Satoru Gojo doesn't get sick (until he does)
Warnings: sickfic, hurt/comfort, fluff, satoru gojo and his secret agenda to be babied, whiney mess satoru, short and sweet
A/N: still working on that toji cowboy fic i swear but here's some sick! satoru in the mean time
In all the years youâve known Satoru Gojo, heâs never once gotten sick. Not a sniffle, not a cough, not even the faintest hint of a fever. He used to brag about it in Jujustu Tech when Shoko was stuck in her dorm for the day after catching a nasty cold, leaning back in his chair with that insufferable grin stretching his face as he popped his bubblegum and Yaga rattled on about something at the front. âGojoâs donât get sick,â heâd say with absolute confidence, before snapping the gum with a loud, obnoxious pop. Youâd roll your eyes, but secretly you couldnât argueâyouâd never seen him ill.
Over time, you accepted it as fact. Maybe it was the endless flow of cursed energy that ran through him like a second bloodstream, or maybe it was just his absurdly good genetics. Whatever it was, Satoru was untouchable, even to something as mundane as the flu.
When winter came, it was always you curled up under blankets, groaning and half-delirious as Satoru fed you soup with a grin. âYouâre cute when youâre sick,â heâd tease, brushing sweaty strands of hair from your forehead while you shot him a death glare. By the end of flu season, heâd be perfectly fine, still bouncing around, still annoyingly chipper.
Gojoâs just donât get sick.
Itâs an early October morning when you wake to the quiet sound of rustling sheets. You turn over, expecting to see him sprawled out like usual, one arm thrown over his eyes. Instead, heâs curled slightly toward himself, pale even against the white sheets.
âToru?â you murmur, voice still rough with sleep. âYou okay?â
Satoru rubs at his face, blinking slowly. âMâfine,â he mumbles. âJust didnât sleep much.â
You sit up, studying him. His voice is hoarse, and thereâs a sluggishness to the way he movesâSatoru never moves slow. There's a lethargic quality to him, a dullness to his usual shine. His fingers cling to the blanket for a second longer before he tosses it aside and stands. âDonât give me that look,â he mutters, waving you off. âTold you, I donât get sick.â
You sigh but let it go. By breakfast, heâs still not himself. The usual mountain of food sits barely touched. His chopsticks push idly at the rice before he gives up entirely, muttering something about having no appetite. You kiss his temple, worry pressing at your ribs, but leave for your meeting with Yaga anyway.
Itâs barely noon when your phone rings, and youâre just about to meet with Yaga. You pick up, phone tucked by your ear as you walk through the empty corridors, the smell of Autumn drifting in the air.
âY/nââ Satoru croaks your name, weak, upset and you come to a standstill.
âYou threw up didnât you?â you mutter and Satoru lets out a small wounded noise that might be agreement. You sigh softly, already changing direction towards the exit. âAlright, alright, Iâm coming home,â you mutter. You call Yaga on your way, cancelling the meeting and running to your ailing boyfriend instead.
When you get back to the apartment, you slip your shoes off. âToru? Iâm home,â you call out. Thereâs only silence and you pad out towards the bedroom, and there you find him laying in bed with flushed cheeks, sweat damp hair and glassy blue eyes.
âHurts,â Satoru croaks weakly when he sees you, fingers already reaching for you, misery painted all over his face.
Yeah, Gojoâs donât get sick your ass.
Satoruâs running a fever, his forehead clammy and cheeks flushed pink. Heâs probably got the flu but he refuses to believe you even when the thermometer bleeps out a 103°. The next few hours blur together.
It turns out that Satoru Gojoâthe strongest, the untouchable, the man who claims Gojoâs donât get sickâis an absolute disaster when he does get sick. Not just a little needy. Not just slightly dramatic. No, Satoru, feverish and miserable, becomes a clingy, whiny, six-foot-two mess who cannot be left alone for more than thirty seconds without spiraling into emotional collapse.
The first time you try to leave the bedroom to make him tea, he lets out the softest, most pitiful sound youâve ever heard. A wounded little whine that has you freezing mid step. You turn around to find him reaching for you, hand flailing weakly above the blankets until his fingers brush your wrist. His lower lip wobblesâactually wobblesâand his glassy blue eyes blink up at you, quickly filling with tears.
âDonât go,â he croaks, voice hoarse and broken. âNeed you here.â
You sigh, torn between exasperation and fondness, but sit back down anyway. The second you do, he loops an arm around your waist and immediately buries his face against your stomach, sighing like youâve just cured his illness with physical touch alone. He nuzzles there, his hair tickling your skin, mumbling something incoherent about how warm you are. He stays like that for hours, attached, heavy, whining if you so much as shift.
And the whining? God, the whining.
He complains about everything. The light hurts his eyes. The soup is too hot. The blanket is too heavy. Then itâs too cold. His hair keeps sticking to his forehead. His throatâs scratchy. His back aches. You swear heâs giving a full performance of a man on his deathbed.
