#ilovesatoru⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"stop writing angst." — my friends.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"no." — me.
໒ִ͡ 𓏼 𝓛etter from the editor ♡⠀゛
— call me sayuki/yrovi. age: ???. she/her. asian, filo. multi-fandom. infp-t. i either overthink a lot, or dont care at all. i cry while writing angst yet i continue anyway. fluff enthusaist. addicted to angst. requests are open, anon, 'n i love you all <3
໒ִ͡ 𓏼 𝓕ind me elsewhere ♡⠀゛
— discord. (mostly online here) twitter. spotify.
— check more info on my web! (ill release it soon)
໒ִ͡ 𓏼 𝓣he fine print ♡⠀゛
— i strictly write for satoru gojo only. all my works are f!reader, i can make gn!reader works if requested. i usually make fluff that'll give u diabetes or angst that'll probably break ur heart. i try to post atleast 2 stories every single day. feel free to slide into my dms, i love talking to ppl!! (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)
— boundaries & req rules
໒ִ͡ 𓏼 𝓣he archive ♡⠀゛
— masterlist !
໒ִ͡ 𓏼 𝓢ayuki's select ♡⠀゛
— frozen in time <- part 2 (maybe in another life), stay. please.
໒ִ͡ 𓏼 𝓕resh off the press ♡⠀゛
— fireworks & first kisses, green eyed monster , the world's worst patient , i'll find you (i always will) , aisle b there 4 you
thank you for stopping by my little corner of the internet — whether you came for the fluff, the angst, or just because you're as obsessed with gojo satoru as i am!! my inbox is always open, anon is on for the shy ones, and i read every single message with a heart full of love. if you've ever read something i wrote and felt something — that's everything to me. that's why i stay up way too late writing about a fictional man who has no idea i exist. now go drink some water and hug a pillow, you deserve it!! stay peak and love satoru for me !! — sayuki ‹𝟹
synopsis. You brought him for emotional support. You forgot he's the reason you need emotional support. Grocery shopping with Satoru was supposed to be quick. Thirty minutes, in and out. That was an hour ago. He's put pudding cups in the cart three times. You've taken them out three times. He's now fake-crying in the frozen foods aisle. You're dating a toddler. You wouldn't trade him for anything.
pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader
content & warnings. fluff, humor, established relationship (dating), chaotic gojo, grocery store shenanigans, pet names, soft ending, he's a menace but he's YOUR menace
series. part 5 of "Satoru as Your Boyfriend: The Series" all parts will be found here!
word count. 2k+
A/N. HES SO SILLY I CANT WITH HIM TvT
2nd A/N. i decided to add this to the "Satoru as Your Boyfriend: The Series" Series!! ^^ you can find the other parts here!
You should have known better.
That was the thought circling your brain as you stood in the entrance of the grocery store, watching your boyfriend grab a shopping cart and immediately start making engine noises.
"Vroom," Satoru said, pushing the cart forward. "Vroom vroom."
"Satoru."
"Vroom."
"We haven't even entered the store yet."
He looked up, feigning innocence. "I'm warming up, sweetheart!~ Gotta get in the zone."
"The zone."
"The shopping zone. It's a real thing. Very competitive."
You stared at him. He stared back, his white hair still slightly damp from the shower he'd taken before you left. He looked clean. He looked annoyingly handsome. He looked ready to cause chaos.
"You showered," you said.
"I always shower, sweetheart. I'm a civilized human being."
"Debatable."
He gasped dramatically. "You wound me!"
You sighed. This was going to be a long trip.
You made it approximately thirty seconds into the produce section before he caused his first incident.
"Sweetheart," he said, holding up a pineapple. "Sweetheart. Look."
"I see it."
"Look at its hair."
"Satoru—"
"It looks like me. This pineapple has my hair!"
You glanced at the pineapple. Then at his white, messy locks. Then back at the pineapple.
"...Put the pineapple in the cart."
He beamed. "I knew you'd understand."
He placed it in the cart gently, like it was a baby.
Then he picked up a coconut.
"What about this one?" he asked. "Does this one look like Suguru?"
"Put the coconut down."
"It's bald. Like Suguru's—"
"Satoru."
He cackled and put the coconut back.
You moved on to the apples.
He followed behind you, pushing the cart in lazy zigzags, occasionally bumping into your heels.
"You're going to run me over," you said.
"That's called motivation, sweetheart. Keeps you moving."
"I'm moving just fine."
"You're moving slow."
"I'm looking at the apples."
"The apples are all the same."
"They're not all the same. There are different kinds."
"They're all round and red."
"Some are green."
He squinted at the display. "Green apples are just unripe red apples. It's a scam."
You turned to look at him. "That's not— you know what. I'm not doing this."
You put a bag of Granny Smiths in the cart.
He gasped. "You proved my point."
"I proved nothing."
"You bought the unripe ones!"
"They're not unripe, they're Granny Smiths—"
"Granny Smith sounds like a fake name. Who is Granny Smith? I don't trust her."
You closed your eyes and took a deep breath.
"Let's move on," you said.
"To where?"
"The snack aisle."
His eyes lit up like you'd just offered him the world.
"Lead the way, sweetheart."
The snack aisle was a mistake.
You realized this the moment Satoru spotted the gummy worms.
"Sweetheart," he whispered, his voice reverent. "Sweetheart. Look."
"I see them."
"They're worms."
"They're gummy worms."
"They're delicious worms." He grabbed a bag and threw it into the cart. "We're getting these."
"We don't need gummy worms."
"Everyone needs gummy worms. It's basic human rights."
You took the bag out.
He put it back in.
You took it out again.
He put it back in again, this time holding eye contact.
"Satoru."
"Sweetheart."
"We're not getting gummy worms."
"And yet," he said, gesturing at the cart, "they're already in there."
You stared at him. He stared back, completely unbothered.
"...Fine," you muttered. "But only one bag."
He immediately grabbed a second bag. "This one's for emotional support."
"You don't need emotional support gummy worms."
"You don't know what I need, sweetheart. You're not a doctor."
"Neither are you."
"I'm a sorcerer. Same thing."
You gave up.
By the time you reached the end of the snack aisle, the cart contained: two bags of gummy worms, a box of pudding cups (he'd put them in three times, you'd taken them out twice, he won), a family-sized bag of chips, and a jar of pickles that he'd claimed "looked lonely."
"Pickles don't get lonely," you said.
"This one did. Look at its face!"
"It doesn't have a face."
"It has a vibe, sweetheart."
The frozen foods aisle was where things got dramatic.
You were looking for frozen vegetables — normal, reasonable, adult things — when Satoru spotted the ice cream.
"Sweetheart," he said. "Sweetheart. We need this."
"We don't need ice cream."
"We always need ice cream."
"We have ice cream at home."
"That ice cream is old."
"It's from last week."
"That's ancient in ice cream years."
You ignored him. He picked up a tub of cookies and cream and held it to his chest like a lost puppy.
"Please," he said. "For my health."
"Your health?"
"Ice cream has calcium. Calcium is good for bones. I'm doing this for my bones, sweetheart."
"That's not how—"
"For my bones."
You stared at him. He stared back, bottom lip jutted out in a pout.
"...Fine."
He grinned and dropped the ice cream into the cart.
Then he picked up another one.
"Satoru."
"What? This one's for your bones."
"My bones are fine."
"Your bones deserve treats too."
You took the second tub out. He put it back in. You took it out. He put it back in.
This happened four more times.
And then — he fake-cried.
"I can't believe this," he said, his voice wobbling dramatically. "My own girlfriend. Denying me frozen dairy. In my time of need."
"You're not in need."
"I'm emotionally in need."
"You're ridiculous."
He sniffled — completely fake, utterly theatrical. "I just wanted ice cream. Is that so wrong?"
An old lady walking past gave you a judgmental look.
"Ma'am," Satoru said, turning to her. "Tell her. Tell her I deserve ice cream."
The old lady blinked. Then she looked at you.
"Let him have the ice cream, dear," she said. "Life's too short."
Satoru gasped. "Thank you! Finally, someone with taste!"
You put the second tub of ice cream in the cart.
He beamed.
You died inside.
By the time you reached the checkout, you were exhausted.
Satoru, meanwhile, was thriving.
He stood beside you at the register, leaning against the cart like he'd just run a marathon.
"We did good today, sweetheart," he said.
"We bought pudding cups, gummy worms, and two tubs of ice cream."
"And pickles."
"And pickles."
"That's called balance."
The cashier — a teenager who looked like she wanted to be anywhere else — started scanning your items.
Satoru watched her for a moment. Then he leaned closer to you, his hand finding your lower back.
"Sweetheart," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. "I'm bored."
"You're always bored."
"Entertain me."
"I'm paying for groceries."
"Boring."
He pressed a kiss to your temple, then rested his chin on your shoulder, watching the cashier scan the items with half-lidded eyes.
The cashier glanced up at the two of you — at his arm around your waist, his chin on your shoulder, his whole body curved around yours like he was protecting you from the world.
She raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"That'll be sixty-three forty," she said.
Satoru handed her his card before you could even reach for your wallet.
"I've got it, sweetheart," he said, pressing another kiss to your hair. "I'm a gentleman."
"You're a menace."
"Your menace."
The cashier handed him the receipt. He took it without looking, his eyes already back on you.
"Ready to go home?" he asked.
"Please."
He grinned, grabbed the bags with one hand, and reached for your hand with the other.
"Lead the way, sweetheart."
He carried all the bags.
You'd tried to help — really, you had — but every time you reached for a bag, he pulled it away.
"I'm the strongest," he said. "Let me be useful."
"You're always useful."
"I'm always handsome. Usefulness is debatable."
You laughed — a real laugh, bright and tired and full of love.
He grinned at the sound.
"There she is," he said softly. "There's my favorite sound."
You stood by the car as he loaded the bags into the trunk. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. He had flour still in his hair. His blindfold was pushed up around his neck. He looked soft. He looked yours.
"Satoru," you said.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For coming with me."
He closed the trunk and walked over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist.
"Always, sweetheart," he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Even when I'm annoying."
"Especially when you're annoying."
He laughed. "Yeah. Especially then."
You stood there for a moment, wrapped in his arms, the grocery store parking lot buzzing around you.
"I love you," you said.
"I know," he said. "I love you too."
Then he pulled back, grinned, and added: "Now let's go home. I want to eat the pickles."
"The pickles?"
"They're lonely, sweetheart. They need me."
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.
And when he reached for your hand on the drive home, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your palm, you forgot why you'd ever been annoyed in the first place.
Back at home, you watched as Satoru unpacked the groceries.
He put the ice cream in the freezer.
He put the pickles in the fridge.
He pulled out a container of pre-cut pineapple — the kind that's supposed to go in the fridge immediately — and placed it on the counter. Not in the fridge. Just... on the counter. Like a psychopath.
"Satoru," you said slowly. "That goes in the fridge."
"No it doesn't."
"Yes it does. It's cut pineapple. It needs to be refrigerated."
He tilted his head, considering the container like it had personally offended him.
"The pineapple wants to be free, sweetheart."
"The pineapple wants to not rot."
"The pineapple is living its best life." He patted the container gently. "Room temperature. Fresh air. This is what it deserves."
You stared at him.
He stared back, completely serious.
"That pineapple is going to go bad by tomorrow," you said.
"Then we'll enjoy it while it lasts. Carpe diem, sweetheart. Seize the pineapple."
"You're ridiculous."
He pulled back, cupping your face in his hands. "Takes one to know one, sweetheart."
You sighed, but you were smiling.
"...I'm moving it to the fridge when you're not looking."
"I'll know."
"How?"
"The pineapple will tell me."
"You're impossible."
"And even then," he said, pulling you into his arms, "you're still here."
You stayed like that for a moment — wrapped in his arms, the pineapple sitting on the counter, the rest of the groceries forgotten.
Then you pulled back, looked him in the eyes, and said: "I love you. Even when you're wrong about fruit."
He grinned. "I'm never wrong about fruit."
"The pineapple says otherwise."
"The pineapple is a liar, sweetheart. Don't believe its propaganda."
You laughed, and he kissed your forehead, and the pineapple stayed on the counter.
(You moved it to the fridge after he fell asleep. He never mentioned it. You never mentioned it. Some things are better left unsaid.)
