fact that he wanted to keep talking and clearly stated it out for you meant more than he would ever know. It was such a small thing, but it really warmed your heart. Your ex-boyfriend had sometimes made you feel like a chore or inconvenience, and knowing that someone wanted your attention in some way was affirming.
Even though he had started these letters by initially saying you two were not going to be friends, it was hard not to consider the way you talked to each other as anything but friendship. You could actually read and track the changes in his letters. When things started becoming more casual and more of his personality came out instead of being distant and matter-of-fact.
Take care. Ryomen often wished you well and told you to take care of yourself. Sure, he could have just been a polite or decent person, but something told you that this wasn’t typical. That Ryomen did not waste his breath or time on things that didn’t matter to him. In some capacity, you had to matter at least a little bit.
And the scarier, more thrilling thing was that he mattered a lot to you. Anymore, you thought about him often, wondering what he was doing and if he was feeling okay. It was silly, but sometimes you tried to visualize sending him good vibes or positive thoughts through the air, hoping that he could feel someone rooting for him. Ryomen seemed so alone, sometimes, and knowing how that felt made you want to fix that for him.
His birthday was coming up in the next week and he mentioned that he usually celebrated it alone. The thought tugged at your heart, because nobody should have to celebrate their birthday alone. Especially not Ryomen, when he was already going through a hard time and in one of the worst places one could find themselves.
An idea wriggled in your head like a parasite, whispering to you that maybe it could be a new thing to try. You were going to call Ryomen and wish him a happy birthday. To talk to him on the phone for the first time and hear his voice in real time.
Doing so would not only (hopefully) be a positive thing for him, but you hoped it would also help strengthen your social skills. While you still hadn’t had the courage to talk to your coworkers casually, writing to Ryomen had slowly started to build your confidence on interacting with people. Sometimes, you even shared pleasant looks and smiles with your coworkers! Perhaps if you actually talked to him, it might give you the boost that you needed to move forward in other aspects of your life.
The entire rest of the week, you actually scripted and wrote down your conversation plans with him, even going as far as to create a decision tree for different responses that he might have. You were absolutely overthinking everything, but you were determined for this to go as smoothly as possible. It was imperative to make a good first impression, as you desperately wanted Ryomen’s approval. Though it was probably unhealthy, you at least had to be honest with yourself about it.
The closer it got to his birthday, the more antsy and out of sorts you became. To try to distract yourself, you practiced your knitting skills during your breaks and in the evenings. Counting stitches became an easy repetitive action that soothed your fretting. It was your first time working on a sweater as a Christmas present for your mom, so focusing on the unfamiliar pattern further captured your attention.
There were a few times when your knitting caught a few curious glances from your coworkers, which counted as a win in your book. It meant that either you or one of them was one step closer to interacting and bridging the gap. Perhaps calling Ryomen was going to be the magic variable in the equation that would finally solve it after a long period of struggling to figure it out.
On Ryomen’s birthday, your attempt to call him did not go exactly as planned. Each step was detailed down to the minute, and you had hoped that the extensive preparation would set you up for success and be foolproof.
What you hadn’t anticipated, however, was the fact that it was apparently frowned upon to call the prison yourself. In all of your planning, you hadn’t even considered the fact that prisoners weren’t exactly immediately available to answer a phone call. They certainly didn’t have any phones or communication devices in their cells, and you could imagine that trying to use the communal phones was quite competitive.
Yet still, unknowingly, at 12:05pm you had called in and got connected with an operator. They identified the name of the prison he was housed at, confirming you had called the correct number.
“How can I assist you today?” a feminine sounding voice said on the other end of the line, sounding bored and like they had had a particularly long shift.
“Yes, I was hoping to be connected with one of your inmates there, Ryomen Sukuna. His inmate number is 0032147,” you recited by memory, voice slightly shaky with nerves.
“Oh,” the person sounded slightly surprised, making your heart stutter, “Well, unfortunately ma’am, calls into the prison are strictly prohibited. Calls have to be initiated by the inmate with approved phone time.”
Your stomach dropped into your feet. Shit, you thought in panic. Sure, you could respond to his next letter, but that would be after his birthday and you were really hoping to talk to him on the actual day. Scrambling to think of a response, you didn’t immediately say anything as you wracked your brain for solutions.
“Ma’am, are you still there?” the operator asked when you remained silent in distress. You really should have planned for this, you chastised yourself internally.
“Yes, sorry,” you spluttered, operating on pure instinct with your next words, “Is there any way you could get a message to him? I was really hoping to speak with him because it’s his birthday today.”
There was a moment of silence as the operator considered this. You felt stupid for even asking because you had clearly violated their rules and were now asking for special treatment. This is why spontaneity and last minute ideas were not exactly your strong suit. Even though the spontaneity in question had been a week in advance.
“Normally, we wouldn’t really do that, but I suppose I can make an exception this time,” they said finally, “I can’t make any guarantees that it’ll get to him, but I will do my best. What would you like to say?”
Relief coursed through your body so strongly that you swore you were going to start crying. The message needed to be brief but to also get your point across. Thinking on your feet was not a talent of yours, especially when you were under pressure.
“Um, just tell him that I’m wishing him a happy birthday and that I’d love to talk with him over the phone if he’s comfortable,” you settled on.
After that, you gave the operator your full name and phone number and they repeated that they would do their best but there were no guarantees. The second you got off the phone, you slumped over on your couch with a frustrated sigh. There was likely no way you were going to get to speak to him on his birthday.
Perhaps it really wasn’t meant to be. Perhaps you were forcing something that shouldn’t be, doomed to repeat the same mistakes as your last relationship. The more you thought about it, the worse you felt. You should have asked him first or looked up the stupid rules that the prison had for phone calls. They were ridiculous rules, really.
It was also presumptuous to think that he actually wanted to talk to you in the first place. As the day went on, you fully convinced yourself that you were delusional and that you shouldn’t have left that message. Unease bled through you when you thought that maybe he would consider this as crossing a boundary. He had never once indicated he wanted to talk to you in real life, and you selfishly assumed that he would magically be okay with it. Grateful, even.
Your mind worked itself into knots, twisting and turning between logic and irrationality like a roller coaster from the bowels of hell. Even knitting didn’t help distract you, as you were unable to get over the fact that you had potentially ruined everything with Ryomen. The first person that you had felt some sort of connection with since your breakup. The thought alone was devastating.
So engrossed were you in your hellscape of a mind that you didn’t think twice when your phone rang. You picked it up on instinct, assuming in your distracted state that it was your mother or a telemarketer, whom you never had the heart to hang up on. They were just doing their jobs, after all.
A robotic voice crackled through the phone announcing that it was from the prison, with a disclaimer that the call was being recorded and monitored. Your heart almost stopped beating in your chest. When it asked if you still wished to proceed, the poor muscle leapt in your throat, making it almost impossible to speak.
“Yes!” you nearly shouted in response, desperately trying to cling to any semblance that not all hope was lost.
“Confirmed. Connecting to inmate number 0-0-0-3-2-1-4-7,” the voice slowly sounded out. Impatience made you twitchy and you almost shouted at a literal robot to hurry the hell up. Not exactly your finest moment.
Then, the line ceased its fuzzy, electronic hum. Your pulse raced through your veins like a stallion running in the wild, tossing its head around in agitation. Anticipation crept up your spine until you thought you might snap into two pieces.
“Hello?”
It was Ryomen. His voice was a lot deeper than you had imagined, gruff around the edges in what you had to assume was a response to being in prison for a long period of time. He sounded like someone whose bad side you did not want to get on. Yet, there didn’t appear to be any malice or annoyance in his tone. At least, you didn’t think so. It was hard to tell from a single word.
Your mind went blank. It was actually Ryomen. He was on the phone speaking to you. It wasn’t a figment of your imagination or a dream you were having. You even pinched yourself to check. When you heard him calling your name in a searching manner, you realized you hadn’t even responded to his hello.
“You still there? This the right number?” he pressed, snapping you out of your internal reverie.
“Hi!” You blurted out, sounding like a bird chirping in alarm. It made you wince in embarrassment, but you powered through it, “Hi, yes, it’s me. Did you get my message?”
The second the words left your mouth, you instantly felt foolish. Of course he had gotten your message, that was the entire reason he was calling. A blush warmed your cheeks when you swore you heard a soft huff of air like a half-chuckle on the other end of the line. God, you were an idiot.
