. 𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍
you don't remember falling asleep, Satoru remembers everything
tw : non-consensual drugging, psychological manipulation, gaslighting, implied . . . abuse, loss of bodily autonomy . gojo satoru x m!reader [mdni.] 🪽
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Thud.
The sound of your fist hitting the punching bag should be comforting.
Thud.
Again.
Thud...
Again. You can’t remember when you started feeling so much more nauseous.
You’ve been in the training for… how many minutes has it been? Maybe 10, maybe 20. The nausea just gets worse. It hurts when you bleed, and your vision is blurred. There’s red on your knuckles, blood, maybe. But there’s no pain to accompany, just this nauseous feeling that made you feel like you were drowning at all times, one that had accompanied you for the past couple of weeks. This feeling.. It isn’t new. It brings you back to–
No. Yes.
Your mind betrays you, somehow managing to conjure images of your ex in your mind despite the haze and despite the fact that there was saliva dripping down the sides of your mouth. Ts like the two lobes of your brain are fighting, and whichever side wants to think of him wins.
God, it was just like this, wasn’t it? After his fist would meet your face, his foot to your stomach. You’d crawl on the floor like some sick animal, and it felt just like this. Like you were swimming in a pool of vomit.. You thought you were rid of that feeling. It had came back only when you started dating Satoru, coincidentally.
Oh, Satoru.. Mayb–
“You should take a break. Your knuckles are all bruised.”
As if on command…. A stronger wave of nausea washes over you, and you collapse onto the punching bag, once muscular hands quivering as you turn around. There he was. Satoru. Standing in the doorway. The ink-black of his blindfold not able to conceal that sour, unsettling glow of those eyes that he seemed to get around you. A coy smile at his lips.
“C’mere, darling. Let’s get you to bed.” He says, as he pushes off the doorframe and stalks toward your weak, pathetic figure. Those firm, unbroken hands wrapping around your weak frame, dragging you along to your room. You want to protest.. It’s afternoon, right? There's so much more time… so much more to do.. You open your mouth, but more saliva drips out, and you shut it the best you can. You hear other sorcerers’ voices as you two pass, but it all fades back into nausea.. Your brain.. Is just a sea of nausea; every boat that tries to pass sinks into the thick waters. However, one boat seems to cut through, like a knife through paper “I’ve told you, you shouldn’t push yourself.” Satoru clucks, a small smirk gracing his lips, “You should sleep more.”
Maybe he’s right. Maybe you should.
Soon, after the long, sinking feeling that was being dragged to the room, Satoru pushes open the door. “We’re here, angel.” He sings and tosses your limp, ragdoll-like body onto the bed. Your head lolls on the pillow. “Disgusting. You really must sleep. Angel.” He adds the nickname like its an afterthought, an extra measure to make sure you don’t get upset at him. You drop your head onto the pillow, and Satoru clucks his tongue again. “Ah-Ah-Ah, Angel. Still need to take your pills, remember?” He lifts your chin, like a god to a desperate believer, or, his desperate angel. And he pours that same, sweet, sticky liquid mixed with crushed up tablets down your throat, most of it dripping down the sides of your mouth, mixing with the saliva.
Satoru sits on the bed, back against the headboard, as you crawl over and flop onto his lap. He wraps his hands around your frail body, and your body reacts while your brain sends failed warning signals. Signals to run. Signals telling you these arms can only mean harm, that its just restraint disguised as comfort, abuse, abuse, just like him, just like your ex–
You manage the power to quiet your brain.
Satoru would never hurt you.
You try to swallow down the rest of the pill-solution, trying not to choke, focusing on not looking pathetic. In this focus, you don’t realise how the rest of the room slowly morphs, stretches, changes into something… recognisable. Your body finally catches up to your brain, and you look up to where Satoru’s head should be, eyes wide, your heart suddenly beating fast like its waking up from that sullen daze. It’s not Satoru, he’s not Satoru. No. It’s him. Your ex. The one you hid from for months on end, the one who gave you all these sicknesses and issues, who reduced you from a grade 1 sorcerer to nothing but a pathetic weakling who needs The Strongest to do everything for him. No, No, NO. His face is all inked out, just those eyes, small and unblinking, staring down at you. You try desperately to pull away, but the ringing in your ears starts up again, mixing with your heart into one, swirling mess of your senses. Your ex’s grip tightens around you, a fully black smile appearing on his scratched face. He says something, but it fades into slop. He scowls. And before you realise, your lithe, weak body is thrown, thrown onto the cool floor.
Something rings through your body. Not pain, not even the noise in your ears. No…
Angel Angel Angel Angel
That nickname, the one only Satoru has ever called you, is ringing, surrounding, drowning you like a melody to the sick ballad that is your life. Your ex stalks closer, the bedroom fades to inky black, the final scene of the Hero so rightfully taking the life of the plagued. You can’t move, and all the force in your body is already being put to keeping your head up. He’s almost here, arm raising to deliver the final blow to the shell of who you’ve become, when warmth replaces the ringing.