Later that night, you were curled up on the couch together, a movie playing quietly in the background. Satoru's head was in your lap, his white hair fanned out across your thighs, his eyes half-closed.
"Hey, sweetheart," he murmured.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for letting me come with you today."
You ran your fingers through his hair. "You say that like I had a choice."
He laughed softly. "You always have a choice. You just keep choosing me."
You looked down at him — at his tired eyes, his soft smile, the way his hand had found yours and was holding it like you were something precious.
"Always," you said.
He smiled — that soft, private smile he only gave you.
"Good," he whispered. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
Outside, the world kept turning. The pineapple sat in the fridge, safe and cold. And Satoru — your Satoru — fell asleep in your lap, his hand still in yours, his heart beating steady beneath your touch.
You pressed a kiss to his forehead.
"Love you, pretty boy."
He mumbled something in his sleep that sounded like "love you too."
And that was enough.
A/N. my grocery trips are so boring can gojo tag along with me 🥹💔 what's next for the series? 🧐
Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3
Hello love your work so much!!! Especially the fireworks one!!! Can you write one of Gojo and reader getting into a heated argument could be about him overworking a lot not spending enough time with her or something like that. Reader ends up crying/ angry and walks out to cool off in the rainy night. Gojo feels bad and chases after her. Worried he can’t find her. Ending it with a soft and yearning Gojo to reader. Both of them apologizing to each other more of Gojo though lol. Him being the biggest simp for his girl.😩
࣪ 𝅄⠀I'll Find You (I Always Will)⠀ ۪ ݁ ── ᰍ
synopsis. You're tired of being his second priority. Tired of loving someone who's never there. So you leave — into the cold, into the rain, into the dark. He follows. He always follows. But this time, he's scared he won't find you in time.
pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader
content & warnings. ANGST with happy ending, hurt/comfort, heated argument, crying, reader walks out in the rain, gojo chases after her, soft and yearning gojo, gojo panicking UGH WHY IS HE SO PRECIOUS, apologies, biggest simp energy, established relationship, pet names
series. part 4 of "Satoru as Your Boyfriend: The Series" all parts will be found here!
word count. 2.6k+
A/N. EKEKEK THANK YOU SO MUCH ANON!! this is my first actual inbox ask and i'm tweaking !! i'd absolutely LOVE to write it for you, thank you so much for sending the idea in!! i hope you'll enjoy it ♡
2nd A/N. i decided to add this to the "Satoru as Your Boyfriend: The Series" Series!! ^^ you can find the other parts here!
The apartment was quiet when he came home.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet — the kind that settles over a house when everyone is asleep and the world is soft. This was heavier. Stifling. The kind of quiet that meant something was wrong.
Satoru noticed it immediately.
The lights were dim — only the small lamp by the couch was on, casting long shadows across the floor. The kitchen was dark. The bedroom door was closed.
And you were sitting on the couch with your back to him, your shoulders stiff, your hands folded in your lap.
He should have known something was wrong.
He should have asked.
Instead, he toed off his shoes and called out, "Hey, sweetheart. Sorry I'm late. There was a—"
"A curse. I know."
Your voice was flat. Cold. Nothing like the warm greeting he was used to.
He paused mid-step, his hand still on the wall. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"You don't sound fine."
You didn't answer. You just sat there, unmoving, your back still turned.
Satoru felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He walked closer — slowly, carefully, like he was approaching something fragile. "Did something happen? Did I—"
"When was the last time we had dinner together?"
He blinked. "What?"
"Dinner. Together." You stood up slowly, finally turning to face him. Your eyes were red; like you'd been crying. Or holding back tears. He couldn't tell. "Sitting at the same table. Eating the same meal. When, Satoru?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. His mind was blank.
"That's what I thought," you said, your voice cracking. "You don't remember. Because it's been weeks. Weeks, Satoru. I've been eating alone every night, saving you a plate that just ends up in the fridge, watching the clock tick past midnight wondering if you're even coming home."
"That's not— I've been busy—"
"You're always busy." You laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just exhaustion. Just pain. "There's always a curse. Always a mission. Always something more important than me."
"That's not fair." His jaw tightened. "You know I don't have a choice. You know what happens if I—"
"Don't you?" You stepped closer, and he saw your hands were shaking. "You're Gojo Satoru. The strongest. You could say no. You could set boundaries. You could— you could choose me for once."
"I am choosing you." His voice rose, not in anger, but in desperation. "Everything I do — every mission, every curse I exorcise; I do it to keep you safe. To keep everyone safe. Do you think I want to spend my nights fighting when I could be here with you?"
"I don't know what you want anymore." Tears spilled down your cheeks. "Because you never tell me. You never tell me anything. You just— you disappear. For days. And I'm left here, alone, wondering if you're okay, if you're hurt, if you're even thinking about me."
"Of course I'm thinking about you." His voice cracked. "I'm always thinking about you."
"Then act like it."
The words hung in the air between them — sharp and painful and true.
Satoru didn't have an answer.
He stood there, frozen, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to say something — anything — that would make this better. But every word he thought of felt wrong. Inadequate. Like trying to stop a flood with his bare hands.
You wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand. "I can't do this anymore."
His heart stopped. "What?"
"I can't keep waiting for you." Your voice was barely a whisper now — broken in a way he'd never heard before. "I can't keep loving someone who's never there."
"You think I want to be away from you?" He stepped closer, reaching for you. "You think I like coming home to an empty apartment? To seeing you asleep and knowing I can't wake you up because you need the rest?"
"Then stay."
"I can't!"
The words echoed through the room.
You flinched like he'd hit you.
Satoru's hands flew to his hair, tugging in frustration. He paced to the window, then back, his breath coming fast and uneven. "I can't," he said again, quieter this time. Broken. "I wish I could. God, I wish I could. But I can't. There are people counting on me. There are— there are things only I can do. And if I stop — if I take a break — people die, sweetheart. People die."
"Then maybe I'm not strong enough for this." Your voice was hollow. "Maybe I'm not strong enough to love someone who's always halfway out the door."
He turned to look at you.
You were crying — silent tears streaming down your face, your arms wrapped around yourself like you were trying to hold yourself together.
"Satoru," you said, "I love you. I love you so much it terrifies me. But I can't keep being your second priority. I can't keep feeling like I'm competing with the whole world for a few minutes of your time."
"You're not my second priority." His voice cracked. "You've never been my second priority."
"Then why does it feel that way?"
He didn't have an answer.
You waited.
The silence stretched between you — thick, painful, unbearable.
And then you walked to the door.
"Where are you going?" he asked, panic creeping into his voice.
You didn't answer.
"Sweetheart—"
You opened the door.
"Please—"
You stepped into the cold.
And you let the door close behind you.
It was pouring outside.
You hadn't noticed when you walked out — too numb, too angry, too sad to feel anything. But the rain soaked through your clothes within seconds, plastering your hair to your face, making you shiver violently.
You didn't go back.
You couldn't.
Your legs carried you forward — past the building, past the streetlamp that flickered in the storm, past the corner store where you and Satoru had bought ice cream at midnight three months ago. Everything looked different in the rain. Blurred. Forgotten.
You didn't know where you were going.
You just knew you couldn't stay.
The tears came again — hot against your cold cheeks, mixing with the rain until you couldn't tell the difference. You wiped at your face furiously, but they wouldn't stop.
How did we get here?
You thought about the beginning — when he would text you constantly, send you blurry selfies from missions, show up at your door with takeout and that stupid grin. When he would hold your hand like he was afraid you'd disappear. When he looked at you like you were the only real thing in the world.
When did that change?
Or did it never change — and you just stopped noticing?
You walked until your legs ached. Until your shoes were soaked through. Until you found yourself at a small bus stop; the kind with a cracked plastic awning and a single wooden bench.
You sat down.
You hugged your knees to your chest.
And you let yourself cry.
Satoru stood in the doorway for exactly thirty seconds after you left.
He stared at the closed door. At the space where you'd been. At the faint imprint of your hand on the handle.
She left.
You made her leave.
You pushed her away and now she's gone.
His chest felt like it was caving in.
He grabbed his coat and ran.
The stairs were a blur. The front door slammed behind him. The rain was falling hard, but he didn't notice. He didn't care.
"Sweetheart!" he called out, his voice swallowed by the storm. "Sweetheart, where are you?"
No answer.
He ran faster. Down the street. Past the corner store. Past the café where you'd had your first date — he remembered the way you'd laughed at him for ordering the sweetest thing on the menu. Past the park where you'd kissed for the first time — his heart had been pounding so hard he was sure you could hear it.
Where would you go?
He thought about your favorite places. The bookstore two blocks away. The bridge overlooking the river. The little bakery you loved.
But it was past midnight. It was raining. You wouldn't go far.
Would you?
A new fear gripped him — colder than the rain, sharper than any curse he'd ever faced.
What if he couldn't find you?
What if you didn't want to be found?
"Please," he whispered into the storm. "Please, just— just let me find you."
He kept running.
You heard him before you saw him.
"Satoru?" you whispered, lifting your head.
His voice was hoarse — raw from calling your name over and over, from the cold, from the desperation clawing at his throat. He sounded broken in a way you'd never heard before.
You stood up slowly, peering into the rain.
And then you saw him.
He was running — coat flapping, hair plastered to his face. He looked nothing like the confident, untouchable Gojo Satoru. He looked scared. He looked human.
When his eyes landed on you, he stopped.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
The rain fell between you — a curtain of water that blurred the edges of everything. You could see his chest rising and falling, his hands trembling at his sides, his lips moving like he was trying to speak but couldn't find the words.
Then he crossed the distance between you.
He stumbled. Slipped. Caught himself just before he fell. And when he reached you, he didn't say anything at first. He just pulled you into his arms.
He was cold. He was shaking. But he held you like he'd never let go.
And then — you felt it.
A shift in the air around you. A stillness. The rain was still falling, you could see it out of the corner of your eye, but it wasn't touching you anymore. None of it was.
His Infinity.
He'd wrapped it around you without a word. Without asking. Without even thinking, probably.
Your throat tightened.
"I'm sorry," he said into your hair. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, 'm so sorry."
You stood there, frozen, as he held you like you might disappear.
"I thought I lost you," he whispered. "I couldn't find you. I looked everywhere. I ran— I ran for blocks— and I couldn't— I thought—"
"I'm here," you said softly. "I'm here, Satoru."
He pulled back just enough to look at you — really look at you. His eyes were red, his cheeks wet, his lips trembling.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "For everything. For being late. For not being there. For making you feel like you're not the most important thing in my life; because you are. You are. You're everything, sweetheart. Everything."
Your heart cracked.
"I know I'm not— I know I don't say it enough. I know I don't show it enough. But you—" He swallowed hard. "You're the reason I come home. You're the reason I fight. You're the reason I'm still—" His voice caught. "You're the reason I'm still here."
"Satoru—"
"Let me finish." His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away tears. "I've been so focused on protecting you that I forgot to be with you. I've been so scared of losing you that I pushed you away. And that's— that's not fair to you. You deserve better than that. You deserve someone who's here. Who stays."
"I just want you," you whispered. "I don't care about the missions. I don't care about the curses. I just— I just want to know that you're coming back. That you're thinking about me. That I'm not— that I'm not invisible to you."
"You're not invisible." His voice was fierce despite the tremor. "You've never been invisible. You're the only thing I see, sweetheart. The only thing that matters."
You stared at him — at the man who had everything, who could have anything, who was standing in the rain holding you like you were the only thing keeping him alive.
"Then stay," you said. "When you can. Just— just stay."
"I will." He pressed his forehead against yours. "I'll do better. I'll be better. I don't know how yet, but I'll figure it out. For you. For us."
You closed your eyes.
The rain fell around you — but not on you. Not anymore. His Infinity was still there, wrapped around you like a second skin. Keeping you dry. Keeping you safe.
He was still taking care of you. Even now. Even after everything.
You walked home together, hand in hand.
The rain was still falling, but you couldn't feel it anymore. His Infinity had expanded — covering both of you now. The water slid off an invisible barrier inches from your skin, leaving you warm and dry.
Neither of you spoke.
You didn't need to.
His thumb traced circles on the back of your hand. His shoulder pressed against yours. He was warm. He was here.
When you reached the apartment, he opened the door for you — something he always did, something you'd stopped noticing until now.
"I'll make tea," he said.