“Yeah, I did,” Ryomen said. Again, it was hard to read his tone, but it didn’t seem like he was making fun of you. Maybe more like he was mildly amused with your antics.
“Oh, that-that’s good,” you stammered, further adding to your growing list of humiliating things that were happening during the phone call.
In all of your preparation, you hadn’t actually imagined how nerve wracking and emotional it would be to talk to him. Sure, you had scripted what you wanted to say, but you hadn’t imagined actually saying it. Your voice sounded squeaky and unsure despite how hard you tried to keep it controlled. All of your scripting had been thrown out the window.
“What did-”
“I just wanted-”
Both of you spoke at the same time and instantly went quiet when you realized you had interrupted each other. At this point, you wouldn’t have been surprised if Ryomen never wanted to speak to you again. After an awkward pause, he was the one to break it first.
“Go ahead,” Ryomen said.
“Oh, um, sorry, I just wanted to say happy birthday,” you said quickly, “I hope it’s been okay.”
“Thanks,” he responded, his voice becoming something that you almost could’ve categorized as gentle, “It’s been…a day, I guess. Same as any other day.”
“Good, at least, I think that’s good. Sorry, I know this is kind of out of the blue, and I probably should have checked with you first, but I read your letter and I just thought it would be nice to call you on your birthday because I…just thought it would be nice to do it by phone and talk to you,” your words tumbled into one another like rocks down a cliff. None of it really made sense and you probably sounded like an incoherent fool.
“You didn’t have to,” he said after a moment. Your blood ran cold. The only possible reason he would say that is because you had upset him, right?
“I’m so sorry, I should have-” you started to say, but he actually cut you off, much to your shock.
“Hey, stop apologizing. It’s fine. It is a nice gesture,” Ryomen reassured you in that almost monotone manner of his, “I usually only speak to my dad and he didn’t call this year.”
You wondered if you were the only person who had wished Ryomen a happy birthday today. If he had any friends on the inside that would pat him on the back or whatever it was that men did to celebrate each other. If he and his dad had a good relationship or not. If he was disappointed by the fact that his dad didn’t call. If he was grateful that you did.
Scrambling to think of anything to say, you again completely forgot about your script entirely and blundered down the path of the conversation like Sisyphus' cursed rock.
“Did you do anything fun?” you asked suddenly.
It was like you had no control over your mind or tongue at all. What an utterly ridiculous question, you winced. He was in prison for fuck’s sake, it wasn’t like they threw him a party at an amusement park with a paper crown on his head or took him to a bar to celebrate and do shots.
“Kinda hard to do anything fun in here,” he answered with another huff that you hoped was laughter and was not a frustrated admonishment of your poor conversation skills.
“No, right, of course. That…maybe that wasn’t the best question, sorry,” you mumbled, seconds away from banging your head against the coffee table in front of you.
There was a brief pause, and you actually thought about lying and saying you had something important to do so you could put him out of his misery and end the call, when he broke the silence once more.
“You always apologize that much?” he asked simply.
Nobody had ever pointed such a thing out to you, yet in this conversation alone you realized that you had apologized at least four times in the span of five minutes. If you really thought about it, you often did apologize to people. Especially to people you cared about or people at work. The amount of times you had apologized to Hiromi for bothering him had to be some sort of world record.
“Oh…I never really noticed,” you admitted sheepishly.
“Yeah. You keep apologizing for shit you don’t need to,” Ryomen said firmly. It didn’t sound like he was admonishing you, but you still felt like you were being scolded in a way.
“God, I’m sorry, that’s so ridiculous,” you lamented, putting your head in your hand with a sigh.
“You just apologized again,” he pointed out.
“I did? Sorry - dammit!” you swore as you caught yourself, pinching the bridge of your nose.
Then, Ryomen actually laughed. It wasn’t an ambiguous huff of air or even a slight chuckle. It was an actual laugh that made your insides feel warm and gooey. You had made Ryomen Sukuna laugh. It felt like you hadn’t made an actual person laugh in years. It was brief, but warm and rich with the timbre of his soothing voice.
“You’re fine, it’s all good,” he said, then sounding slightly hesitant, he asked, “How was your week?”
What started as a stilted, awkward conversation blended into something far more comfortable. The more you talked to him, the more it felt like you were slipping into a cozy cocoon of familiarity. Even if it wasn’t supposed to, it did feel remarkably like the two of you were old friends catching up. While his initial demeanor had been gruff and slightly intimidating if you were being honest, you found that to be mostly a facade. So far, your conversation with Ryomen made you feel…safe, in a way.
The phone call ended up lasting almost thirty minutes on the dot before Ryomen had announced that he needed to leave. Apparently phone call time was strictly enforced due to the popularity of it and he had already gone past his allotted time. Saying goodbye felt intrinsically wrong, but there was something like the hint of a promise as you disconnected the call that you couldn’t ignore.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Ryomen Sukuna had broken several of his major rules for human interaction, especially the ones he had arbitrarily made up for you in his head. The first being that he had actually returned your damn message.
His birthday had begun like any other abysmal day at that stupid prison. Sukuna had awoken in a foul mood that was typical for his birthdays, but something about this year had felt particularly offensive and annoying. Perhaps it was everything that had been brought up while exchanging letters with you and his recent nightmares about Yuji’s death that had made the entire affair more sour than usual.
On top of that, that dumbass Noaya seemed like he was up to something. Every time Sukuna happened to glance near him in the lunchrooms or in the courtyard, the motherfucker looked like he was scheming. Plotting. Talking with people whom Sukuna had had prior run-ins with in the past. It didn’t sit well with him.
On top of that, his father didn’t call this year. It wasn’t like they were particularly close or anything. Sukuna knew that Jin blamed him for Yuji’s death; most of his family did. Nobody had been shy about stating as such, and none of them had ever visited him in prison. In a way, he didn’t fault them for that. Sukuna mostly blamed himself, too.
His dad calling each year was a constant that he could rely on, even if they didn’t talk about anything of value. It was his one connection to the outside world, his outside world that he had previously known. He didn’t want to admit it, but he had actually been disappointed when his father didn’t call for once.
Briefly, he wondered if something bad had happened, but quickly dismissed that line of thinking. He was probably busy or had just decided to finally fuck off and leave Sukuna in the dust. If something bad had happened, none of the family would likely reach out, and there wasn’t really much he could do from in there. It would also just depress him to think about, so he did what he was used to with most emotional topics: stopped fucking thinking about it and shoved it as far away in his psyche as he could manage.
Imagine his surprise when the inmate who distributed mail had slid a piece of note paper through the bars of his cell later that day. It wasn’t a letter like he was used to expecting, and it was a bit soon for your response to his previous one. No, it was a memo from the prison phone operators from you. You had tried to call him.
It didn’t compute in his brain at first. Why the hell would you want to call him? The two of you had never discussed anything like that. Sukuna had been very careful not to do so. Had been very careful not to delve into any line of thinking that what you had between the two of you was nothing more than cordial penpals.
Yet, you wanted to call him. You had called him. Worse, you wanted to wish him a happy birthday. Because you were just that fucking nice. Sometimes it sickened him, but he knew that was probably his way of distancing from anything that bordered on affection or care. Affection and care got people nowhere good in prison. It certainly hadn’t done him any fucking favors in his life.
Sukuna knew he should ignore it. That he should pretend he never got the message and feign ignorance if you asked about it in the future. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that it got lost in translation or seized by the prison guards as suspicious. Sukuna should continue to operate as normal and toe the line between friendship and acquaintance. A category strictly reserved in his mind just for you.
That sickening, horrible curiosity burned in his gut, however. Like an infectious disease eating at his insides, he wondered things. Wondered what you wanted to say and how you would say it. If you were doing this only because you felt bad for him or because you actually cared. More humiliating, he really wanted to know if you sounded as sweet as you wrote.
Against all of his better judgement (which he attributed to temporary weakness due to the emotional state of his pathetic birthday), he booked time to make a call. He asked the operator to dial the number you had left and tried to pretend he was nonchalant about the entire thing. Even though his heart stuttered when the call actually connected.