“Still thinking about him, angel?” It's Satoru’s voice. Where is he? You can’t turn your head, can’t look, but you feel warmth around you. Hands on your shoulders. You try to move your eyes to his hand, but another one stops you, forcing your eyes to lull back towards your ex, who’s stopped, hand mid-swing, but is still smiling. Larger than before. “Still looking at him, too. You’re sick, Angel.” Satoru continues, voice stern like it's never been before.
“P-P-Plea-lease..” You choke out, trying to talk even as you feel like you're being drowned in an ocean of nausea, waves of pain washing over every attempt to speak. Satoru tched once more.
“Wake up, Angel.”
And just like that, it all disappears. Like his voice was the command it had all been waiting for. You’re back in the bedroom now. However, it’s much darker now. A dark that could perhaps rival the ink-black of the nightmare. You can only barely see two unblinking, pale blue lights in the midst of it all, as you choke on your own sweat and half gag, half pant. Only after you fall back into those heavy, chain-like arms do you choose to look up at those eyes, and your brain cuts through the thick mucus of emotions to ask itself the question that makes you want to give up all hope altogether:
How was he in my nightmare?
And then, before you can even blink , or at the very least, process how tired and sick you truly are, you feel Satoru smile. Its slow. Uncanny. Like some entity wearing the flesh of the man who protected you. His smile grows. How… how did he know you were thinking about him…?
“Ah.. go back to sleep, angel.”
And just like that, you pass out onto his shoulder. Like you’ve done dozens of times before.
But something stops you, right before you let the sleep Satoru claims is healing overtake you. It's a sense of… thought, perhaps. No, it’s something unamable. Something your brain seems to know but your body doesn’t. What you do know, what’s palpable, is that you feel the odd urge to.. Stay awake. Fake sleep.
So you shut your eyes, but don’t let the sleep abduct you. Strangely enough, Satoru doesn’t shift at all in the night. You move your heavy, weighted-down body enough to make it seem like you’re just shifting, when you’re really trying to glance up at him again in reality. And what you see disturbs you far more than any other thing that has been slowly breaking you thus far.
There, in the pitch black of the night, you can see those two glowing eyes wide open. Staring. At what?
YOU.
Somehow, he doesn’t notice you looking at him, but he does lean down to press a cold, seemingly required, kiss to your head. You wish you could fall asleep, but after seeing that sight, you don’t think you will.. You don’t want to. Unfortunately, the universe never seems to care about what you want, and those pills kick in.
…. You wake up, maybe.. 3 hours later, to the feeling of someone gently brushing their knuckles over your cheek. You still feel nauseous, but it's more of a lake than a sea. Still, your mind is hazy. Its.. Satoru, who’s touching you? “Angel!” he starts, and the nickname never made you want to throw up as much as it does now, “You’re finally up.” His tone is so cheery, his body so warm, that it makes you believe that his being in the nightmare was coincidental. That he may have just… Said your name in his sleep, and your nightmare reacted. “I made you breakfast. C’mon.” He gets up and walks to the kitchen. You try to follow suit, shakily getting up and staggering into the kitchen.
The kitchen feels wrong. Like its four white walls somehow know something you don’t.
You shakily, pathetically, sit at the counter, your shoulders slumped, head barely staying up. You stare at the plate Satoru had placed in front of you blankly, more focused on listening to him humming as he moves around and pours himself a coffee. The noise of the liquid pouring into the porcelain cup makes you want to vomit.
“You should eat,” Satoru says, breaking the silence, pausing to take a sip of his coffee. “Your hands were shaking a lot last night.”
…What the hell? You look up from the blank white of the plate.
“..Last night?” You echo his words, confused. He glances over to you, casually nodding and taking another sip. “Mhm. After the ‘nightmare’ .”
That makes the air leave your lungs, and your brain suddenly starts to dig itself out of that hazy state. Just a little bit. Barely anything, really.
You hadn’t said a word about your nightmare. Not since you woke up. You hadn’t said anything at all.
“I didn’t–” You have to take a pause, your mouth is dry. A sour taste arising in the back of your throat. “..I didn’t tell you what it was about.”
Satoru pauses, just for a second. Then he smiles.
“You didn’t have to tell me anything.” He set his mug down in the sink and then leaned against the counter in your general direction, arms folded. He slid the blindfold up, his gaze sharp, focused. Trained on you. “You always react the same way in it, anyway.”
Your pulse starts ringing loudly in your ears.
“How?” You ask quietly, your voice soft. He tilts his head, like he genuinely needed to think about your question, but his eyes stay trained on you. “You get really still. Like you’re waiting for it.”