You moved around each other in the kitchen — a quiet rhythm that felt like coming home. He filled the kettle. You pulled out two mugs. He measured the tea leaves. You grabbed the honey.
"I'm still sorry," he said, his voice soft.
"I know." You paused, setting down the honey. "I'm sorry too."
He looked up at you, surprised.
"I said some things I didn't mean," you continued, your voice quiet. "About not being strong enough to love you. That wasn't— I didn't—" You swallowed. "I'm sorry, Satoru."
He crossed the kitchen and pulled you into his arms, his chin resting on top of your head. "You don't have to apologize."
"Yes, I do." Your voice was muffled against his chest. "I hurt you too. I walked out. I made you chase me in the rain." You looked up at him. "That wasn't fair."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "You were right, though. About some of it."
"That doesn't mean I should have left."
He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "We're both idiots."
"Yeah," you agreed, a small smile tugging at your lips. "We are."
He pulled back just enough to look at you — really look at you. His eyes were tired, but soft. "I love you," he said.
"I love you too, Satoru."
"Thank you for letting me find you."
You looked up at him — at his tired eyes, his soft smile, the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world.
"You always do," you said.
He smiled — that real smile, the one he only gave you.
"Always will, sweetheart. Always will."
You woke up to the smell of pancakes.
For a moment, you were disoriented — the sheets were warm, the pillow was soft, and there was an empty space beside you where Satoru usually slept. But the kitchen light was on. And the smell was coming from there.
You padded out of the bedroom, still in your pajamas, your hair a mess.
Satoru was standing at the stove — still in his sweatpants, his hair still damp from a shower, flipping pancakes like he'd been doing it his whole life.
"You're awake," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "I was trying to be quiet."
"You're never quiet."
"I'm always quiet. You're just a light sleeper."
You leaned against the doorframe, watching him. The way he moved — careful, deliberate, like he was trying to get everything right.
"What's all this?" you asked.
He set the spatula down and turned to face you. "I wanted to do something nice. For you." He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. "I know it doesn't fix everything. I know I have a long way to go. But I wanted to— I don't know— start somewhere."
Your heart swelled.
You crossed the kitchen and wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his back.
"This is perfect," you said.
"It's just pancakes."
"It's you. Staying. Trying." You looked up at him. "That's all I ever wanted."
He turned in his arms, pulling you close.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said.
"I know."
"Neither are you."
"No," you agreed. "I'm not."
He kissed your forehead — soft, lingering, full of promise.
"Good," he said. "Because I'd chase you again. Every time."
You smiled.
"I know, Satoru. I know."
A/N. hes so cute and precious AWSHWSH TvT hes adorable !! i love writing worried, hurt, or comfort gojo cz hes so bad at explaining his feelings but he always does his best 🥹
synopsis. One year before Shinjuku, Gojo Satoru got down on one knee in the snow. He was flustered, fumbling, so desperately in love that he forgot every word he'd rehearsed. You said yes. You kissed him in the falling snow. You thought forever meant forever. — Or: a proposal captured on accident, and the winter that came after.
part 2. please read "Maybe in Another Life" here!
pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader
content & warnings. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH (canon compliant — shinjuku showdown), angst/NO comfort (i'm sorry), fluff in the first half, proposal, happy tears then REAL tears, blood, death scene, last kiss, snow motif, grief, BRING TISSUES!!!!!!!, you will cry. i'm sorry. i cried too.
word count. 2.9k+
A/N. before u read, i highly suggest playing je te laisserai mots by Patrick Watson, sparks by Coldplay, or The Night We Met by Lord Huron while reading !! ^^ enjoy <3
The snow started falling on a Tuesday.
Not the angry, biting kind of snow that made you want to stay inside forever. This was the soft kind — the kind that drifted down in lazy spirals, catching the streetlight glow like little falling stars. The kind that made the world feel quiet. Made everything feel possible.
You were standing in Satoru's backyard, bundled in one of his coats — the black one that swallowed you whole, the sleeves falling past your fingers, the collar smelling like him. Mint and something warm. Something safe.
"Satoru, it's freezing," you called out, your breath fogging in the air.
He was across the yard, already packing a snowball with suspiciously efficient hands. His blindfold was pushed up into his hair — messy, falling over his forehead — and his cheeks were pink from the cold. He looked young. He looked happy.
"That's the point!" he called back. "Snow fights require snow! And cold! And—"
A snowball hit him square in the chest before he could finish.
He looked down at the white splatter on his dark sweater. Then back up at you. His eyes narrowed.
"Oh, you're dead."
You shrieked and took off running, your boots crunching in the fresh snow. His laughter chased you across the yard — loud, bright, echoing off the trees.
You didn't stand a chance.
He was faster. He was always faster. His arms wrapped around your waist from behind, spinning you around once before both of you tumbled into a snowbank in a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter.
"I win," he announced, hovering over you, his face inches from yours.
"You cheated."
"I played strategically."
"That's not a thing."
"It is when I do it."
Snowflakes were catching in his white hair, melting on his eyelashes. His nose was pink. His lips were parted, still smiling. He was so beautiful it made your chest ache.
"I love you," you whispered.
The smile on his face softened into something quieter. Something real.
"I know," he said, just as soft. "I love you too."
He kissed you then — cold lips, warm heart — and the snow kept falling around you like the world was giving you its blessing.
"Okay, okay, round two," you said, propping your phone against a snow-covered rock. "But this time — this time — I'm going to win."
Satoru raised an eyebrow from across the yard. "You want me to go easy on you?"
"I want you to try."
"Bold words from someone who's already wearing my coat."
"Your coat is my coat now. I stole it fair and square."
He gasped dramatically, one hand over his heart. "The betrayal! The audacity! And on the Lord's day—"
"It's Tuesday."
"—on the Lord's Tuesday!"
You threw a snowball at his face.
He dodged it effortlessly (annoying), packed three of his own in rapid succession (unfair), and the battle began again.
The snowball fight reached its peak quickly. You were laughing so hard your stomach hurt, your cheeks were numb from the cold, and you were winning — or at least, that's what you kept telling yourself.
"Last one!" you called out, ducking behind a snowbank. "I'm getting the final shot!"
Satoru's laughter echoed across the yard. "You can try, sweetheart!"
You scooped up a handful of snow, packed it tight, and grinned to yourself. This was it. The winning shot. He'd never see it coming.
"Satoru?"
You paused.
His voice had changed. It wasn't playful anymore. It was... softer. Quieter.
"Can you— can you come here for a second?"
You rolled your eyes, still grinning. "Nice try! You're not tricking me that easily!"
"I'm not— I'm not tricking you. I promise."
Something in his voice made you stop.
Not because he sounded like he was lying. But because he sounded like he was scared. And Gojo Satoru was never scared.
You dropped the snowball.
Slowly — confusion prickling at the back of your mind — you stood up from behind the snowbank and turned around.
And then.
And then.
He was on one knee.
His white hair was messy, falling over his forehead. His cheeks were pink — from the cold, or from something else, you couldn't tell. His hands were shaking. His blindfold was pushed up into his hair, and his eyes — those impossible, endless blue eyes — were looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
In his trembling hands was a small velvet box.
Open.
A ring inside.
The snow was falling around him — catching in his hair, melting on his shoulders — and he looked like something out of a dream. Like something too beautiful to be real.
"Satoru?" Your voice came out as a whisper.
"I had a speech planned," he said, and his voice cracked. His voice never cracked. "I practiced it. Like, a lot. Shoko helped. She said it was 'acceptable,' which from her is basically a standing ovation."
Your hands flew to your mouth.
"You forgot the snowball," he continued, rambling now, words tumbling out like he couldn't stop them. "You were about to throw it at me. I saw you packing it. And I thought — I thought, if she throws that snowball, I'm going to lose my nerve. So I called you over. And now you're here. And I'm—"
He swallowed.
His eyes were wet.
"I'm on my knees. In the snow. Asking you to marry me. And I forgot every single word I was supposed to say, because you're standing there in my coat with snow in your hair and you're beautiful and I can't— I can't think. I can't breathe. I can't do anything except—"
He held out the ring.
His hands were shaking so badly.
"I've been planning this for a year," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "A whole year. I had spreadsheets. Geto made fun of me. Shoko called me pathetic. Which — fair. But I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted you to know that I didn't just... wake up one day and decide. I've been choosing you. Every day. For so long I can't remember what it felt like not to."
A tear slipped down your cheek.
Then another.
Then you were crying — full-body sobs that shook your shoulders — and you didn't even care. You didn't care that the snow was cold. You didn't care that your nose was running. You didn't care about anything except him.
"Please don't cry," he said, his own voice wobbling. "If you cry, I'm going to cry, and then we're both going to be crying in the snow and the recording is going to be ruined—"
You let out a wet laugh, gesturing vaguely toward the rock. "You're the one who set up the recording!"
"For memories!" he protested. "Not for— not for this—"
"For what? Me saying yes?"
"For you crying! I didn't plan for the crying!"
"You're crying too!"
"I'm emotional! There's a difference!"
You laughed again — a real laugh, wobbly and tearful and so full of love it hurt — and dropped to your knees in front of him, snow soaking through your jeans.
"Yes," you said, cupping his cold face in your hands. "I will marry you. I will be your wife. I will wear your last name and steal your hoodies and wake up next to you every single morning until I'm old and gray and you're still annoyingly pretty."
"I'm not pretty, I'm devastating—"
"Shut up and put the ring on me."
He did.
His hands were still shaking. He almost dropped it twice. You laughed at him. He didn't even care.
When the ring finally settled on your finger — a perfect fit, because of course he'd checked — he let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
"We're getting married," he said.
"We're getting married."
"I'm going to be your husband."
"You're going to be my husband."
He kissed you then — snow falling around you, your phone still recording on the rock, the whole world quiet and soft and right.
And when he pulled back, you were both crying.
"I love you," he whispered.
"I know."
"Say it back."
"I love you too, Satoru."
Behind you, forgotten in the snow, the snowball you'd dropped was slowly melting.
You didn't need it anymore.
You'd already won.
The snow started falling on a Thursday.
Not the soft kind. Not the kind that made you think of laughter and proposals and warm coats. This was the angry kind — the kind that fell in sheets, driven by wind, stinging your cheeks like tiny shards of glass.
You didn't feel it.
You couldn't feel anything.
Because Satoru was in your arms, and he was dying.
No.
The word echoed in your skull, hollow and useless. A denial that meant nothing. A prayer that wouldn't be answered.
No, no, no, no, no—
His blood was soaking through his clothes, dark and warm against your hands. You pressed down — you pressed so hard — but it kept coming. Kept spilling. Kept leaving him.
"Satoru," you whispered. "Satoru, stay with me. Please."
His eyes were open — those impossible blue eyes, the ones that had looked at you like you were the only real thing in the world. But they were hazy now. Distant. Like he was looking at something you couldn't see.
"Hey," he said, and his voice was so soft. So tired. "You're... you're crying."
He was the one dying and he was worried about your tears.
"Don't," you choked out. "Don't talk. Save your strength."
"I've saved enough strength," he murmured. "I've been saving it... for years. For this."
"Don't."
"You look beautiful." His hand — cold, trembling — reached up to touch your face. His fingers left a trail of red on your cheek. "Even now. Even with... the crying. You're so beautiful."
"Satoru, please—"
"I should have... married you sooner." His lips twitched — almost a smile. "I was scared. Isn't that funny? The strongest... scared of a wedding."
"Stop it. Stop talking like—" Your voice broke. "You're going to be fine. You're going to— the others are coming. Shoko can—"
"She can't fix this."
The words hit you like a physical blow.
"Don't say that."
"You know I don't... lie to you. Not about... important things."
The snow was falling on both of you now — catching in his white hair, melting on his pale skin. He looked like a painting. Like something frozen in time.
"Do you remember," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "the snow... last year...?"
"Stop talking."
"I was so nervous. I forgot... everything. Every word."
"You proposed. That's all that matters."
"I wanted it to be... perfect. For you." His hand found yours — cold fingers intertwining with your bloodstained ones. "Was it... was it perfect?"
"Yes," you sobbed. "It was perfect. You were perfect. Please stay."
"I can't."
"You promised."
His eyes — those beautiful, terrible eyes — found yours one last time. And even now, even like this, they were soft. They were loving.
"I know," he whispered. "I'm sorry."
"Satoru—"
"Tell me... about the snow. Tell me... you remember."