To his utter horror, you did sound as sweet as you wrote. Your voice was unlike anything he had ever heard. Sweet, melodic, like a fucking siren luring him to the depths of the sea. Sukuna wanted to slap himself; he was being ridiculous. You were the first woman’s voice he had heard in years, so that was probably why it stood out to him so much. That was all.
His second mistake was being gentle with you. If he had had any amount of sense, he would’ve kept things no nonsense. He should have accepted your well wishes and ended the call. Yet he didn’t. He spoke with you for thirty fucking minutes. Worse, he comforted you when you seemed unsure and apologetic for literally no reason at all.
It hadn’t even been something he thought about. Sukuna reacted on instinct. He could tell that you were nervous and something in him had wanted to soothe that. The precedent was dangerous and he didn’t care for it at all.
His third mistake was allowing himself to be casual with you. By the end of the conversation, the two of you were chatting like old friends, chuckling at jokes and anecdotes like it was something that was always done. You were really easy to talk to, especially once you got more comfortable. The beginning of the call had started with you being spooked like a newly born fawn, and by the end you had melted into reassured, but quiet confidence.
Selfishly, it had felt good to talk to someone that actually wanted to talk back to him outside of being paid to do so like Suguru. That actually listened and seemed to care. It was foolish and he knew better than that. He knew that everything he touched was ruined. That when he cared, it blew up in his face every time. Yet he had still allowed himself to let you in. For fuck’s sake he had smiled. Laughed, even. Pathetic. Horrifying.
His fourth mistake was when the call ended. You had said something to the effect of, “we should talk again soon,” and he had stupidly agreed. This type of dynamic wasn’t something he should be encouraging. It really wasn’t. Right? Lord, he was already questioning his principles and that was never a fucking good thing. None of this was good.
The phone call ate away at him for the better part of the week. Given that there weren't many exciting events in prison, it was easily all he could think about. The conversation with you played in his head over and over. Even if he didn’t want it to, it gave him a strange warmth in his chest as he recalled it. Especially when he remembered your soft, sugary voice.
Bad, bad, bad. It was horrible. This was not good. Even more, detrimentally worse, your next letter came in, responding to his previous one.
Ryomen Sukuna, Inmate#0032147
Dear Ryomen,
I hope this isn’t strange to say, but I really enjoyed speaking with you on the phone last week. You could probably tell, but I was incredibly nervous. Not because I was scared of you or anything, but I didn’t want to sound like a fool. Well…that didn’t exactly work out. But you were really nice about it, so thank you. Funnily enough, I had actually written out a script of things to say and didn’t follow any of it when you actually called back.
Hopefully I didn’t scare you off or weird you out. If it’s okay, I think it would be really nice to talk on the phone again in the future. You know how I told you I have social anxiety? Well, the phone call really helped me and I think I could keep building my skills if we kept talking like that. Of course, I want to keep sending letters to you, too. It’s also a bit selfish, but I just really like talking to you and want to hear you again.
As far as your last letter, I decided to take your advice and get back into my hobbies, which has been a welcome distraction. While I had already known how to knit (not well, but decently enough), I hadn’t done it since my break-up because I didn’t have the energy or mental capacity. For the past few weeks, though, I’ve started getting back into it and it’s really soothing. I’m working on a sweater for my mom since Christmas is basically just around the corner, and I hope I don’t completely fuck it up. I’ll keep you posted, haha.
I had never heard of the Human Earthworm series, actually! In Yuji’s honor, I decided to do a marathon this past weekend. They were delightfully weird. Yes, they’re kind of bad, but it’s almost charming in a way. It even made me a bit emotional because I know how much you bonded with him over this and it was nice to get a glimpse into that. I don’t normally dress up for Halloween, but maybe I’ll be one of the characters this year to answer trick-or-treaters at my apartment door.
I can’t believe it’s already November and we’re well into autumn. It feels like just yesterday it was blisteringly hot and I had just gotten the courage to send you a letter. How time flies, huh? The holiday season is approaching, which means I’ll have to be around my family. We don’t necessarily have a bad relationship, but it’ll be the first one since the break-up and my mom can be a bit…critical at times. Does your dad ever reach out for holidays? I hope he does! Maybe we can chat during one of them?
Things at work have continued to be steady, which is preferable to being painfully slow or mind-numbingly busy. I’ve been working on my sweater at my desk, even! And I’ve only had to take it apart, like…10 times! Trust me, that’s an improvement.
I hope this letter finds you well and that things over there are going as decent as they can. Stay warm in these cooling months, okay?
Talk soon!
Sincerely,
[Y/N]
It felt like a bomb had dropped inside Sukuna's chest. You actually liked talking to him and said as much. Wanted to keep talking to him, even. You had watched the stupid ridiculous Human Earthworm films despite him warning you they were terrible. In Yuji’s honor.
Yeah. Sukuna was absolutely, irrevocably fucked. This was not going to end well for either of you. Of that, he was certain.
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⁀➷ a/n: sorry it took a bit longer for this chapter! i had started out on a good stride but life happens and i had some struggles writing down what i wanted to write. this is also a bit of a longer chapter but has some really good deposition and fluff :) hope you enjoyed!!
── .✦ summary: Locked away behind mountains of historical books, most days you’re hardly aware of the outside world and what goes on beyond the familiar bound leather and yellowing pages. Your usually quiet routine is disrupted when a handsome new stranger with particularly striking blue eyes starts showing up. Little do you know, the man is actually world famous popstar Satoru Gojo. And he finds you extraordinarily fascinating and amusing since you have no idea who he is.
── .✦ pairing: popstar!gojo x librarian!fem!reader
── .✦ taglist: currently open, info here
── .✦ tags: Popstar au, probably ooc, nerdjo if you squint, one-sided enemies to lovers, yearning, antisocial reader, far too social gojo, gojo and reader are roughly same age late twenties, loneliness, pining, lovesick gojo, unamused almost rude reader, sreader likes order and routine, gojo likes messing with reader, hidden fame, slowburn
── .✦ warning: minors/ageless blogs do not interact!!!
series masterlist
The library was a place of respite for you. A home away from home. A safe haven from the outside world that made little sense to you. You much preferred the freedom of books. Unlike reality, you could pick them up and put them down as you pleased. You could re-read them over and over again, discovering new things and wearing the pages thin as you rubbed the bottom corners while you read.
Real life was ugly and raw, and people often made little sense to you. You had always felt a little different from everyone around you. Not in a special or egotistical way, but your brain seemed to work a bit differently. You processed things at a different pace and often had perspectives that the people around you didn’t seem to have.
That was why you liked books more than you liked people. They always held the same words and you could put them away when you didn’t want to deal with them anymore. People didn’t particularly like when you just walked away from them once you had decided they were annoying or frustrating you, but books didn’t mind at all.
Deciding to get your education in library sciences had been a no-brainer. It had required getting your master’s, which put you in a substantial amount of debt, but you knew that was what you were meant to be doing. Being amongst books for a living was heaven on earth to you. Even if it didn’t exactly pay the most.
Though you loved all genres3, you had a particular affinity for historical, rare books that had bound leather and vellum or papyrus pages. Ones that looked like they might fall apart if you breathed wrong. You loved restoring them, cataloging them, treating them with the utmost care like they were your children.
Shortly after you received your masters, you were hired at the massive public library in the city downtown that was three floors of wonderful book heaven. There was an entire floor dedicated just to rare, vintage books and it was almost always empty of people. Most avoided it because you had to go through a set of double doors into a climate controlled, light pollution free room. Nobody was allowed to touch books without asking you or wearing cloth gloves, and the trouble was too much for most.
It was the most ideal job in the world for you. Like it was handcrafted specifically with you in mind. Hardly anybody talked to you and you got to spend time nursing books back to health and helping source rare books for those that actually cared about them. You kept your head down most days, solely absorbed in your work.
Even outside of work, you didn’t really engage with the world. You skimmed over the news just enough to absorb basic geopolitics, but that was it. You didn’t watch movies or the latest television shows. You didn’t really listen to music and preferred your noise machine that made rain sounds. You didn’t give a shit about pop culture or celebrity gossip unlike your friends. You understood the appeal but it just wasn’t for you. You existed blissfully in a bubble of your own making and that was just the way you liked it.
On this particular morning, you had just arrived for your shift at promptly nine in the morning. You were never a minute too late. It was always 9:00am on the dot. You had a very specific routine that you went through every single day without fail.