You fix every complaint, because you know he wonât stop otherwise. You dim the lights, turn the fan on low, press a cool cloth to his fevered skin. You brush the sweat-damp strands from his forehead and he sighs like youâve performed a miracle. And when he refuses to drink water, you hold the glass to his lips yourself. He takes a sip, eyes fluttering shut, like itâs divine intervention.
You have a sneaking suspicion that he could easily do all of this himself, but he doesnât want to. He just wants to be babied.
He clings to you constantly. When you try to get up, his hand shoots out from under the blanket, fingers curling in the hem of your shirt. Even when he falls asleep, he refuses to let go. His long legs tangle with yours, one arm slung over your middle, face pressed against your neck. He hums softly whenever you stroke his hair, the sound small and almost kittenish.
At one point, you step out of the room to make a quick call to Shoko when he's finally sleeping. Youâre gone for maybe three minutes. When you come back though, heâs sitting up, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes wide and filling with tears.
âYou were gone forever,â he says, hiccuping through tears and you sigh, making your way to him as the tears roll down, his voice thick and accusatory, as if youâve committed some terrible crime and not just gone to take a call in the other room.
âToru, it was three minutes," you mutter. But the logic doesnât reach himâof course it doesnât. His expression crumples further, bottom lip wobbling before he lets out a pathetic sound, the kind of sob that goes straight to your chest as he crumbles into you the second you come close enough and you take the brunt of his weight.
"You left," he sobs, fingers curling tight in your shirt even as he shakes his head against your throat, arms wrapped around your neck. "You left me," he accuses through his tears and you sigh and stroke his back, murmuring soothing nonsense until his breathing steadies. You let him cling and sob and get irrationally upset at you. Because even sick, pathetic, and sweating through his tshirt, heâs beautiful and ridiculous and you canât bring yourself to deny him anything.
You help him to the bathroom when he gets nauseous, rub slow circles into his back while he throws up, hold him when he trembles from the effort. Every time he lifts his head, his eyes are watery and miserable and you let him sob weakly into your throat after, long limbs folding into himself and weak.
âShh,â you murmur as you stroke his hair, feeling his tears on your throat. "It's okay, you're okay."
âI hate this,â Satoru croaks out, weak and tired and unused to the way his body aches. It's almost comical how a common flu could bring the strongest sorcerer to his knees but you can't find the humour when he's blinking back tears, sobs trapped in his throat, clinging to you on the bathroom floor. âIt hurts.â
âI know, baby,â you murmur as your rub his back, sitting on the bathroom floor with him kissing his hot temple. âI know.â
Satoru sobs softly into your throat, lashes wet and wounded noises pulling from his throat. You gently dry his tears after with your sleeve and he leans into the touch, starved and sick.
âDoinâ so good though, you know that?â you murmur and he nods dumbly, letting you fix his hair, wipe his cheeks, baby him like he isn't the most feared sorcerer alive. âGonna get through this, cause youâre so strong, yeah?â
âMâstrong,â Satoru whispers, and lets you untangle him and help him back to bed.
He curls into you, like an overgrown cat, letting you spoon feed him soup Shoko had dropped off with a dry smile whilst he watches his favourite Netflix shows. He refuses to eat unless you feed himâwhen you held the spoon up for him to take and he just looked at you with those glassy, ocean-blue eyes, lips parted, waiting for you to guide it to his mouth. You baby him because itâs rare when he lets you. Because sometimes heâs not a 6â2 sorcerer whoâs been hailed the strongest throughout heaven and Earth. He's just your needy, sick boyfriend.
âGood boy,â you murmur absently as he finishes his last bite of soup and he lets out the softest little pleased noise, before sinking deeper into the pillows.
He breathes quietly against your throat, eyes shut and pale lashes fluttering over his flushed cheeks, listening to the rerun of Friends drifting from the tv and the sound of your soothing, steady heartbeat.
âThank you,â Satoru mumbles so quiet you almost miss it, eyes flicking down to where heâs tucked against you.
âFor what, Toru?â you murmur as you brush a thumb over his temple and he sighs softly.
âForâŠâ he murmurs. âFor takinâ care of me like this. Pamperinâ me n' stuff.â
You soften at that and your lips dip down to brush over his forehead. âYeah? You like it? Being pampered?â
He hums quietly, face tilting up just barely into your kiss, lashes resting on his cheeks. He looks a little better from beforeâstill hot to touch and fevered skin but a little more calm, a little less restless.
âLike it when itâs you,â Satoru whispers and you stroke his cheek, and he lets himself float in your orbit, breaths soft and even, body buried beneath a heap of blankets. You pull the blanket up around his shoulders and let him drift, your fingers combing absently through his hair. His lashes flutter once, twice, before his eyes close completely.
thank you for reading! - my other works - © leclercloveletters 2025. all rights reserved. please do not upload elsewhere or copy
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