"I remember," you said, your voice cracking. "I remember everything. You were wearing that stupid sweater. You kept fixing your hair. You were so nervous you dropped the ring in the snow and had to dig for it."
"I did not—" A weak laugh. "Okay. I did."
"You called me beautiful. You said you'd been choosing me every day. You said you couldn't remember what it felt like not to."
"Sounded... smoother... in my head."
"It was perfect."
His eyes were drifting. His hand was getting colder.
"Satoru." You gripped his fingers tighter. "Satoru, look at me. Please."
He did.
Barely.
"I love you," you said. "I love you so much. I'm going to say it every day. Every single day. Even when you can't hear me anymore."
"Waste of... good words."
"They're not wasted. They're for you. They're always for you."
His lips curved — just a little — into that soft, private smile he only ever gave you.
"I love you too," he breathed. "My... my wife."
You weren't married. You never got the chance. The wedding was supposed to be in spring — cherry blossoms, not snow. A white dress, not bloodstained hands.
But he called you his wife anyway.
And you let him.
Because you were. You always would be.
"Kiss me?" he asked. Quiet. Hopeful. Like he was asking for something small.
He was asking for a last kiss.
You leaned down — snow falling on his face, on his lips, on his closed eyes — and pressed your mouth to his.
He was cold.
He was so cold.
But his lips moved against yours — weak, fading — and you felt his hand squeeze yours one last time.
"I love you," he didn't say.
"I know," you didn't answer.
When you pulled back, his eyes were closed.
The snow was falling on his face — on his white hair, his pale cheeks, his parted lips.
His hand was limp in yours.
"Satoru?"
Nothing.
"Satoru, wake up."
The wind howled.
The snow kept falling.
And Gojo Satoru — the strongest sorcerer in the world, the man who had grinned in the face of death, the man who had dropped a snowball and forgotten every word of his proposal because you were too beautiful — did not move.
Did not breathe.
Did not open his eyes.
He was gone.
You don't know why you watched it.
It's been three months. Or six. Or a year. You've stopped counting. Time doesn't feel real anymore — not without him.
But tonight, the snow is falling again. Soft. Gentle. The kind that reminds you of him.
And you find yourself scrolling through your phone.
Past the mission reports. Past the concerned texts from Shoko. Past the photos you can't bring yourself to delete.
And then — there it is.
The video.
The one you recorded on that Tuesday, one year before the world ended. Before he ended.
Your thumb hovers over the screen.
"Don't," you tell yourself. "Don't do this to yourself."
You press play.
The video is shaky at first — your phone propped against a rock, the lens speckled with snow. You hear your own voice, distant and laughing: "Okay, round two. But this time — this time — I'm going to win."
And then — him.
Satoru appears in the frame, messy-haired and pink-cheeked, his blindfold pushed up into his white hair. He's grinning — that stupid, brilliant grin that used to make your heart stutter.
"Bold words from someone who's already wearing my coat."
You watch yourself throw a snowball at his face. You watch him dodge it (show-off). You watch the two of you chase each other across the yard, laughing, breathless, alive.
You watch yourself duck behind a snowbank. Hear your own voice: "Last one! I'm getting the final shot!"
You watch him call out: "You can try, sweetheart!"
And then —
His voice changes.
"Satoru?"
"Can you— can you come here for a second?"
"Nice try! You're not tricking me that easily!"
"I'm not— I'm not tricking you. I promise."
The video captures it perfectly: the moment the snowball fight stops. The moment your laughter fades. The moment you drop the snowball — you see it fall from your hands, forgotten — and turn around.
And then —
He's on one knee.
The snow is falling around him. His hands are shaking. His voice cracks when he speaks.
"I had a speech planned. I practiced it. Like, a lot. Shoko helped. She said it was 'acceptable,' which from her is basically a standing ovation."
You're crying now. Tears slipping down your cheeks, warm against your cold skin.
"But I forgot it. I forgot every single word. Because you're standing there in my coat with snow in your hair and you're laughing and you're beautiful and I can't— I can't think. I can't breathe."
He opens the ring box.
"I've been planning this for a year. A whole year. I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted you to know that I didn't just... wake up one day and decide. I've been choosing you. Every day. For so long I can't remember what it felt like not to."
You watch yourself say yes.
You watch him put the ring on your finger.
You watch him kiss you in the falling snow.
And you watch — at the very end of the video, just before your phone tips over in the snow — his face.
He's looking at you like you're the sun.
Like you're the only thing keeping him warm.
Like he already knows — even then, even when everything was still possible — that you were the best thing that would ever happen to him.
The video ends.
The screen goes dark.
Outside, the snow keeps falling.
And you press your hand to your chest — right where the ring hangs on a chain beneath your shirt, too precious to put away — and you whisper it.
"I love you too, Satoru."
The wind doesn't answer.
The snow doesn't stop.
But somewhere — somewhere beyond the cold, beyond the dark, beyond the place where the strongest sorcerer in the world took his last breath—
You swear you hear him say it back.
A/N. guys im sorry please dont kill me i am so sorry I LOVE YOU ALL!!!!! i cried writing this 🙁
This one's for everyone who's ever lost someone too soon.
Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3
synopsis. Gojo Satoru can bake. He's actually pretty good at it. But tonight, he's not trying to impress you — he's trying to make you laugh. (The flour is everywhere. The cookies are burnt and are practically charcoal. He's never been happier.)
series. part 3 of "Satoru as Your Boyfriend: The Series" all parts will be found here!
pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader
content & warnings. fluff, humor, established relationship (dating), gojo is competent but CHOOSES chaos, baking disaster, fire alarm mentioned, flour everywhere, pet names, soft ending, he just wants to see you smile!!
word count. 1.2k+
A/N. he knows what he's doing. that's the problem. 〒▽〒
You were curled up on the couch, halfway through a book, when Satoru appeared in the doorway.
He was wearing an apron.
Not just any apron — the pink one with ruffles that you'd bought as a joke last year. The one that said "Kiss the Cook" in glittery letters. He had it tied around his waist like he was about to star in a cooking show.
"Satoru," you said slowly. "Why are you wearing that?"
He struck a pose. "I'm going to bake you cookies."
"You... what?"
"Cookies," he repeated, as if that explained everything. "Chocolate chip. From scratch. Because I love you and I want to express my love through the medium of baked goods."
You set down your book. "You know how to bake?"
He grinned — that stupid, beautiful grin. "Of course I do, sweetheart. I'm a man of many talents."
You should have known then.
You really should have.
You followed him into the kitchen, mostly out of curiosity. The counter was already covered in ingredients — flour, sugar, butter, eggs, chocolate chips. A recipe book was open to a page that looked suspiciously clean.
"Have you done this before?" you asked.
"Define 'done this.'"
"Have you ever baked cookies from scratch?"
He paused. "I've watched videos."
"Satoru."
"Videos count as experience!"
You crossed your arms. He ignored you, tying the apron strings tighter and rolling up his sleeves. His forearms were visible. You tried not to stare.
"Okay," he announced, cracking his knuckles. "Let's do this."
The first sign of trouble was the flour.
He poured it into the bowl with great enthusiasm — too much enthusiasm. A white cloud erupted from the mixing bowl, dusting the counter, his apron, and his face.
"You got flour on your nose," you said.
"I meant to do that." He didn't wipe it off. "It's called flair."
"You're going to get flour everywhere."
"Sweetheart, the flour is already everywhere." He gestured grandly at the counter. "Embrace the chaos."
You sighed, but you were smiling.
He measured the sugar wrong — double what the recipe called for — and when you pointed it out, he just shrugged.
"It's love sugar," he said. "Extra sweet. For my extra sweet girlfriend."
"That's not how baking works."
"Baking is an art, not science."
"Baking is literally chemistry, Satoru."
He dipped his finger into the sugar and held it up to your lips. "Taste test?"
You ate the sugar off his finger. He looked delighted.
"See?" he said. "You trust me."
"I trust that you're going to burn down the kitchen."
"Slander."
He added the eggs — too enthusiastically, shells included. You watched him fish the fragments out with his fingers, completely unbothered.
"Most people crack the eggs first," you said.
"Most people are boring."
He stirred the mixture with too much force, splashing batter onto the counter, onto his apron, onto your shirt.
"Satoru!"
"Oops." He did not look sorry. "Clumsy me."
"You're doing this on purpose."
"I have no idea what you mean, sweetheart."
He was grinning. He was absolutely, undeniably, grinning.
The cookies went into the oven.
That's when things got really chaotic.
You weren't sure what temperature he'd set — he'd twisted the dial with great confidence and refused to let you check. Within five minutes, smoke was billowing out of the oven.
"Satoru, the cookies—"
"The cookies are developing character."
"The cookies are on fire."
The smoke alarm went off.
You scrambled for a towel, waving it under the detector while Satoru stood perfectly still, watching you with something that looked suspiciously like adoration.
"Are you just going to stand there?" you yelled.
"You're so cute when you're flustered," he said.
"THE ALARM, SATORU."
He sighed dramatically, reached up, and pressed the silence button on the smoke detector. Then he opened the oven.
Inside were twelve black discs. They were barely recognizable as cookies. They were smoking.
"Perfect," he announced.
"Those are charcoal."
"Those are homemade charcoal. With love."
You stared at him. He stared back, flour on his nose, sugar in his hair, a smear of chocolate on his cheek. He looked absolutely ridiculous. He looked absolutely adorable.
"You did this on purpose," you said.
He didn't deny it. He just smiled — soft, warm, full of love.
"You've been so stressed lately," he said quietly. "Work. Life. Everything. I just wanted to make you laugh."
Your heart melted.
"You set the kitchen on fire to make me laugh?"
"The kitchen is not on fire. The cookies are slightly crispy."
"Baby, they're charcoal."
"Artisanal charcoal."
You laughed — a real laugh, bright and surprised. His face lit up like you'd given him a gift.
"There she is," he whispered. "There's my favorite sound."
You crossed the kitchen and wrapped your arms around his neck, not caring about the flour or the sugar or the smoke still lingering in the air.
"You're ridiculous," you said against his shoulder.
He pulled you closer, his voice soft against your hair. "Ridiculously in love with you. Does that count?"
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were soft, vulnerable, nothing like the confident man who'd walked into the kitchen an hour ago.
"...That's cheating," you whispered.
"Is it working?"
You kissed him instead of answering.
He ordered pizza.
While you waited, he insisted on showing you the "best part" of the baking process.
"There's no best part," you said. "The cookies are ruined."
"The best part isn't the cookies, sweetheart. It's the cleanup."
You watched in disbelief as he grabbed the bag of flour and sprinkled it over both of you — a cloud of white settling on your hair, your shoulders, your nose.
"Satoru—"
"Now we match," he said, grinning. "Flour twins."
"I can't with you sometimes."
He tilted his head, feigning innocence. "And yet you're still here. Curious."
"You're lucky I love you."
"I'm not lucky. I'm blessed."
The pizza arrived twenty minutes later. You ate it on the couch, surrounded by the mess you hadn't cleaned up yet, your head on his shoulder and his hand on your thigh.
"Next time," he said, "I'll bake you cookies that aren't charcoal."
"Next time?"
"There's always a next time, sweetheart."
You looked up at him — at the flour still dusted in his white hair, the chocolate smear on his cheek, the soft smile on his lips.
"Okay," you said. "Next time."
He kissed your forehead.
"Promise."
You woke up to the smell of freshly baked cookies.
Satoru was standing in the kitchen, still in his pajamas, holding a tray of perfect golden-brown chocolate chip cookies. No smoke. No flour cloud. No fire alarm.
"I practiced," he said, sheepish. "After you fell asleep."
You stared at him.
"You stayed up all night... baking cookies?"
"I wanted to get it right." He set the tray on the counter and rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. "For you."
You walked over, plucked a cookie from the tray, and took a bite.
It was perfect.
Soft, warm, melty chocolate, just the right amount of sweet.
"Satoru," you said, your voice soft.
"Yeah?"
You kissed him — slow and sweet and full of love.
"They're perfect," you whispered against his lips.
He grinned — that stupid, beautiful, adorable grin.
"I know," he said. "They're for you."