Waiting for it. Your fingers dig into the fabric of your sleeve.
“And this time,” Satoru continues, voice gentle, “you’ve improved. You didn’t even scream when he threw you.”
Your stomach drops.
..That didn’t happen at all in the real world. You can feel the pain again, the shape of the nightmare, the way your body remembers the cold of the black floor, the impact of your body against it, the ringing of your ears. “I never told you that,” you whisper, cold dread in your voice.
..There it is. That flicker again in those eyes. Much sharper, something amused. Something pleased, almost happy.
Satoru straightens immediately. “Angel..” He coos softly, walking around the counter to stand behind you. Too close. His shadow seems to be blocking any exit, warm and unescapable. Truly just a restraint now. “You talk in your sleep.” He reaches out his hand, his thumb brushing your chin to lean it to the side so you have to look at him. “You said his name..” he added softly, “over and over.” Your throat tightens even more. “I.. did..?”
“Mhm.” His smile is sweet, perfectly reassuring, like he knew he was winning. “And mine. You said mine, too.” Your vision swims, adding to all the other feelings that were plaguing your body. “This happens sometimes,” he continues smoothly. “Dreams can blur together when you’re this stressed.” He releases you, turning away to walk to the couch. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.. What did I say about not sleeping, angel?”
He knew. He knew you had stayed up.
He grabs his jacket off the couch. “We have a mission.” He reminds you lightly, “You don’t want to be late again, do you?” Again. His voice was… patronising. He walks to the door and holds it wide open. Patiently waiting as he slid his blindfold down once more. Your body moves on its own, you stand, and look down at your legs in awe. How could you still stand? But shake your head to yourself, and follow him into the hallway outside the apartment. The lights flicker overhead. You focus all your attention on the simple movement of walking, one foot in front of the other, but your thoughts travel anyway.
He didn’t just know what happened in your nightmare. He knew when it happened. He knew that you didn’t sleep. He knew everything .
The hallway starts to warp around you. Your steps echo far too loud, too slow, like your body is lagging behind your thoughts for the first time in months. Satoru is still a couple feet ahead, hands in his pockets, whistling under his breath without a care in the world.
And thats when it hits. Not all at once – not panic, not yet. – but like a series of small, merciless thoughts.
He knew when you stopped fighting. He knew when you froze. He knew the noise you made when you were thrown.
And worse?
He woke you up. It wasn’t the nightmare naturally ending on its own accord, no, it wasn’t your body jolting awake in fear.
It was— His voice. Wake up, Angel.
Your stomach twists violently.
The pills. The timing. The way the room was dark when you woke, but morning had come too fast. The way he was already awake. Already watching.
Your vision blurs. And surely, like clockwork, the minute you thought of him, Satoru suddenly glances down at you. “Hey.” He says suddenly, “You’re pale.”
You don’t answer. Your heart is hammering now, blood roaring in your ears like waves crashing against a jagged cliff. Every instinct you’ve ignored for weeks, for months, is screaming at once.
Run.
You choke on your words, but manage to gasp out a “I– I think I’m g-gona be.. sicK.” And before he can respond, your body chooses for you. You bolt. Sprinting like you never have before, not since you’ve become a weakling.
Your footsteps slap against the tile as you sprint – still half stumbling – down the hall, hand flying out to steady yourself against the wall at times. Your stomach lurches more; nausea shoots up your throat, sharp and sudden. Behind you–
“Angel?” Satoru inquiries. His tone is light. Curious. Not alarmed. “Where’re you going off to?”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
You shove open a bathroom door and barely make it to the sink before your knees completely give out. You collapse to the hard tiled floor, gagging, retching – nothing coming up except for bile and frothy saliva, your body trying oh so desperately to purge something it doesn’t know the name of. Your hands are shaking so badly, but you hear the sound of notifications on your phone. They’re shaking so badly you nearly drop the device as you pull it out of your pocket. Three texts. All from Satoru. Your vision is clear enough that you can see each one:
Satoru: Where are you? Satoru: Why did you run out like that? Satoru: I found you. The bathroom, really?
Shit. Your fingers fumble, heart racing, breath coming in short, panicked pulls. You try to stand. You don’t make it in time. The door swings open.
Satoru is already here. He shouldn’t be. There was no time, no sound of footsteps. He looks down at you with something like fond disappointment.
“Angel,” he sighs deeply, kneeling in front of your violently shaky form. “You really shouldn’t strain yourself.”
You try to scramble back. Your limbs refuse. “You put it together, didn’t you?” He murmurs, voice fond. His hand cups your cheek, thumb gently wiping away sweat. “That always happens eventually.” You open your mouth, but no sound comes out. “It’s okay,” he says softly. “That’s why I don’t let you stay awake long, Angel.”