First, you hung up your coat and purse on the hook behind the large oak desk where you usually resided. Then, you logged into your computer to clock in. You checked the inventory to see if there were any new shipments coming in or new books that needed to be processed.
If there were, you gathered the tools you would need for restoration. You had a very minimal set as you really could only fix so much with your limited skillset. Books that had extensive water or rot damage, covers that were significantly falling apart or crumbling, or worse, book worms, had to be handled by a professional. Those had often already been taken care of before arriving at your desk.
Around 10:00am, the shipment would arrive and the same old mailman would greet you with a warm smile. You would sign for the package and open it carefully, making sure not to let the box knife go any deeper than the tape to avoid damage to the precious books below. Then, you set to work.
It was 11:23am and you were cataloging a first edition and limited collection of Jane Austen’s novels. They were in decently good shape, though there was some minor separating from the spine that you could fix with a bit of archival, acid-free glue.
A soft chime indicated that someone had stepped through the first set of doors to your floor, and then the old oak doors squeaked quietly as someone walked in. You fully expected them to apologize and turn around to leave the second they realized this was not a typical library floor. Most people didn’t like the extreme quiet or the fierce looks you would give them when they attempted to touch a book without gloves.
Looking up, you saw that the intruder hadn’t left. In fact, they were staring right at you, and you made eye contact with some of the most piercing and intense blue eyes you had ever seen in your entire life. They glittered like liquid diamonds, shifting and fracturing in the room’s warm lighting.
For once, you were taken slightly off guard. The gaze belonged to a man you could only initially describe as “ridiculously pretty”. Quickly, your eyes darted over him, cataloging him as you did your books. He was tall and lithe, built like a super model that had just walked off the runway. His clothes were well tailored and expensive looking, though you couldn’t place the brand if you tried. All of your clothes were vintage and thrifted, which it didn’t appear this guy had ever worn in his life. Something about his entire demeanor screamed unnecessary opulence.
On top of his head was a wool beanie, and shockingly white locks of hair spilled messily out, despite him looking like he had tried to hide them, and he was wearing a pair of rectangular sunglasses perched on the end of his nose even though he was inside. His facial features were sharp and almost angelic, alabaster skin like carved marble. And on his lips was a wide, open-mouthed smile like he had just won the lottery.
The entire time, he hadn’t looked away from you. There was clear interest in his eyes, a playful quality that made you nervously irritated. Like you were a shiny new toy that he had just discovered. It made you feel like you were a helpless insect that a cat had discovered on the wall, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.
“Well, hello there!” he called brightly, his voice far too loud in the solitude of your library. An unwelcome intrusion that he at least should have had the decency to feel guilty for. When he waved, you noticed that he had a cup of coffee in his other hand, likely from the cafe downstairs. You frowned.
“No liquids in here,” you said sternly instead of acknowledging the friendly salutation.
The man looked down as if only just realizing he was carrying it.
“Whoops, sorry about that,” he apologized, not seeming to be upset by the fact that you had rudely ignored his greeting. In fact, he was still beaming pleasantly in your direction and it only annoyed you further.
“There’s a table outside you can set it on,” you said pointedly, your tone clipped.
Most people by this point would sheepishly leave and not return, not wanting to go through the hassle of having to abandon their precious source of caffeine. Or perhaps becoming embarrassed by their poor behavior being called out by you. For fuck’s sake there was a sign outside that literally said no liquids or food allowed. Even you abided by that rule and ate your snacks in the stairwell.
This strange man, however, did none of those things.
“Oh, that’s okay. I’ll just drink it real fast,” he flashed you another smile before taking the lid off his coffee cup.
Your heart jumped in your throat as the brown liquid sloshed dangerously in his paper cup. Horror scenarios played in your mind of him tripping and spilling it all over the shelf next to him, dribbling onto your poor monstera plant nearby and your precious plants. You had just nursed it back to health after one of the librarians downstairs had nearly killed it.
“Don’t-” you half-stood out of your chair, but it was too late.
The man lifted it to his lips and before your very eyes, drank the entire fucking thing in several gulps. Your eyes went wide with each subsequent bob of his throat, both horrified and weirdly fascinating by such a bizarre solution. Ten seconds of awkward silence later, he finished the cup and let out a satisfied hum.
“Wonderful coffee. Absolutely delicious. Best I’ve ever had. I think the barista downstairs said they roast the beans in house. Do you have a garbage can?” All of this was said so quickly you could scarcely follow along.
You silently pointed to the one next to the door, staring at him like he had a bomb strapped to his chest. This was easily the most confusing interaction you had had with a customer, and that included the man who had taken shrooms and thought your bookshelves were monsters from outer space talking to him.
“Thanks!” The man chirped, tossing it carelessly and turning his sights on you again. To your horror, he started to approach your desk. You shrank back, rolling a few inches away in your chair. Nothing about your energy seemed to deter him, which was alarming and frustrating all at once.
“Anybody else up here or are you alone?” He asked curiously, looking around as if expecting a sudden audience in between the aisles. Your frown deepened. A man asking you if you were alone was never a good thing. Sliding your hand under the desk, you put your finger on the panic button and readied yourself to push it if he became aggressive.
“That sounds vaguely threatening,” you accused, not bothering to sugarcoat your words. You met his curious stare with a challenging expression, hoping you looked fierce.
“What?” he looked taken aback and then seemed to understand as he laughed and shook his head, “No, no, not like that. I just highly value my privacy, that’s all.”
That still didn’t make any sense. Why would someone who valued their privacy try to do that in a public library? Your hand continued to hover on the button, feeling slightly less tense but still unsure of his motives. At least the guy on shrooms had told you about his delusions.
“Don’t we all?” you quipped, raising an eyebrow.
Surprised by your response, his head tipped back and he laughed loudly again. It echoed off the fuzzy green carpet and bounced around the old shelves. You imagined the soundwaves damaging the fragile pages of the books even though that wasn’t even possible and you frowned at him again.
“Do you really not know who I am?” The man asked as he leaned his forearms on the tall counter with an impish grin.
Normally, your desk felt like a fortress against whoever happened to trespass onto your floor. Your chair was tall enough to see over the edge but it still afforded you a bit of respite, especially if you had your head down. With him leaning into your space and fixing his shocking blue eyes on you, it felt like he was on top of a tower as the Eye of Sauron, seeing all. Plotting and planning something nefarious.
“Do we know each other or something?” you asked him in exasperation. Part of you hoped to offend him slightly and take him down a notch, but you genuinely had no idea who he was. Contrary to your wishes, he seemed to be even more delighted by your answer.
“No, but we should know each other. You seem fun,” he grinned, propping his head on one of his fists. At this point, he was practically draped over the tall counter as he continued, “You can call me Sato. What’s your name?”
Glancing down at your poor abandoned work, you did not want to indulge him in this ridiculous distraction. You had real work to do and didn’t have time to get to know this stranger that you didn’t want to get to know.
“Is there something I can help you find, sir?” you sighed, crossing your arms over your chest. You determined he wasn’t a threat, just annoying.
“Sir? Ouch,” Sato huffed and clutched at his heart in mock pain, “How could you call me that? We’re on a first name basis.”
“You don’t know my first name,” you pointed out, unaffected by his dramatics.
“Right, so this is the part where you tell me. We exchange names. We tell each other our life stories. We laugh. You fall in love with me and ask for my number. I tell you that I’m too busy for love and we become star crossed lovers like Romeo and Juliet. The whole shebang,” the man said quickly, beaming at you with expectation.
It was like he was not used to people refusing to cooperate with him. Like he expected adoration. Which made you want to comply even less out of spite. He wasn’t just annoying. The man was fucking insane and egotistical. Not like the shrooms guy, no, Sato was far worse.
“Wow, you certainly know how to paint a picture,” you said sarcastically, “The art history section is in row 5 on the left.”
If Sato had been beaming before, he looked positively manic with glee at that moment. Your efforts to dissuade him only seemed to encourage him more. The two of you were playing a game of chess, but all the pieces were in the wrong places and he kept stealing them from you, leaving you confused and scrambling to understand what the hell was going on.
Suddenly, he switched topics, gazing around at the cozy space stuffed with vintage books. His striking blue eyes darted around as if he could see every single dust mote in the place. You wouldn’t have been surprised if he had x-ray vision with those things. Sato looked impressed and gave a low whistle.