A/N. HES PRECIOUS !!!! i can already imagine his cute boyish grin that makes ur heart melt UGHHHHHHHHH (┬┬﹏┬┬) also, do you guys like my pun!?!? SDHHSDH
Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3
synopsis. Gojo Satoru died in the snow, with your name on his lips. That was supposed to be the end. But grief is a desperate thing, and you discovered that writing letters could pull him back — not alive, not really, just… present. For a few hours. Until the letters ran out. Until he started slipping away. Until he begged you to let him go. — A sequel to "Frozen in Time."
part 1. please read "Frozen in Time" here!
pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader
content & warnings. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH (canon compliant), LOTS OF ANGST please take note of this before reading, grief, mourning, possession/loss of self, unhealthy coping mechanisms, angst with NO comfort (bittersweet ending), letter format, second person POV, you WILL cry. i cried multiple times reading this. prepare yourself.
word count. 3.5k+
A/N. ill be giving u guys some song recommendations before reading this too ! i highly suggest listening to "Too Little Too Late" by Laufey, "The One That Got Away" by Katy Perry, "Fake Plastic Trees" by Radiohead, "Lover, You Should've Come Over" by Jeff Buckley, "Cry", or "Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby" by Cigarettes After Sex. Please enjoy! <3
2nd A/N. this is a sequel to "Frozen in Time" and I have attached the link above. ^^ You don't have to read that first, but it will hurt a lot more and you'll understand the story more if you do. Heavily inspired by the manhwa "Sincerely Yours." If you'd like to read it, feel free to dm me :D
The first letter was an accident.
You didn't mean to write it. You were just sitting at his desk — the one he never used because he was always too restless to sit still — with a blank page in front of you and a pen in your trembling hand. The ring hung on its chain around your neck, cold against your chest. Outside, snow was falling.
Just like that day.
Just like both days.
You didn't plan the words. They just came, spilling out of you like water through a cracked dam, messy and unstoppable.
"Satoru,
I watched the recording again today. The proposal. You were so nervous you dropped the ring in the snow. You didn't even notice. You just kept talking, kept stammering, kept saying the most beautiful things I'd ever heard while your ears turned red.
I miss you.
I miss you I miss you I miss you.
I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to wake up in a world where you don't exist. The snow fell today and I thought about your hair. I thought about how you used to complain about it in the morning — how it stuck up in every direction and I would try to fix it and you would just pull me back into bed.
I'm not okay.
I don't think I'll ever be okay again.
Come back. Please. Just for a moment. Just so I can see you one more time.
Yours,
[Your Name]"
You cried over the page. Your tears spotted the paper, smudging the ink, making the words blur together.
Then the air changed — subtle, like the shift in pressure before a storm. The candle flickered. And behind you, so close you could feel his breath on your neck —
"You wrote to me."
You spun around.
He was there.
Gojo Satoru — your Satoru — stood in the middle of your bedroom, still wearing the same clothes from that day, still pale, still him. His eyes were the same brilliant blue. His smile was the same soft, wondering smile.
Normal.
Him.
"Satoru?" Your voice broke.
He tilted his head. "You called me, sweetheart. I heard you. You were crying."
You launched yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck, sobbing into his shoulder. He was cold. So cold. But he was here.
"I missed you," you choked out. "I missed you so much, baby."
His arms came up slowly and wrapped around your back, pulling you close. "I missed you too, pretty girl," he whispered. "I didn't know where I was. It was dark. And then I heard your voice."
You pulled back to look at him. His face was the same. His hair was the same. His eyes were the same.
He was the same.
"Stay," you begged. "Please, my love. Just for tonight."
He hesitated. "I don't know how long I can—"
"Just tonight, baby."
He looked at you — at your tear-stained face, your trembling hands, the ring hanging around your neck — and something in his expression softened.
"Okay, sweetheart," he said. "Just tonight."
You fell asleep in his arms that night, curled up on the couch like nothing had changed.
When you woke up, he was gone.
But the warmth of his arms lingered.
And you already knew — you would write again.
The second letter was intentional.
You wrote it the next night, hands shaking, heart pounding. You placed it on the desk and waited.
He appeared again.
Normal again.
He laughed at your letter — "You wrote about the burnt toast, darling? Really?" — and pulled you into his arms like no time had passed at all.
"Remember when you tried to cook me dinner and set off the fire alarm, pretty boy?"
"You set off the fire alarm. I was an innocent bystander."
"You were holding the pan that was on fire."
"Allegedly, sweetheart."
He grinned — that stupid, beautiful grin — and your heart swelled.
You wrote again the next night.
And the next.
And the next.
For the first few weeks, he was exactly the same. Your Satoru. The one who made bad jokes and held you too tight and fell asleep with his head in your lap, mumbling "love you, baby" before drifting off. He remembered everything — the proposal, the snow, the way you took your coffee.
He was him.
And you couldn't stop.
It happened around the twentieth letter.
You didn't notice at first. It was small — so small you almost missed it. He was sitting on the couch, his head in your lap, your fingers in his hair.
Then he flinched. His body tensed, his breath catching.
"Satoru?"
"Nothing, sweetheart." He relaxed, tilting his head up to look at you. His eyes were blue. His blue. "Just a headache, baby. I'm fine."
You believed him.
But the next night, it happened again. And the night after that. And the night after that.
He started forgetting things.
"Did I tell you about the mission in Kyoto, pretty girl?
"You told me three times, my love."
"Oh." He laughed, but it sounded hollow. "Sorry, sweetheart. My memory's been... weird."
His hands started shaking — not always, just sometimes, just when he thought you weren't looking.
You didn't ask.
You were afraid of the answer.
You don't remember how many letters you wrote. Dozens. Hundreds. You lost count somewhere around the third month.
But he wasn't the same anymore.
His eyes stayed blue. They didn't change color, didn't glow red, didn't do anything wrong. They were his eyes — the same brilliant blue you'd fallen in love with, the same blue that had looked at you like you were the only real thing in the world.
But he wasn't the same.
The first time it happened — the first real time — you were curled up together in bed, his arms around you, your head on his chest. You'd been talking softly, tracing patterns on his skin, simply enjoying the warmth of being close.
Then he went rigid.
"Satoru?"
He didn't answer. His body went tense, his hands curling into fists, his jaw clenched.
"Satoru, my love, what's wrong?"
He looked at you.
Same blue eyes. Same face. Same hair.
But something was off. The way he held himself. The way his lips curved — not into a smile, but into something that looked like a smile. A perfect imitation.
"Nothing, sweetheart," he said. His voice was the same. But the tone was wrong. Flat. Empty. "I'm fine."
He wasn't fine.
You knew it.
And when he reached for you — his hands cold, his grip just a little too tight — you felt it. The difference. The thing wearing his face.
"Don't," you whispered.
He stopped. Tilted his head. Those blue eyes — his blue eyes — stared at you with something that wasn't love.
"Don't what, pretty girl?"
Your heart was pounding. This wasn't him. This looked like him, sounded like him, had his face and his hands and his voice — but it wasn't him.
"Satoru," you said carefully, "if you can hear me, my love — please—"
The thing wearing his face smiled.
Same smile. Wrong meaning.
And then — like a switch had been flipped — his expression crumbled. His hands flew to his head. His body shook.
"Go, sweetheart," he gasped. His voice. The real one. "Please, baby. I can't — it's getting stronger — every time you write, it gets harder to—"
"Stay," you begged. "Stay with me, please, Satoru. Fight it."
"I can't, princess." He looked up at you, and his eyes were wet. His eyes. The ones you loved. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
He disappeared before you could say anything else.
The bruise on your arm — from where his fingers had gripped you too tight — was already forming.
You sat on the floor for a long time, staring at the empty space.
"That wasn't him," you thought. "That thing — whatever it was — that wasn't him."
But it had his face.
It had his voice.
It had his eyes.
And you had done this. Every letter, every summoning, every desperate plea — you had fed whatever was wearing him.
You picked up your pen anyway.
The night he begged you to stop, you almost didn't write the letter.
Almost.
He appeared at your desk, as usual. But his shoulders were hunched. His hands were shoved in his pockets. He wouldn't look at you.
"Satoru?"
"I can't do this anymore, sweetheart." His voice was quiet. Defeated.
"Can't do what, my love?"
"This, pretty girl." He gestured between you, at the room, at the desk covered in letters. "Coming back. Pretending I'm still alive. Pretending this is okay, darling." He finally looked at you, and his eyes were red-rimmed, wet. "I'm hurting you, princess. I can see it. Every time I come back, I lose a little more of myself. And last night— when I grabbed your arm—"
He reached out and gently pulled up your sleeve. The bruise was still there — purple and black and yellow at the edges.
"I saw this, sweetheart," he whispered. "When I came back this morning. Before you woke up. I saw what I did to you, baby."
You tried to pull your arm away, but he held on — gently.
"I would never hurt you, princess," he continued, his voice breaking. "Not in a million years. Not for anything. But that thing — whatever is using me— it doesn't care, baby. It wants to destroy everything I love. And I can't— I can't let it destroy you, my love."
"Satoru—"
"You were supposed to be safe, sweetheart." His thumb traced the edge of the bruise, feather-light. "You were the one good thing. The one thing I did right. And now I'm — now I'm the one hurting you, darling."
"That wasn't you."
"It was my hands, pretty girl. My body. My—" He closed his eyes. When he opened them, tears spilled down his cheeks. "Please, baby. Let me go. Before I do something we both regret."
He stepped closer and pulled you into his arms. His chin rested on top of your head. His arms wrapped around your back, holding you to his chest. You could feel his heartbeat — faint, flickering, but there.
"Is it such a greedy act, my love," you whispered against his chest, "to want to keep you by my side a little longer?"
His breath hitched. His arms tightened around you.
"Yes, sweetheart," he said. "Because every time you keep me, I lose another piece of myself. And one day — one day soon — there won't be anything left to keep. Just the monster, my love."
"But I can't — I can't lose you again, Satoru."
"You already lost me, sweetheart." He pulled back just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away your tears. "I died in the snow, remember? I died holding you, darling. And that was supposed to be the end. But you — you're too stubborn to let go, pretty girl."
"I learned from the best."
He laughed — a wet, broken sound — and pressed his forehead against yours.
"I love you, sweetheart," he said. "I love you so much, baby. That's why I'm asking you to do this."
"...I understand," you whispered. "No more letters, my love."
He kissed you then — soft and desperate and full of goodbye.
When you opened your eyes, he was gone.
The desk was empty.
The letters sat in a jar by the window, ink smudged, pages wrinkled from tears.
You didn't write that night.
But you didn't sleep either.
Weeks passed.
You didn't write. You kept your promise. The jar sat in the corner of your room, full of all the words you'd poured out, all the desperate pleas, all the "I miss you's".
But you couldn't let it end like that.
So you wrote one last letter.
"Satoru, my love,
I'm not writing this to summon you. I'm writing this because I need to say goodbye properly. Not in a rush. Not in tears. Just... once more.
If you can hear this — if you can come — please. One last time, my love.
Meet me at the bridge. Midnight.
Yours,
[Your Name]"
You placed the letter on the desk and waited.
He appeared.
His eyes were blue. His blue. And for one night — just one — he was normal again.
"Where do you want to go, sweetheart?" he asked.
"You already know, pretty boy."
You went to the grocery store first. You pushed the cart and he walked beside you, his hand on your lower back, pointing at things and making jokes.
He stopped when he noticed your coat.
"Wait, baby," he said, his voice soft. "Is that...?"
You looked down at the sleeves, too long on your arms, the hem falling past your hips. His coat. The one you'd stolen from his closet years ago, the one he'd pretended to be annoyed about but secretly loved seeing you in.
"I never gave it back," you said.
"I never wanted it back, sweetheart." He reached out and touched the collar, his fingers brushing the fabric. "It looks better on you anyway."
You laughed — a wet, fragile sound. "You always said that."
"Because it was true."
His hand lingered for a moment longer. Then he dropped it, shoving it back in his pocket.
"Remember when you tried to cook me dinner and set off the fire alarm?"
"You set off the fire alarm. I was an innocent bystander."
"You were holding the pan that was on fire."
"Allegedly."
He grinned, and his hand found yours, squeezing gently.
You went to the park next. The same park where you'd had your first picnic. The trees were bare now, but the bench was still there.
You sat together, shoulders touching, watching the snow fall.
"Tell me something I don't know," you said.
He was quiet for a moment. "I was scared of you at first."
"Scared of me?"