“You never notice. But I’m always there. In the room, in your head.” He adds. Your vision goes dark at the edges. Why was he blatantly admitting it? “It’s okay..” He repeats. “I know its hard when you remember things out of order.”
“That’s why you woke up when you did.” He adds. “You were starting to slip away from me.”
The room tilts. His arms slide around your back.
Effortless.
“I’m here to carry it with you, angel.” He whispers.
And the world drops out from under you.
…..
You wake up in bed. In the bed.
Dark. Thats the second thing you notice. For a half second, it feels like mercy.
Your body is heavy and distant, numb in a way that almost resembles peace. Like sinking beneath warm water, far from noise, far from memory.
A nightmare. It had to had been one. It’s over.
You finally breathe in, feeling the soft touch of the sheets under your fingertips, the mattress, the familiar shape of your room. Relief flares inside you, fragile, desperate.
And then it shatters, almost instantly.
The pills. The running. The tile cold beneath weak bones. The way your body gave up before your mind did.
Your eyes snap open, forcing themselves to adjust to the darkness. Please, oh please.. Your mind silently begs the universe that what, who you think is here isn’t really.
But oh, has the universe ever been kind to you, angel?
Satoru is at the foot of the bed. Not moving. Not blinking. Not even staring.
Waiting.
His eyes glow, bright and sharp against the dark. An impossible azure that seems to be too bright. His eyes are locked onto you, fully stretched open.
You feel it the moment you see it. The sense of being seen down to the bone, down to every vein and marrow. Claimed.
And oh if it hasnt set in already, you know now. This isnt a dream. Your breath stutters.
Satoru exhales slowly, steadying himself. He doesn’t blink. “…You woke up.” He stated quietly. The way he says it makes your stomach drop– he’s evaluating.
You attempt to stand up. Your muscles don’t respond at all.
His gaze flicks down, like he’s internally documenting the attempt, then lifts back up to your face. A corner of his mouth twitches, just a little, then stills – like he caught himself.
Its only then that you realize that his breathing is erratic.
“I. I was hoping you’d stay under longer,” he admitted meekly. “You’re easier that way.”
He moves closer, knees pressed against the bed. His breathing gets more erratic, but the movement was intentional. Not rushed. Not hesitant. The space between you two tightens.
And then you see it. Theres something in his hand.
Its long. Dark in the light. Held with deliberate care – It can’t be a weapon, but it isn’t harmless either. His grip is firm. Controlled. The familiarity makes you believe its more on the weapon side.
“I stayed awake,” He starts. He begins pacing, ever so slightly, eyes widening even more. “The whole night.” he pauses. “Watching you try to wake up.”
Your heart slams against your ribs.
His jaw tightens. The restraint he’s showing is clear now. The way his shoulders are set, like he’s holding something back. Like he’s holding himself back.
“You kept fighting the medicine..” he murmurs. “Even when your body was done.” His eyes flicker – briefly, dangerously. “I almost let you.”
The silence stretches as you gape at him, nodding his head ever so lightly to himself. “I didn’t.” He finishes his sentence. He moves closer, knees bucking against the bed. The mattress dips at the pressure of his weight.
You’re close. Close enough that you can see his face, now. The intensity behind his composure. The way his eyes don’t soften. His focus is unwavering. His chest is still heaving, and oh, you wish you could tell what he was holding. He looks more human now. “You scare yourself when you remember.. That’s when you get sick.” He says absentmindedly.
Your gaze drifts, unfocused. There was something in your body that was overpowering all sense and adrenaline, but you couldn’t put your finger on what.
And then your gaze lands onto the nightstand. The pillbottle. Its knocked over, on its side. Empty. Your heart lurches violently, and Satoru follows your stare.
For a split second, something sharp flashes across his face. Satisfaction.
It's gone almost immediately.
“I gave you more than usual,” his tone is even, “you weren’t settling.” Your breath begins to shallow. “You needed it, you were spiralling.” He adds quickly, his own breath quickening, the object in his grip getting dangerously close to your foot. His free hand reaches out, fingers brushing your hair.
You flinch. His fingers pause. A beat.
He continues his caress, slower.. Like he’s choosing each movement.
“Don’t do that again.” He whispers. “Don’t wake up.” His thumb presses against your pulse, “Go back to sleep, angel.”
The darkness takes you before you can fight it, your head dropping with a thud.
You weren’t meant to wake up.
wc: 3.7k . this work is a continuation of a previous drabble, meant for @dawnbreakerswife .
png cred: @todo269 on twt (idk I found it on pinterest)
divider cred: @cursed-carmine (I'm pretty sure)
©» Suugaru ; est. 2025: please do not copy, steal, claim this work or adjust it with AI.
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tags (there's a lot)