“So what’s the deal with all this?” Sato asked, cocking his head.
The question was so vague and ridiculous that you didn’t even know how to respond. You stared at him, waiting for him to elaborate, but he just smiled in response. This man never seemed to stop smiling.
“With…what?” you asked slowly.
“This,” he said unhelpfully, gesturing around vaguely as if that answered anything.
“Well…given that we are surrounded by books, I’d say we’re in a library,” you deadpanned.
Shame wasn’t in his vocabulary. Nor embarrassment it seemed. No, instead he just laughed again like it was the only thing he knew how to do, expression mirthful and amused. You had a feeling that no matter how you responded, positively or negatively, the man would react the same either way. Though you shuddered to think what he would do if you simpered and giggled at him.
“Well, yeah, obviously,” Sato said with a grin, like the two of you were both in on the joke together, “I mean like, the double doors and all the old books. Nobody’s up here. Is this forbidden or something? Am I trespassing?” He didn’t seem particularly troubled by the idea if he was.
“No, you’re not,” you gave a long suffering sigh, “This is the rare books room. It’s climate controlled and light controlled for archival purposes. Each book is specifically hand picked and sourced from around the world. While we do lend out books for a price, my work is mostly for record keeping, history preservation, and collection purposes. It’s the only place in the library that technically costs money, so if you want to check out books for free, I’d suggest the other floors.”
“Oh, money isn’t a concern of mine,” he waved you off, chuckling as if you were being ridiculous, “That’s fascinating, though. What kinds of books do you have?”
Your guard dropped slightly, only because he was now willing to discuss a familiar topic; your books. If the conversation stuck to that and he kept to himself, then you could probably tolerate him in your space. That didn’t seem likely with the current trajectory the two of you were headed on.
“A little bit of everything. If it’s historical or old, we probably have it,” you shrugged, and pressed once more, “Is there something you are looking for in particular?”
“Nope, not looking for anything,” he chirped, smiling down at you serenely, “I came up here for a bit of peace and quiet.”
It was so ironic you almost had to laugh. What the hell did this guy know about peace and quiet when he seemed hellbent on ruining both of those things for you. Now, the two of you were in an intense standoff as he waited for you to respond and you waited for him to leave. When you merely looked at him, he straightened.
“Mind if I look around?” Sato asked politely.
Yes, I do fucking mind, you thought bitterly. Unfortunately, you couldn’t say that. You had already been talked to by your supervisor for being rude and making a grown man cry when he tried to pick up a vintage copy of Othello with his horrifically greasy hands. You didn’t regret it, but did concede to try to be nicer. This was your best shot at that.
“Fine. Don’t touch anything with your bare hands. Use these gloves if you absolutely have to,” you said evenly, pointing to a box of the cloth gloves on the edge of your desk, “If you drop or rip anything, I will kill you.”
Okay, so much for being nice. You really had tried. Something about his infuriating smirk made you want to tear your hair out and become a worse person. You prided yourself on your ability to remain cool and unaffected by things, yet he was single handedly testing this in the ten minutes he had been in your presence.
Again, Sato only laughed, shaking his head with amusement as if the two of you were old friends and this was one of your classic bits.
“Understood,” he said with a warm smile, adding an unnecessary wink as he said, “Don’t worry, you can trust me.” Then, he grabbed a pair of gloves and actually disappeared. You did not trust him in the slightest.
A small, relieved sigh left your lips as he retreated into the depths of the shelves, finally leaving you alone. Part of you wanted to follow him around like a guard dog to make sure he wasn’t up to mischief in your precious books, but you knew that would be insane and ridiculous. You still didn’t like the thought of him in the library at all, but you had work that needed to be done, and you were not about to let him get in the way of that.
Surprisingly, he left you alone for the better part of an hour. It gave you a chance to finish cataloging the Jane Austen books and start on a few minor repairs that needed to be done. Just as you were putting one of the books in a clamp after gluing the spine, he appeared out of an aisle with a book in his gloved hands.
Very gently, like he was handling a newborn, he set the book on top of the counter and gave you a warm smile. Donning a pair of your own gloves, you picked it up and looked at it. It was a limited edition copy of Romeo & Juliet. You looked up at him and raised your eyebrow.
“I’d love to rent it, please,” Sato said, looking very pleased with himself. His earlier comment about the love story between the two of you made you frown. He was probably trying to be funny.
“If you’re being serious, the rental price is a third of the market cost. In this case, three grand,” you stated plainly.
You waited for him to turn pale, to balk, or to ask if you were serious. Most wouldn’t be able to fathom spending that amount of money to simply rent a book. Of course, Sato had a proven record of being infuriatingly unlike most people.
“Sounds great!” Sato said, “Do you accept Visa credit?”
It was unclear if he was being facetious and trying to fuck with you. This was something you took very seriously, and Sato trying to joke about such a grave topic was an inexcusable offense. You had kicked people out of your library for lesser crimes.
“If you’re being serious,” you reiterated, lifting your chin, “There are rules and conditions.”
“Of course. I’d love to hear them,” Sato said and gave that infuriating smile as he rested his chin on his hand and waited for you to proceed.
So, you did. First, there was a strict, one-week rental period to abide by for rare books. If the book was not returned within a week, there was a 3% interest fee for each day it was late. No exceptions. This rule did unfortunately mean that you would be seeing Sato again if he decided to rent the book.
Second, there were to be no foods or liquids near the book at any point in time. Renters were also sent home with a pair of gloves that they were required to use when handling the books. Any amount of damage was subject to a fee that depended on the extent of the damage and type of repair needed.
Third, lost or stolen books were to be compensated at the full value of their market cost and would be charged to the card on file. You were not above physically tracking someone down to hassle them for the money if you needed to, though it was highly unprofessional and frowned upon.
Finally, a valid library card and record with the library was required. These were strictly confidential, but a way to track possession of the precious books for security and record keeping purposes.
At the final rule, Sato seemed a bit apprehensive for once. You remembered him saying that he valued his privacy, but this was a non-negotiable. It was imperative that you followed these rules to the letter and you were not going to waive them for anybody. Especially not this guy..
“You need my name and stuff?” Sato frowned. It was odd seeing the expression when he had spent the entire time looking like a coat hanger was stuffed in his mouth.
“Yep. You need a library card or I can’t rent it out to you,” you said firmly.
You hoped this would be the end of the conversation. That he would find some humility and leave the damn book and whatever motives he had behind. Yet, after only a moment of deliberation, he nodded his head.
“Okay, that’s fair. I suppose it was going to happen eventually. How do I sign up?” Sato asked, back to smiling again. It was strange that he seemed so open about everything other than his identity, and that he had been surprised that you hadn’t known who he was. Maybe the two of you went to high school together or something. You didn’t really care either way.
Deflating like a balloon at the fact that this man could not be deterred, you did your job and helped him sign up for a library card. Almost reluctantly, he handed over his passport as a way of identification and you briefly glanced over it.
Satoru Gojo. That was his full name, apparently. It was interesting and vaguely familiar, like you had heard it in passing. You probably had attended the same university or whatever and he was just fucking with you by not telling you. No matter, you sighed and entered the information in before handing it back.
The entire time, he watched you with interest, like he was waiting for something. When you didn’t say anything about his passport, his eyes sparkled with unabashed excitement. Sato was extremely weird, but he was about to give the library three-thousand dollars, so you had to overlook it for the time being.
With the application filled out and signed, you prepared the book for him. You opened up your online catalog and marked it as rented and attached it to Sato’s account. Then, you retrieved a special archival book sleeve from one of your desk drawers and a single packaged pair of cloth gloves.
“That’ll be three thousand,” you reminded him.
With a proud look on his face, Sato handed over a matte black credit card. Running it through the system, it accepted within moments and saved you the amusing trouble of having to inform him his card declined. Though you would have definitely relished in that.
“Enjoy,” you murmured as you handed the book over with his card resting on top of it.
“Oh, I very much will,” Sato winked, “Enjoy the rest of your week, my dear Juliet.” This made you grimace, your brow creasing with obvious irritation at the nickname.
“That’s not my name,” you bit out.
“Well, it is until I learn your actual name,” Sato laughed, walking away before you could argue further, “Bye-bye, Juliet!”