"Not scared of you. Scared for you. Scared of what would happen if I let myself love you." He looked down at your intertwined hands. "I'd already lost so much. I didn't think I could survive losing you too."
"And then?"
"And then I loved you anyway, princess." He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. "I couldn't help it. You made it impossible not to."
You leaned your head on his shoulder.
"I had lots of fun, sweetheart," he said quietly, "as long as I was with you."
His arm wrapped around you, pulling you close.
"Me too," you whispered. "Me too."
The bridge was your idea. The same bridge where he'd first said "I love you" — a quiet night years ago, when he'd stopped mid-step and blurted it out like he couldn't hold it in anymore.
Tonight, the streetlights were flickering. The river below was dark. And you were holding the jar — the jar — filled with every letter you'd ever written him.
The ink had soaked through the pages, staining the glass black.
Satoru stood beside you, looking at the jar.
"Are you going to be okay?" he asked. "Alone?"
You stared at the water.
"I don't know," you admitted. "But I can't let you turn into a monster. I can't keep pulling you back when it's destroying you." You turned to face him. "I'll still have the memories. The ones we made when you were alive. The ones we made tonight. I'll have to live with those as my support."
His eyes glistened.
"I wish we had more time, my love."
"Me too."
"Maybe in another life, wife."
You smiled — sad and soft. "Maybe in another life, husband."
He stepped closer. His hands cupped your face — cold, but gentle. Then he paused, his eyes dropping to your coat again.
"You're still wearing it, princess" he said softly.
"I never stopped."
His thumb brushed the collar, right where it rested against your neck. "It smells like you now. Not me."
"Is that okay?"
He smiled — sad and soft. "Of course, my love. It's okay."
Then his forehead pressed against yours.
"I love you, sweetheart," he said. "In this life. In every life. I'll find you. I promise."
"I know, Satoru," you whispered. "I'll be waiting."
He kissed you.
Soft at first — then deeper, needier, desperate. You set the jar on the railing beside you, never breaking the kiss. Your hands found his shoulders, his neck, his hair.
He kissed you like he was memorizing the shape of your lips.
Your fingers intertwined on the railing. His hand over yours.
The jar sat beside your joined hands.
And then — still kissing, still holding each other — your fingers slipped.
Or his did.
Or maybe it was both of you.
The jar tipped.
It fell.
You didn't stop kissing him as it tumbled over the railing. You didn't stop holding him as it hit the water below with a muffled splash. You didn't stop loving him as the ink bloomed into the river like black flowers.
When you finally pulled back, his eyes were closed.
"Satoru?"
He opened his eyes.
They were blue.
Your blue.
"I have to go, sweetheart."
"I know."
"I don't want to, princess."
"I know, my love."
He kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your lips — one last time, feather-light.
"Goodbye, my pretty girl."
"Goodbye, Satoru."
He smiled.
And then he was gone.
You stood on the bridge as the sun rose.
The snow had stopped. The clouds were clearing. The sky was turning pink and gold and orange.
You pulled his coat tighter around yourself — the sleeves still too long, the hem still falling past your hips. It didn't smell like him anymore. Not really. But you could pretend.
Just for a little while.
Your tears fell silently, tracking down your cheeks.
The river below was dark. The ink had spread, faded, disappeared into the current. No trace of the jar. No trace of the letters. No trace of him.
Just the water. Just the sun. Just you.
And his coat.
Always his coat.
"Maybe in another life, husband."
You closed your eyes and let the sun warm your face.
He was gone.
But he had been here.
And that would have to be enough.
Months passed. Spring came. The snow melted. The world kept turning.
You didn't write to him. Not for a long time.
The pen felt too heavy. The paper felt too blank. Every time you tried, you would write "Dear Satoru" and then stop.
I miss you. You'd said that a thousand times.
I love you. He already knew.
Come back. You couldn't ask that anymore.
So you waited.
Summer came. Then autumn.
And then, one day — when the leaves had turned and the air had grown crisp — you picked up the pen again.
"To Satoru, my pretty boy, my love,
This is the first letter I've written since you left. I didn't have the courage to pick up the pen for some time. All I had to say was "I miss you," so there wasn't much to write about. I had written and crumpled it so many times. Before I knew it, the snow had melted and the flowers had bloomed and summer had ended, my love.
To start with news you would most want to know, baby: I've sorted things out with our friends. They had a lot they wanted to say, but seeing how they comforted me shows they are good people. Shoko still texts me every day. Suguru calls once a week. They're taking care of me. I think you'd be proud of them.
Lately, I've been preparing for a new job, so it's harder to meet up with people. Some days I notice you weren't on my mind, and that scares me. But other days I miss you so intensely I can't breathe. I'm starting to make new memories now. With other people. It would've been fun if you were next to me, but... yeah, my love.
Getting through each day, new good things can happen. So I just wanted to say...
I'm doing well.
I hope you are doing well too.
Goodbye, my pretty boy.
Goodbye, Satoru.
P.S, You don't have to reply anymore."
You placed the letter on your desk.
Beside it, you set a photograph — the one from your last date. You were standing on the bridge, wearing his coat, the sleeves bunched around your hands. The sunrise was behind you, pink and gold and orange.
And beside you, there was empty space.
His space.
You pulled the coat tighter around your shoulders. It didn't smell like him anymore. But it was still warm.
"Goodbye, my love." you whispered.
The room was quiet.
The sun was setting outside your window.
And somewhere — somewhere beyond the snow, beyond the bridge, beyond the place where Gojo Satoru, your fiancé, had taken his last breath — you finally let yourself believe that he was at peace.
A/N. i can't count how many times i cried writing this. i'm not okay. we're not okay. this is a sequel to "Frozen in Time" — the proposal in the snow, the recording, the ring on the chain. in that fic, he died. and in this one, she learns to let him go. thank you to the manhwa "Sincerely yours" for the devastating concept. i adapted it with love and tears but for satoru and reader. i'll be in my coffin if anyone needs me. (┬┬﹏┬┬)
Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3
synopsis. The common cold has met its match. Unfortunately, that match is a whiny, dramatic, blanket-buried Gojo Satoru who is convinced he's on his deathbed. You're just trying to get him to drink soup. (He wants candy instead. And cuddles. And for you to call him a good boy.)
pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader
content & warnings. LOTS OF FLUFF!!!! (my apology for "Maybe in Another Life), humor, sick gojo (he's fine i promise), clingy and whiny gojo, established relationship, pet names, soft comfort, he's a toddler in a man's body, candy as a reward system, forehead kisses, "i'm dying" (he has a mild fever)
series. part 2 of "Satoru as Your Boyfriend: The Series" all parts will be found here!
word count. 1.2k+ (I FORGOT TO ADD IT IM SORRY)
A/N. hes so precious UGH MY HEART
The first sign that something was wrong was the silence.
You woke up to an empty bed — no arms wrapped around your waist, no white hair tickling your nose, no Satoru-shaped weight pinning you to the mattress. Just cold sheets and a nagging feeling in your chest.
You found him in the living room.
He was sprawled across the couch like a Victorian-era painting of despair, one arm thrown dramatically over his eyes, the other clutching a blanket to his chest. His hair was a complete disaster — flattened on one side, sticking up on the other — and his nose was pink.
Not cute-pink. Sick-pink.
"Satoru?"
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just let out a low, pitiful groan that seemed to vibrate through the entire room.
"Baby," you said again, walking closer. "What's wrong?"
He lifted his arm just enough to peer at you with one bleary eye. His voice, when he spoke, was wrecked — hoarse and raspy and absolutely dripping with melodrama.
"I'm dying."
You blinked. "You have a cold."
"I have the plague," he corrected, letting his arm fall back over his eyes. "This is it, sweetheart. The end. Tell our children I loved them."
"We don't have children, Satoru."
"Then tell the plants."
"We don't have plants either."
He paused. "...Can we get a plant?"
"We're not getting a plant, baby."
"Then I'll die without ever knowing the joy of fatherhood or plant parenthood." He turned his face into the cushion, voice muffled. "This is tragedy. Shakespearean. Someone should write a sonnet."
You sat down on the edge of the couch, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead. He was warm — not fever-warm, just sick-warm. A little clammy. A little pathetic.
"You're fine," you announced. "You just need rest, fluids, and maybe some medicine."
Satoru's eye snapped open. "No medicine."
"Baby—"
"No medicine," he repeated, sitting up with great effort — only to immediately slump against your shoulder, his full weight pressing into you. His arms wrapped around your waist like he was afraid you'd disappear. "Medicine is poison. I'm already weak. It would kill me."
"It would help you."
"Poison."
You sighed, running your fingers through his messy hair. He melted into your touch immediately, a soft sound escaping his throat.
"Fine," you said. "No medicine. But you're drinking soup."
He considered this for a moment. "What kind of soup?"
"Chicken noodle."
"...With crackers?"
"With crackers."
He nodded against your shoulder. "Okay. But you have to feed me. I'm too weak to hold a spoon."
"You're not too weak to hold a spoon."
"I'm dying, sweetheart."
"You have a cold, Satoru."
"Same thing."
Getting him to the kitchen was a journey.
He refused to walk on his own — claiming his legs "weren't working" — so you half-carried, half-dragged him across the apartment, his arms wrapped around your shoulders like a koala. He was warm and heavy and absolutely useless.
"You're doing this on purpose," you grumbled, settling him onto a kitchen chair.
"I have no idea what you mean, princess."
"You could walk perfectly fine yesterday."
"That was yesterday. Yesterday I was a different man. Today I am suffering."
You rolled your eyes but couldn't help smiling. You heated up the soup, poured it into his favorite bowl, and set it in front of him with a spoon and a sleeve of crackers.
He stared at it like it had personally offended him.
"Eat," you said.
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"My arms hurt."
"Satoru."
"They hurt, baby. From all the dying."
You crossed your arms. He looked up at you with those big blue eyes — watery from his cold, lashes clumped together, nose pink — and you felt your resolve crumbling.
"...Fine." You picked up the spoon. "Open up."
He grinned — a weak, pathetic, absolutely adorable grin — and opened his mouth like a baby bird.
You fed him the soup.
He made happy sounds with every bite. Little 'mmms' and 'ahhhs' that were completely unnecessary and completely endearing. Between bites, he crumbled crackers into the broth and demanded you feed him those too.
"This is nice," he said after a particularly loud mmmm. "You should take care of me more often."
"You should get sick more often?"
"No," he said, his voice soft. "You should just... be here. Feeding me soup. Calling me baby." His eyes fluttered half-closed. "It's nice."
Your heart squeezed.
You kissed his forehead — quick, soft, before he could get any more sentimental.
"Eat your soup, pretty boy."
"Mmm. Yes, ma'am."
After the soup came the medicine.
You placed the small cup of liquid cold medicine in front of him. He looked at it like it was a curse.
"No."
"Baby."
"No, sweetheart. Absolutely not. I'd rather die."
"You're not going to die from a teaspoon of medicine, Satoru."
"You don't know that. It could be poisoned. You could be trying to kill me."
You stared at him. "Why would I try to kill you?"
"Maybe you're finally sick of me stealing the blankets."
"You don't steal the blankets."
"Maybe you want the apartment to yourself."
"We share the apartment, Satoru."
"Maybe you found someone better."
You crossed your arms. "There is no one better, baby. Now drink."
He crossed his arms back. "No."
"Satoru."
"No."
You sighed, rubbing your temples. Then an idea came.
"What if," you said slowly, "you drink the medicine... and then you get a piece of candy?"
His head turned. One eyebrow raised. "What kind of candy?"
"There's a bag of those little strawberry hard candies in the pantry."
He considered this. His eyes narrowed.
"...How many?"
"One."
"Three."
"One."
"Two and a half."
"You can't have half a candy, Satoru."
"Then two."
"One."
He stared at you. You stared at him.
"...Fine," he muttered. "One. But it has to be the red one. The pink ones are inferior."
"There are no pink ones. They're all red."
"Then they're all acceptable."
He picked up the cup, held it to his lips, and downed the medicine in one dramatic gulp. He shivered, made a face, and immediately opened his mouth.
"Done. Candy. Now."
You laughed, reaching into the pantry for the bag. You picked out a strawberry candy, unwrapped it, and held it up.
"Ah-ah," you said, pulling it back when he reached for it. "One more thing."
"What?"
You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his lips — quick, sweet, tasting of medicine and strawberry.
"Good boy," you whispered against his mouth.
His ears turned red.
You dropped the candy into his open palm.
He didn't even eat it right away. He just stared at it, then at you, then back at the candy, like he was trying to process what just happened.
"...You called me a good boy."
"You earned it, Satoru."
"I want more candy."
"Finish your medicine first."
"I finished it."
"Today. Tomorrow you have more."
His face fell. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow. And the day after. Until your cold is gone."
He groaned, dropping his head onto the kitchen table. "This is cruel and unusual punishment."
"This is basic healthcare, Satoru."
"I'm calling Shoko. She'll sympathize."
"Shoko is a doctor. She'll tell you to take the medicine."
He lifted his head just enough to glare at you. "You're lucky you're pretty."
You kissed his forehead again. "You're lucky you're cute."
"...I'm also dying."
"You have a cold, baby."
"Same thing."
After the soup and the medicine and the candy, you tried to stand up.
You didn't get very far.
Satoru's arms locked around your waist like a vice, pulling you back down onto the couch. He was wrapped in three blankets — three — and somehow still managed to find space to pull you into his chest.
"You're not leaving," he mumbled.
"I was just going to put the bowl in the sink."
"The bowl can wait."
"Satoru—"
"The bowl is patient. I am not." He nuzzled his face into your hair, his breath warm against your neck. "Stay. Please. Just for a little while."
Your heart softened.
You settled against him, your head on his chest, your hand over his heart. His arms tightened around you like he was afraid you'd disappear.
"I love you," he whispered.
"I love you too, baby."
"Even when I'm dying?"
"Especially when you're dying."
He laughed — a weak, scratchy sound — and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
"This is nice," he said. "Even with the plague."
"It's a cold, Satoru."
"The plague," he repeated firmly. "I'm a historical tragedy. You're Florence Nightingale. We're in a period drama."
"You're delirious."
"I'm in love."
"...That too."
He hummed contentedly, his eyes fluttering closed. His breathing slowed. His arms stayed wrapped around you, warm and steady.
"Hey, sweetheart?" he mumbled, half-asleep.
"Yeah, baby?"
"Can we get that plant tomorrow?"
You smiled. "We'll see."
"Mm. Okay. Love you."
"Love you too."
Within minutes, he was asleep — soft, peaceful, still clutching you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
You didn't move.
The bowl sat in the sink. The medicine waited on the counter. The world kept turning outside your window.
But Satoru was warm, and he was here, and he was yours.
That was enough.
Three days later, his cold was gone.
He stood in the kitchen in nothing but his sweatpants, his hair still messy from sleep, looking healthy and annoyingly handsome. His nose was no longer pink. His voice was back to normal. He was, unfortunately, insufferable again.
"I survived," he announced proudly.
"You had a cold, Satoru."
"The plague, sweetheart. And I survived because of you." He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against his chest. "My hero. My savior. My beautiful, wonderful, amazing—"
"Are you done?"
"Never." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I love you."
"I love you too, baby."
He paused. Then his eyes drifted toward the pantry.
"...So. About that candy."
You raised an eyebrow. "You're not sick anymore."
"I'm recovering. Recovering people need sugar. It's medicinal."
"That's not how medicine works."
"It's how my medicine works." He gave you his best puppy dog eyes — the ones he knew you couldn't resist. "Please, sweetheart? Just one? For old times' sake?"
You sighed, but you were already walking toward the pantry. "One."
"Yes!"
"Just one, Satoru."
"You're an angel. A goddess. The love of my—"
"One."
He mimed zipping his lips.
You pulled out a strawberry candy, unwrapped it, and held it up. He reached for it immediately, but you pulled it back.
"Ah-ah. You know the rules."
His ears went pink. "Do I have to?"
"You want the candy, don't you?"
He mumbled something under his breath, then leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. Quick. Sweet. A little shy.
"...Good boy," you whispered against his mouth.
He snatched the candy from your hand and popped it into his mouth, but his ears stayed red for a full five minutes afterward.
"This doesn't mean I'm forgiving you for the medicine," he said, chewing.
"You took the medicine like a champ."
"I took it under duress."
"You took it because I kissed you."
He paused. His ears got redder.
"...That's not the only reason."
"It's the only reason."
"Maybe." He pulled you back into his arms, resting his chin on top of your head. "Or maybe I just like when you call me a good boy."
You laughed. "I knew it."
"You knew nothing. I'm a mystery. An enigma."
"You're a baby in a man's body."
"Your baby," he corrected. "And don't you forget it."
You tilted your head up and kissed his jaw.
"I won't, pretty boy."
He hummed contentedly, swaying you gently from side to side in the middle of the kitchen.
"Hey, sweetheart?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for taking care of me."
You smiled. "Always, my love."
"...Can I have another candy?"
"No."
"What if I say 'please' really nicely?"
"No, Satoru."
He sighed dramatically. "Worth a try."
A/N. i giggled to myself while writing this HES SO ADORABLE why isnt he real 💔💔
Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3
welcome to the archive, my love. here you'll find every fic i've ever poured my heart into — fluff, angst, and everything in between. grab a blanket, get comfortable, and stay awhile. ♡
⤷﹒ⵌ┆Soft Things For Soft Hearts
— drowning (in you) , five more minutes , mood swings (and a half) , stay. please. , fireworks & first kisses , green eyed monster <- the world's worst patient (series) <- kneadlessly in love (series) <- aisle b there 4 you (series)
⤷﹒ⵌ┆Grab Your Tissues First
— frozen in time <- maybe in another life (part 2)
⤷﹒ⵌ┆Tears & Tenderness
— kiss it better , i'll find you (i always will)
⤷﹒ⵌ┆Satoru as Your Boyfriend: The Series (in order)
— green eyed monster , the world's worst patient , kneadlessly in love , aisle b there 4 you
thanks for stopping by the archive, my beloved.
more fics are always on the way — because i can't stop thinking about satoru. stay peak as always! (≧▽≦)
creating this page to help maintain a soft, safe, and supportive little corner of the internet. please read before interacting!
﹒CONTENT & TRIGGERS﹗
i write:
gojo satoru x f!reader (mostly)
fluff, comfort, soft moments
angst (w/ happy ending unless stated otherwise)
hurt/comfort, pining, established relationship
forehead kisses, pet names, clingy behavior — all the good stuff!!
what i DON'T write:
smut/nsfw (kissing 'n making out are fine!)
incest, stepcest, pseudo-cest, kidnapping
cheating (just no)
implied dubcon / noncon, r*pe
massive age gaps (teacher/student, etc. — college aus are fine!)
sacrilege (ex: priest! character) or religion based themes
﹒REQUEST GUIDELINES﹗
requests are always open — but i reserve the right to decline anything that makes me uncomfortable.
i write when inspiration strikes, so please be patient! i'm a human, not a writing machine.
do not pressure or demand a part 2. i'll write it if/when i feel like it! a no is a no.
i post on my own time. so don't rush me.
﹒INTERACTIONS & ETIQUETTE﹗
i deeply appreciate:
reblogs, they help more than likes!
kind comments, they make my whole day! 〒▽〒
constructive criticism — as long as it's polite and genuine
i will block you if:
you spam like my blog without reblogging
you leave hateful or non-constructive comments
you are rude, racist, homophobic, ableist, or discriminatory in any way
you engage in harassment, bullying, or drama
you plagiarize, repost, or translate my work without permission
you are pro-israel (i stand with Palestine!)
﹒NOTES﹗
i apologize for any grammar mistakes or weird phrasing! i'm usually very busy throughout the day, so i may miss grammar mistakes every now and then.
if you don't like my writing, just scroll! no need to spread negativity. life is too short for that.
i accept & appreciate constructive criticism — just don't be rude about it!
synopsis. Gojo Satoru died in the snow, with your name on his lips. That was supposed to be the end. But grief is a desperate thing, and you discovered that writing letters could pull him back — not alive, not really, just… present. For a few hours. Until the letters ran out. Until he started slipping away. Until he begged you to let him go. — A sequel to "Frozen in Time."
part 1. please read "Frozen in Time" here!
pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader
content & warnings. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH (canon compliant), LOTS OF ANGST please take note of this before reading, grief, mourning, possession/loss of self, unhealthy coping mechanisms, angst with NO comfort (bittersweet ending), letter format, second person POV, you WILL cry. i cried multiple times reading this. prepare yourself.
word count. 3.5k+
A/N. ill be giving u guys some song recommendations before reading this too ! i highly suggest listening to "Too Little Too Late" by Laufey, "The One That Got Away" by Katy Perry, "Fake Plastic Trees" by Radiohead, "Lover, You Should've Come Over" by Jeff Buckley, "Cry", or "Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby" by Cigarettes After Sex. Please enjoy! <3
2nd A/N. this is a sequel to "Frozen in Time" and I have attached the link above. ^^ You don't have to read that first, but it will hurt a lot more and you'll understand the story more if you do. Heavily inspired by the manhwa "Sincerely Yours." If you'd like to read it, feel free to dm me :D
The first letter was an accident.
You didn't mean to write it. You were just sitting at his desk — the one he never used because he was always too restless to sit still — with a blank page in front of you and a pen in your trembling hand. The ring hung on its chain around your neck, cold against your chest. Outside, snow was falling.
Just like that day.
Just like both days.
You didn't plan the words. They just came, spilling out of you like water through a cracked dam, messy and unstoppable.
"Satoru,
I watched the recording again today. The proposal. You were so nervous you dropped the ring in the snow. You didn't even notice. You just kept talking, kept stammering, kept saying the most beautiful things I'd ever heard while your ears turned red.
I miss you.
I miss you I miss you I miss you.
I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to wake up in a world where you don't exist. The snow fell today and I thought about your hair. I thought about how you used to complain about it in the morning — how it stuck up in every direction and I would try to fix it and you would just pull me back into bed.
I'm not okay.
I don't think I'll ever be okay again.
Come back. Please. Just for a moment. Just so I can see you one more time.
Yours,
[Your Name]"
You cried over the page. Your tears spotted the paper, smudging the ink, making the words blur together.
Then the air changed — subtle, like the shift in pressure before a storm. The candle flickered. And behind you, so close you could feel his breath on your neck —
"You wrote to me."
You spun around.
He was there.
Gojo Satoru — your Satoru — stood in the middle of your bedroom, still wearing the same clothes from that day, still pale, still him. His eyes were the same brilliant blue. His smile was the same soft, wondering smile.
Normal.
Him.
"Satoru?" Your voice broke.
He tilted his head. "You called me, sweetheart. I heard you. You were crying."
You launched yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck, sobbing into his shoulder. He was cold. So cold. But he was here.
"I missed you," you choked out. "I missed you so much, baby."
His arms came up slowly and wrapped around your back, pulling you close. "I missed you too, pretty girl," he whispered. "I didn't know where I was. It was dark. And then I heard your voice."
You pulled back to look at him. His face was the same. His hair was the same. His eyes were the same.
He was the same.
"Stay," you begged. "Please, my love. Just for tonight."
He hesitated. "I don't know how long I can—"
"Just tonight, baby."
He looked at you — at your tear-stained face, your trembling hands, the ring hanging around your neck — and something in his expression softened.
"Okay, sweetheart," he said. "Just tonight."
You fell asleep in his arms that night, curled up on the couch like nothing had changed.
When you woke up, he was gone.
But the warmth of his arms lingered.
And you already knew — you would write again.
The second letter was intentional.
You wrote it the next night, hands shaking, heart pounding. You placed it on the desk and waited.
He appeared again.
Normal again.
He laughed at your letter — "You wrote about the burnt toast, darling? Really?" — and pulled you into his arms like no time had passed at all.
"Remember when you tried to cook me dinner and set off the fire alarm, pretty boy?"
"You set off the fire alarm. I was an innocent bystander."
"You were holding the pan that was on fire."
"Allegedly, sweetheart."
He grinned — that stupid, beautiful grin — and your heart swelled.
You wrote again the next night.
And the next.
And the next.
For the first few weeks, he was exactly the same. Your Satoru. The one who made bad jokes and held you too tight and fell asleep with his head in your lap, mumbling "love you, baby" before drifting off. He remembered everything — the proposal, the snow, the way you took your coffee.
He was him.
And you couldn't stop.
It happened around the twentieth letter.