Before he left, he had the audacity to give a theatric bow before he bounced away like a deer leaping through the forest. His sing-song voice echoed throughout the library, eventually being swallowed up by the double doors.
The sudden quiet was almost unsettling. More unsettling, however, was whatever the hell had just happened with this random man named Satoru Gojo. His disruption to your peace was irritating, and his blatant attempt at familiarity with you when you barely knew him. You were not looking forward to his return.
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── .✦ a/n: hello everyone! hope you enjoyed this new fic. this one is a bit more upbeat, though there will be some more mature features. it's hard for me to write a completely serious gojo fic because he's such a little freak (affectionate). i may not update this one as frequently as lftw but i still am planning to as i have the story sketched out in my brain :)
ur penpal sukuna fic is sooooo cute!! such a unique concept, i’m excited to see where it goes.
omg thank you so much!! i'm so glad that you like it :) i had the concept in my head as a vague story for a long time now and then once i started getting into jjk, i thought an au version of sukuna would be perfect for it!
── .✦ summary: Locked away behind mountains of historical books, most days you’re hardly aware of the outside world and what goes on beyond the familiar bound leather and yellowing pages. Your usually quiet routine is disrupted when a handsome new stranger with particularly striking blue eyes starts showing up. Little do you know, the man is actually world famous popstar Satoru Gojo. And he finds you extraordinarily fascinating and amusing since you have no idea who he is.
── .✦ pairing: popstar!gojo x librarian!fem!reader
── .✦ taglist: currently open, info here
── .✦ tags: Popstar au, probably ooc, nerdjo if you squint, one-sided enemies to lovers, yearning, antisocial reader, far too social gojo, gojo and reader are roughly same age late twenties, loneliness, mental health themes, hurt/comfort, some angst, pining, lovesick gojo, unamused almost rude reader, depictions of toxic fame and parasocial relationships, paparazzi, drug and alcohol use and mentions, improper use of the dewey decimal system, reader likes order and routine, gojo likes messing with reader, eventual smut, explicit nsfw themes
── .✦ warning: minors/ageless blogs do not interact!!!
── .✦ table of contents:
༺ chapter 1
༺ chapter 2 (coming soon)
── .✦ disclaimer: Yes I know this is not how libraries really work with rare book rooms and such. Just pretend with me bc I had a vision <3 also i may not update this one as frequently as lftw but i still have plans to update :)
── .✦ summary: Locked away behind mountains of historical books, most days you’re hardly aware of the outside world and what goes on beyond the familiar bound leather and yellowing pages. Your usually quiet routine is disrupted when a handsome new stranger with particularly striking blue eyes starts showing up. Little do you know, the man is actually world famous popstar Satoru Gojo. And he finds you extraordinarily fascinating and amusing since you have no idea who he is.
── .✦ pairing: popstar!gojo x librarian!fem!reader
── .✦ taglist: currently open, info here
── .✦ tags: Popstar au, probably ooc, nerdjo if you squint, one-sided enemies to lovers, yearning, antisocial reader, far too social gojo, gojo and reader are roughly same age late twenties, loneliness, pining, lovesick gojo, unamused almost rude reader, sreader likes order and routine, gojo likes messing with reader, hidden fame, slowburn
── .✦ warning: minors/ageless blogs do not interact!!!
series masterlist
The library was a place of respite for you. A home away from home. A safe haven from the outside world that made little sense to you. You much preferred the freedom of books. Unlike reality, you could pick them up and put them down as you pleased. You could re-read them over and over again, discovering new things and wearing the pages thin as you rubbed the bottom corners while you read.
Real life was ugly and raw, and people often made little sense to you. You had always felt a little different from everyone around you. Not in a special or egotistical way, but your brain seemed to work a bit differently. You processed things at a different pace and often had perspectives that the people around you didn’t seem to have.
That was why you liked books more than you liked people. They always held the same words and you could put them away when you didn’t want to deal with them anymore. People didn’t particularly like when you just walked away from them once you had decided they were annoying or frustrating you, but books didn’t mind at all.
Deciding to get your education in library sciences had been a no-brainer. It had required getting your master’s, which put you in a substantial amount of debt, but you knew that was what you were meant to be doing. Being amongst books for a living was heaven on earth to you. Even if it didn’t exactly pay the most.
Though you loved all genres3, you had a particular affinity for historical, rare books that had bound leather and vellum or papyrus pages. Ones that looked like they might fall apart if you breathed wrong. You loved restoring them, cataloging them, treating them with the utmost care like they were your children.
Shortly after you received your masters, you were hired at the massive public library in the city downtown that was three floors of wonderful book heaven. There was an entire floor dedicated just to rare, vintage books and it was almost always empty of people. Most avoided it because you had to go through a set of double doors into a climate controlled, light pollution free room. Nobody was allowed to touch books without asking you or wearing cloth gloves, and the trouble was too much for most.
It was the most ideal job in the world for you. Like it was handcrafted specifically with you in mind. Hardly anybody talked to you and you got to spend time nursing books back to health and helping source rare books for those that actually cared about them. You kept your head down most days, solely absorbed in your work.
Even outside of work, you didn’t really engage with the world. You skimmed over the news just enough to absorb basic geopolitics, but that was it. You didn’t watch movies or the latest television shows. You didn’t really listen to music and preferred your noise machine that made rain sounds. You didn’t give a shit about pop culture or celebrity gossip unlike your friends. You understood the appeal but it just wasn’t for you. You existed blissfully in a bubble of your own making and that was just the way you liked it.
On this particular morning, you had just arrived for your shift at promptly nine in the morning. You were never a minute too late. It was always 9:00am on the dot. You had a very specific routine that you went through every single day without fail.
First, you hung up your coat and purse on the hook behind the large oak desk where you usually resided. Then, you logged into your computer to clock in. You checked the inventory to see if there were any new shipments coming in or new books that needed to be processed.
If there were, you gathered the tools you would need for restoration. You had a very minimal set as you really could only fix so much with your limited skillset. Books that had extensive water or rot damage, covers that were significantly falling apart or crumbling, or worse, book worms, had to be handled by a professional. Those had often already been taken care of before arriving at your desk.
Around 10:00am, the shipment would arrive and the same old mailman would greet you with a warm smile. You would sign for the package and open it carefully, making sure not to let the box knife go any deeper than the tape to avoid damage to the precious books below. Then, you set to work.
It was 11:23am and you were cataloging a first edition and limited collection of Jane Austen’s novels. They were in decently good shape, though there was some minor separating from the spine that you could fix with a bit of archival, acid-free glue.
A soft chime indicated that someone had stepped through the first set of doors to your floor, and then the old oak doors squeaked quietly as someone walked in. You fully expected them to apologize and turn around to leave the second they realized this was not a typical library floor. Most people didn’t like the extreme quiet or the fierce looks you would give them when they attempted to touch a book without gloves.
Looking up, you saw that the intruder hadn’t left. In fact, they were staring right at you, and you made eye contact with some of the most piercing and intense blue eyes you had ever seen in your entire life. They glittered like liquid diamonds, shifting and fracturing in the room’s warm lighting.
For once, you were taken slightly off guard. The gaze belonged to a man you could only initially describe as “ridiculously pretty”. Quickly, your eyes darted over him, cataloging him as you did your books. He was tall and lithe, built like a super model that had just walked off the runway. His clothes were well tailored and expensive looking, though you couldn’t place the brand if you tried. All of your clothes were vintage and thrifted, which it didn’t appear this guy had ever worn in his life. Something about his entire demeanor screamed unnecessary opulence.
On top of his head was a wool beanie, and shockingly white locks of hair spilled messily out, despite him looking like he had tried to hide them, and he was wearing a pair of rectangular sunglasses perched on the end of his nose even though he was inside. His facial features were sharp and almost angelic, alabaster skin like carved marble. And on his lips was a wide, open-mouthed smile like he had just won the lottery.
The entire time, he hadn’t looked away from you. There was clear interest in his eyes, a playful quality that made you nervously irritated. Like you were a shiny new toy that he had just discovered. It made you feel like you were a helpless insect that a cat had discovered on the wall, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.
“Well, hello there!” he called brightly, his voice far too loud in the solitude of your library. An unwelcome intrusion that he at least should have had the decency to feel guilty for. When he waved, you noticed that he had a cup of coffee in his other hand, likely from the cafe downstairs. You frowned.
“No liquids in here,” you said sternly instead of acknowledging the friendly salutation.
The man looked down as if only just realizing he was carrying it.
“Whoops, sorry about that,” he apologized, not seeming to be upset by the fact that you had rudely ignored his greeting. In fact, he was still beaming pleasantly in your direction and it only annoyed you further.
“There’s a table outside you can set it on,” you said pointedly, your tone clipped.
Most people by this point would sheepishly leave and not return, not wanting to go through the hassle of having to abandon their precious source of caffeine. Or perhaps becoming embarrassed by their poor behavior being called out by you. For fuck’s sake there was a sign outside that literally said no liquids or food allowed. Even you abided by that rule and ate your snacks in the stairwell.
This strange man, however, did none of those things.
“Oh, that’s okay. I’ll just drink it real fast,” he flashed you another smile before taking the lid off his coffee cup.
Your heart jumped in your throat as the brown liquid sloshed dangerously in his paper cup. Horror scenarios played in your mind of him tripping and spilling it all over the shelf next to him, dribbling onto your poor monstera plant nearby and your precious plants. You had just nursed it back to health after one of the librarians downstairs had nearly killed it.
“Don’t-” you half-stood out of your chair, but it was too late.
The man lifted it to his lips and before your very eyes, drank the entire fucking thing in several gulps. Your eyes went wide with each subsequent bob of his throat, both horrified and weirdly fascinating by such a bizarre solution. Ten seconds of awkward silence later, he finished the cup and let out a satisfied hum.
“Wonderful coffee. Absolutely delicious. Best I’ve ever had. I think the barista downstairs said they roast the beans in house. Do you have a garbage can?” All of this was said so quickly you could scarcely follow along.
You silently pointed to the one next to the door, staring at him like he had a bomb strapped to his chest. This was easily the most confusing interaction you had had with a customer, and that included the man who had taken shrooms and thought your bookshelves were monsters from outer space talking to him.
“Thanks!” The man chirped, tossing it carelessly and turning his sights on you again. To your horror, he started to approach your desk. You shrank back, rolling a few inches away in your chair. Nothing about your energy seemed to deter him, which was alarming and frustrating all at once.
“Anybody else up here or are you alone?” He asked curiously, looking around as if expecting a sudden audience in between the aisles. Your frown deepened. A man asking you if you were alone was never a good thing. Sliding your hand under the desk, you put your finger on the panic button and readied yourself to push it if he became aggressive.
“That sounds vaguely threatening,” you accused, not bothering to sugarcoat your words. You met his curious stare with a challenging expression, hoping you looked fierce.
“What?” he looked taken aback and then seemed to understand as he laughed and shook his head, “No, no, not like that. I just highly value my privacy, that’s all.”
That still didn’t make any sense. Why would someone who valued their privacy try to do that in a public library? Your hand continued to hover on the button, feeling slightly less tense but still unsure of his motives. At least the guy on shrooms had told you about his delusions.
“Don’t we all?” you quipped, raising an eyebrow.
Surprised by your response, his head tipped back and he laughed loudly again. It echoed off the fuzzy green carpet and bounced around the old shelves. You imagined the soundwaves damaging the fragile pages of the books even though that wasn’t even possible and you frowned at him again.
“Do you really not know who I am?” The man asked as he leaned his forearms on the tall counter with an impish grin.
Normally, your desk felt like a fortress against whoever happened to trespass onto your floor. Your chair was tall enough to see over the edge but it still afforded you a bit of respite, especially if you had your head down. With him leaning into your space and fixing his shocking blue eyes on you, it felt like he was on top of a tower as the Eye of Sauron, seeing all. Plotting and planning something nefarious.
“Do we know each other or something?” you asked him in exasperation. Part of you hoped to offend him slightly and take him down a notch, but you genuinely had no idea who he was. Contrary to your wishes, he seemed to be even more delighted by your answer.
“No, but we should know each other. You seem fun,” he grinned, propping his head on one of his fists. At this point, he was practically draped over the tall counter as he continued, “You can call me Sato. What’s your name?”
Glancing down at your poor abandoned work, you did not want to indulge him in this ridiculous distraction. You had real work to do and didn’t have time to get to know this stranger that you didn’t want to get to know.
“Is there something I can help you find, sir?” you sighed, crossing your arms over your chest. You determined he wasn’t a threat, just annoying.
“Sir? Ouch,” Sato huffed and clutched at his heart in mock pain, “How could you call me that? We’re on a first name basis.”
“You don’t know my first name,” you pointed out, unaffected by his dramatics.
“Right, so this is the part where you tell me. We exchange names. We tell each other our life stories. We laugh. You fall in love with me and ask for my number. I tell you that I’m too busy for love and we become star crossed lovers like Romeo and Juliet. The whole shebang,” the man said quickly, beaming at you with expectation.
It was like he was not used to people refusing to cooperate with him. Like he expected adoration. Which made you want to comply even less out of spite. He wasn’t just annoying. The man was fucking insane and egotistical. Not like the shrooms guy, no, Sato was far worse.
“Wow, you certainly know how to paint a picture,” you said sarcastically, “The art history section is in row 5 on the left.”
If Sato had been beaming before, he looked positively manic with glee at that moment. Your efforts to dissuade him only seemed to encourage him more. The two of you were playing a game of chess, but all the pieces were in the wrong places and he kept stealing them from you, leaving you confused and scrambling to understand what the hell was going on.
Suddenly, he switched topics, gazing around at the cozy space stuffed with vintage books. His striking blue eyes darted around as if he could see every single dust mote in the place. You wouldn’t have been surprised if he had x-ray vision with those things. Sato looked impressed and gave a low whistle.
“So what’s the deal with all this?” Sato asked, cocking his head.
The question was so vague and ridiculous that you didn’t even know how to respond. You stared at him, waiting for him to elaborate, but he just smiled in response. This man never seemed to stop smiling.
“With…what?” you asked slowly.
“This,” he said unhelpfully, gesturing around vaguely as if that answered anything.
“Well…given that we are surrounded by books, I’d say we’re in a library,” you deadpanned.
Shame wasn’t in his vocabulary. Nor embarrassment it seemed. No, instead he just laughed again like it was the only thing he knew how to do, expression mirthful and amused. You had a feeling that no matter how you responded, positively or negatively, the man would react the same either way. Though you shuddered to think what he would do if you simpered and giggled at him.
“Well, yeah, obviously,” Sato said with a grin, like the two of you were both in on the joke together, “I mean like, the double doors and all the old books. Nobody’s up here. Is this forbidden or something? Am I trespassing?” He didn’t seem particularly troubled by the idea if he was.
“No, you’re not,” you gave a long suffering sigh, “This is the rare books room. It’s climate controlled and light controlled for archival purposes. Each book is specifically hand picked and sourced from around the world. While we do lend out books for a price, my work is mostly for record keeping, history preservation, and collection purposes. It’s the only place in the library that technically costs money, so if you want to check out books for free, I’d suggest the other floors.”
“Oh, money isn’t a concern of mine,” he waved you off, chuckling as if you were being ridiculous, “That’s fascinating, though. What kinds of books do you have?”
Your guard dropped slightly, only because he was now willing to discuss a familiar topic; your books. If the conversation stuck to that and he kept to himself, then you could probably tolerate him in your space. That didn’t seem likely with the current trajectory the two of you were headed on.
“A little bit of everything. If it’s historical or old, we probably have it,” you shrugged, and pressed once more, “Is there something you are looking for in particular?”
“Nope, not looking for anything,” he chirped, smiling down at you serenely, “I came up here for a bit of peace and quiet.”
It was so ironic you almost had to laugh. What the hell did this guy know about peace and quiet when he seemed hellbent on ruining both of those things for you. Now, the two of you were in an intense standoff as he waited for you to respond and you waited for him to leave. When you merely looked at him, he straightened.
“Mind if I look around?” Sato asked politely.
Yes, I do fucking mind, you thought bitterly. Unfortunately, you couldn’t say that. You had already been talked to by your supervisor for being rude and making a grown man cry when he tried to pick up a vintage copy of Othello with his horrifically greasy hands. You didn’t regret it, but did concede to try to be nicer. This was your best shot at that.
“Fine. Don’t touch anything with your bare hands. Use these gloves if you absolutely have to,” you said evenly, pointing to a box of the cloth gloves on the edge of your desk, “If you drop or rip anything, I will kill you.”
Okay, so much for being nice. You really had tried. Something about his infuriating smirk made you want to tear your hair out and become a worse person. You prided yourself on your ability to remain cool and unaffected by things, yet he was single handedly testing this in the ten minutes he had been in your presence.
Again, Sato only laughed, shaking his head with amusement as if the two of you were old friends and this was one of your classic bits.
“Understood,” he said with a warm smile, adding an unnecessary wink as he said, “Don’t worry, you can trust me.” Then, he grabbed a pair of gloves and actually disappeared. You did not trust him in the slightest.
A small, relieved sigh left your lips as he retreated into the depths of the shelves, finally leaving you alone. Part of you wanted to follow him around like a guard dog to make sure he wasn’t up to mischief in your precious books, but you knew that would be insane and ridiculous. You still didn’t like the thought of him in the library at all, but you had work that needed to be done, and you were not about to let him get in the way of that.
Surprisingly, he left you alone for the better part of an hour. It gave you a chance to finish cataloging the Jane Austen books and start on a few minor repairs that needed to be done. Just as you were putting one of the books in a clamp after gluing the spine, he appeared out of an aisle with a book in his gloved hands.
Very gently, like he was handling a newborn, he set the book on top of the counter and gave you a warm smile. Donning a pair of your own gloves, you picked it up and looked at it. It was a limited edition copy of Romeo & Juliet. You looked up at him and raised your eyebrow.
“I’d love to rent it, please,” Sato said, looking very pleased with himself. His earlier comment about the love story between the two of you made you frown. He was probably trying to be funny.
“If you’re being serious, the rental price is a third of the market cost. In this case, three grand,” you stated plainly.
You waited for him to turn pale, to balk, or to ask if you were serious. Most wouldn’t be able to fathom spending that amount of money to simply rent a book. Of course, Sato had a proven record of being infuriatingly unlike most people.
“Sounds great!” Sato said, “Do you accept Visa credit?”
It was unclear if he was being facetious and trying to fuck with you. This was something you took very seriously, and Sato trying to joke about such a grave topic was an inexcusable offense. You had kicked people out of your library for lesser crimes.
“If you’re being serious,” you reiterated, lifting your chin, “There are rules and conditions.”
“Of course. I’d love to hear them,” Sato said and gave that infuriating smile as he rested his chin on his hand and waited for you to proceed.
So, you did. First, there was a strict, one-week rental period to abide by for rare books. If the book was not returned within a week, there was a 3% interest fee for each day it was late. No exceptions. This rule did unfortunately mean that you would be seeing Sato again if he decided to rent the book.
Second, there were to be no foods or liquids near the book at any point in time. Renters were also sent home with a pair of gloves that they were required to use when handling the books. Any amount of damage was subject to a fee that depended on the extent of the damage and type of repair needed.
Third, lost or stolen books were to be compensated at the full value of their market cost and would be charged to the card on file. You were not above physically tracking someone down to hassle them for the money if you needed to, though it was highly unprofessional and frowned upon.
Finally, a valid library card and record with the library was required. These were strictly confidential, but a way to track possession of the precious books for security and record keeping purposes.
At the final rule, Sato seemed a bit apprehensive for once. You remembered him saying that he valued his privacy, but this was a non-negotiable. It was imperative that you followed these rules to the letter and you were not going to waive them for anybody. Especially not this guy..
“You need my name and stuff?” Sato frowned. It was odd seeing the expression when he had spent the entire time looking like a coat hanger was stuffed in his mouth.
“Yep. You need a library card or I can’t rent it out to you,” you said firmly.
You hoped this would be the end of the conversation. That he would find some humility and leave the damn book and whatever motives he had behind. Yet, after only a moment of deliberation, he nodded his head.
“Okay, that’s fair. I suppose it was going to happen eventually. How do I sign up?” Sato asked, back to smiling again. It was strange that he seemed so open about everything other than his identity, and that he had been surprised that you hadn’t known who he was. Maybe the two of you went to high school together or something. You didn’t really care either way.
Deflating like a balloon at the fact that this man could not be deterred, you did your job and helped him sign up for a library card. Almost reluctantly, he handed over his passport as a way of identification and you briefly glanced over it.
Satoru Gojo. That was his full name, apparently. It was interesting and vaguely familiar, like you had heard it in passing. You probably had attended the same university or whatever and he was just fucking with you by not telling you. No matter, you sighed and entered the information in before handing it back.
The entire time, he watched you with interest, like he was waiting for something. When you didn’t say anything about his passport, his eyes sparkled with unabashed excitement. Sato was extremely weird, but he was about to give the library three-thousand dollars, so you had to overlook it for the time being.
With the application filled out and signed, you prepared the book for him. You opened up your online catalog and marked it as rented and attached it to Sato’s account. Then, you retrieved a special archival book sleeve from one of your desk drawers and a single packaged pair of cloth gloves.
“That’ll be three thousand,” you reminded him.
With a proud look on his face, Sato handed over a matte black credit card. Running it through the system, it accepted within moments and saved you the amusing trouble of having to inform him his card declined. Though you would have definitely relished in that.
“Enjoy,” you murmured as you handed the book over with his card resting on top of it.
“Oh, I very much will,” Sato winked, “Enjoy the rest of your week, my dear Juliet.” This made you grimace, your brow creasing with obvious irritation at the nickname.
“That’s not my name,” you bit out.
“Well, it is until I learn your actual name,” Sato laughed, walking away before you could argue further, “Bye-bye, Juliet!”
Before he left, he had the audacity to give a theatric bow before he bounced away like a deer leaping through the forest. His sing-song voice echoed throughout the library, eventually being swallowed up by the double doors.
The sudden quiet was almost unsettling. More unsettling, however, was whatever the hell had just happened with this random man named Satoru Gojo. His disruption to your peace was irritating, and his blatant attempt at familiarity with you when you barely knew him. You were not looking forward to his return.
← prev 𓆩♡𓆪 next → (coming soon)
── .✦ a/n: hello everyone! hope you enjoyed this new fic. this one is a bit more upbeat, though there will be some more mature features. it's hard for me to write a completely serious gojo fic because he's such a little freak (affectionate). i may not update this one as frequently as lftw but i still am planning to as i have the story sketched out in my brain :)
Hey everyone! If you would like to be added to the taglist, please let me know by either interacting with this post in some way, replying to the lftw chapters, or sending me a message/ask. I'll add you to a running list I have. :)
IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: this story contains mature, explicit, nsfw themes and is 18+ only. MINORS, AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT. while i do not have the time/energy to look through each blog that interacts with my actual fics and operate on the honor system - i do check every blog being requested to be added to my taglist. in order to be added to my taglist - your bio or about me MUST confirm that you are not a minor/under the age of 18. if it doesn't, i will have to block you.
── .✦ summary: Locked away behind mountains of historical books, most days you’re hardly aware of the outside world and what goes on beyond the familiar bound leather and yellowing pages. Your usually quiet routine is disrupted when a handsome new stranger with particularly striking blue eyes starts showing up. Little do you know, the man is actually world famous popstar Satoru Gojo. And he finds you extraordinarily fascinating and amusing since you have no idea who he is.
── .✦ pairing: popstar!gojo x librarian!fem!reader
── .✦ taglist: currently open, info here
── .✦ tags: Popstar au, probably ooc, nerdjo if you squint, one-sided enemies to lovers, yearning, antisocial reader, far too social gojo, gojo and reader are roughly same age late twenties, loneliness, mental health themes, hurt/comfort, some angst, pining, lovesick gojo, unamused almost rude reader, depictions of toxic fame and parasocial relationships, paparazzi, drug and alcohol use and mentions, improper use of the dewey decimal system, reader likes order and routine, gojo likes messing with reader, eventual smut, explicit nsfw themes
── .✦ warning: minors/ageless blogs do not interact!!!
── .✦ table of contents:
༺ chapter 1
༺ chapter 2 (coming soon)
── .✦ disclaimer: Yes I know this is not how libraries really work with rare book rooms and such. Just pretend with me bc I had a vision <3 also i may not update this one as frequently as lftw but i still have plans to update :)