You didn't notice at first. It was small — so small you almost missed it. He was sitting on the couch, his head in your lap, your fingers in his hair.
Then he flinched. His body tensed, his breath catching.
"Satoru?"
"Nothing, sweetheart." He relaxed, tilting his head up to look at you. His eyes were blue. His blue. "Just a headache, baby. I'm fine."
You believed him.
But the next night, it happened again. And the night after that. And the night after that.
He started forgetting things.
"Did I tell you about the mission in Kyoto, pretty girl?
"You told me three times, my love."
"Oh." He laughed, but it sounded hollow. "Sorry, sweetheart. My memory's been... weird."
His hands started shaking — not always, just sometimes, just when he thought you weren't looking.
You didn't ask.
You were afraid of the answer.
You don't remember how many letters you wrote. Dozens. Hundreds. You lost count somewhere around the third month.
But he wasn't the same anymore.
His eyes stayed blue. They didn't change color, didn't glow red, didn't do anything wrong. They were his eyes — the same brilliant blue you'd fallen in love with, the same blue that had looked at you like you were the only real thing in the world.
But he wasn't the same.
The first time it happened — the first real time — you were curled up together in bed, his arms around you, your head on his chest. You'd been talking softly, tracing patterns on his skin, simply enjoying the warmth of being close.
Then he went rigid.
"Satoru?"
He didn't answer. His body went tense, his hands curling into fists, his jaw clenched.
"Satoru, my love, what's wrong?"
He looked at you.
Same blue eyes. Same face. Same hair.
But something was off. The way he held himself. The way his lips curved — not into a smile, but into something that looked like a smile. A perfect imitation.
"Nothing, sweetheart," he said. His voice was the same. But the tone was wrong. Flat. Empty. "I'm fine."
He wasn't fine.
You knew it.
And when he reached for you — his hands cold, his grip just a little too tight — you felt it. The difference. The thing wearing his face.
"Don't," you whispered.
He stopped. Tilted his head. Those blue eyes — his blue eyes — stared at you with something that wasn't love.
"Don't what, pretty girl?"
Your heart was pounding. This wasn't him. This looked like him, sounded like him, had his face and his hands and his voice — but it wasn't him.
"Satoru," you said carefully, "if you can hear me, my love — please—"
The thing wearing his face smiled.
Same smile. Wrong meaning.
And then — like a switch had been flipped — his expression crumbled. His hands flew to his head. His body shook.
"Go, sweetheart," he gasped. His voice. The real one. "Please, baby. I can't — it's getting stronger — every time you write, it gets harder to—"
"Stay," you begged. "Stay with me, please, Satoru. Fight it."
"I can't, princess." He looked up at you, and his eyes were wet. His eyes. The ones you loved. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
He disappeared before you could say anything else.
The bruise on your arm — from where his fingers had gripped you too tight — was already forming.
You sat on the floor for a long time, staring at the empty space.
"That wasn't him," you thought. "That thing — whatever it was — that wasn't him."
But it had his face.
It had his voice.
It had his eyes.
And you had done this. Every letter, every summoning, every desperate plea — you had fed whatever was wearing him.
You picked up your pen anyway.
The night he begged you to stop, you almost didn't write the letter.
Almost.
He appeared at your desk, as usual. But his shoulders were hunched. His hands were shoved in his pockets. He wouldn't look at you.
"Satoru?"
"I can't do this anymore, sweetheart." His voice was quiet. Defeated.
"Can't do what, my love?"
"This, pretty girl." He gestured between you, at the room, at the desk covered in letters. "Coming back. Pretending I'm still alive. Pretending this is okay, darling." He finally looked at you, and his eyes were red-rimmed, wet. "I'm hurting you, princess. I can see it. Every time I come back, I lose a little more of myself. And last night— when I grabbed your arm—"
He reached out and gently pulled up your sleeve. The bruise was still there — purple and black and yellow at the edges.
"I saw this, sweetheart," he whispered. "When I came back this morning. Before you woke up. I saw what I did to you, baby."
You tried to pull your arm away, but he held on — gently.
"I would never hurt you, princess," he continued, his voice breaking. "Not in a million years. Not for anything. But that thing — whatever is using me— it doesn't care, baby. It wants to destroy everything I love. And I can't— I can't let it destroy you, my love."
"Satoru—"
"You were supposed to be safe, sweetheart." His thumb traced the edge of the bruise, feather-light. "You were the one good thing. The one thing I did right. And now I'm — now I'm the one hurting you, darling."
"That wasn't you."
"It was my hands, pretty girl. My body. My—" He closed his eyes. When he opened them, tears spilled down his cheeks. "Please, baby. Let me go. Before I do something we both regret."
He stepped closer and pulled you into his arms. His chin rested on top of your head. His arms wrapped around your back, holding you to his chest. You could feel his heartbeat — faint, flickering, but there.
"Is it such a greedy act, my love," you whispered against his chest, "to want to keep you by my side a little longer?"
His breath hitched. His arms tightened around you.
"Yes, sweetheart," he said. "Because every time you keep me, I lose another piece of myself. And one day — one day soon — there won't be anything left to keep. Just the monster, my love."
"But I can't — I can't lose you again, Satoru."
"You already lost me, sweetheart." He pulled back just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away your tears. "I died in the snow, remember? I died holding you, darling. And that was supposed to be the end. But you — you're too stubborn to let go, pretty girl."
"I learned from the best."
He laughed — a wet, broken sound — and pressed his forehead against yours.
"I love you, sweetheart," he said. "I love you so much, baby. That's why I'm asking you to do this."
"...I understand," you whispered. "No more letters, my love."
He kissed you then — soft and desperate and full of goodbye.
When you opened your eyes, he was gone.
The desk was empty.
The letters sat in a jar by the window, ink smudged, pages wrinkled from tears.
You didn't write that night.
But you didn't sleep either.
Weeks passed.
You didn't write. You kept your promise. The jar sat in the corner of your room, full of all the words you'd poured out, all the desperate pleas, all the "I miss you's".
But you couldn't let it end like that.
So you wrote one last letter.
"Satoru, my love,
I'm not writing this to summon you. I'm writing this because I need to say goodbye properly. Not in a rush. Not in tears. Just... once more.
If you can hear this — if you can come — please. One last time, my love.
Meet me at the bridge. Midnight.
Yours,
[Your Name]"
You placed the letter on the desk and waited.
He appeared.
His eyes were blue. His blue. And for one night — just one — he was normal again.
"Where do you want to go, sweetheart?" he asked.
"You already know, pretty boy."
You went to the grocery store first. You pushed the cart and he walked beside you, his hand on your lower back, pointing at things and making jokes.
He stopped when he noticed your coat.
"Wait, baby," he said, his voice soft. "Is that...?"
You looked down at the sleeves, too long on your arms, the hem falling past your hips. His coat. The one you'd stolen from his closet years ago, the one he'd pretended to be annoyed about but secretly loved seeing you in.
"I never gave it back," you said.
"I never wanted it back, sweetheart." He reached out and touched the collar, his fingers brushing the fabric. "It looks better on you anyway."
You laughed — a wet, fragile sound. "You always said that."
"Because it was true."
His hand lingered for a moment longer. Then he dropped it, shoving it back in his pocket.
"Remember when you tried to cook me dinner and set off the fire alarm?"
"You set off the fire alarm. I was an innocent bystander."
"You were holding the pan that was on fire."
"Allegedly."
He grinned, and his hand found yours, squeezing gently.
You went to the park next. The same park where you'd had your first picnic. The trees were bare now, but the bench was still there.
You sat together, shoulders touching, watching the snow fall.
"Tell me something I don't know," you said.
He was quiet for a moment. "I was scared of you at first."
"Scared of me?"
"Not scared of you. Scared for you. Scared of what would happen if I let myself love you." He looked down at your intertwined hands. "I'd already lost so much. I didn't think I could survive losing you too."
"And then?"
"And then I loved you anyway, princess." He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. "I couldn't help it. You made it impossible not to."
You leaned your head on his shoulder.
"I had lots of fun, sweetheart," he said quietly, "as long as I was with you."
His arm wrapped around you, pulling you close.
"Me too," you whispered. "Me too."
The bridge was your idea. The same bridge where he'd first said "I love you" — a quiet night years ago, when he'd stopped mid-step and blurted it out like he couldn't hold it in anymore.
Tonight, the streetlights were flickering. The river below was dark. And you were holding the jar — the jar — filled with every letter you'd ever written him.
The ink had soaked through the pages, staining the glass black.
Satoru stood beside you, looking at the jar.
"Are you going to be okay?" he asked. "Alone?"
You stared at the water.
"I don't know," you admitted. "But I can't let you turn into a monster. I can't keep pulling you back when it's destroying you." You turned to face him. "I'll still have the memories. The ones we made when you were alive. The ones we made tonight. I'll have to live with those as my support."
His eyes glistened.
"I wish we had more time, my love."
"Me too."
"Maybe in another life, wife."
You smiled — sad and soft. "Maybe in another life, husband."
He stepped closer. His hands cupped your face — cold, but gentle. Then he paused, his eyes dropping to your coat again.
"You're still wearing it, princess" he said softly.
"I never stopped."
His thumb brushed the collar, right where it rested against your neck. "It smells like you now. Not me."
"Is that okay?"
He smiled — sad and soft. "Of course, my love. It's okay."
Then his forehead pressed against yours.
"I love you, sweetheart," he said. "In this life. In every life. I'll find you. I promise."
"I know, Satoru," you whispered. "I'll be waiting."
He kissed you.
Soft at first — then deeper, needier, desperate. You set the jar on the railing beside you, never breaking the kiss. Your hands found his shoulders, his neck, his hair.
He kissed you like he was memorizing the shape of your lips.
Your fingers intertwined on the railing. His hand over yours.
The jar sat beside your joined hands.
And then — still kissing, still holding each other — your fingers slipped.
Or his did.
Or maybe it was both of you.
The jar tipped.
It fell.
You didn't stop kissing him as it tumbled over the railing. You didn't stop holding him as it hit the water below with a muffled splash. You didn't stop loving him as the ink bloomed into the river like black flowers.
When you finally pulled back, his eyes were closed.
"Satoru?"
He opened his eyes.
They were blue.
Your blue.
"I have to go, sweetheart."
"I know."
"I don't want to, princess."
"I know, my love."
He kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your lips — one last time, feather-light.
"Goodbye, my pretty girl."
"Goodbye, Satoru."
He smiled.
And then he was gone.
You stood on the bridge as the sun rose.
The snow had stopped. The clouds were clearing. The sky was turning pink and gold and orange.
You pulled his coat tighter around yourself — the sleeves still too long, the hem still falling past your hips. It didn't smell like him anymore. Not really. But you could pretend.
Just for a little while.
Your tears fell silently, tracking down your cheeks.
The river below was dark. The ink had spread, faded, disappeared into the current. No trace of the jar. No trace of the letters. No trace of him.
Just the water. Just the sun. Just you.
And his coat.
Always his coat.
"Maybe in another life, husband."
You closed your eyes and let the sun warm your face.
He was gone.
But he had been here.
And that would have to be enough.
Months passed. Spring came. The snow melted. The world kept turning.
You didn't write to him. Not for a long time.
The pen felt too heavy. The paper felt too blank. Every time you tried, you would write "Dear Satoru" and then stop.
I miss you. You'd said that a thousand times.
I love you. He already knew.
Come back. You couldn't ask that anymore.
So you waited.
Summer came. Then autumn.
And then, one day — when the leaves had turned and the air had grown crisp — you picked up the pen again.
"To Satoru, my pretty boy, my love,
This is the first letter I've written since you left. I didn't have the courage to pick up the pen for some time. All I had to say was "I miss you," so there wasn't much to write about. I had written and crumpled it so many times. Before I knew it, the snow had melted and the flowers had bloomed and summer had ended, my love.
To start with news you would most want to know, baby: I've sorted things out with our friends. They had a lot they wanted to say, but seeing how they comforted me shows they are good people. Shoko still texts me every day. Suguru calls once a week. They're taking care of me. I think you'd be proud of them.
Lately, I've been preparing for a new job, so it's harder to meet up with people. Some days I notice you weren't on my mind, and that scares me. But other days I miss you so intensely I can't breathe. I'm starting to make new memories now. With other people. It would've been fun if you were next to me, but... yeah, my love.
Getting through each day, new good things can happen. So I just wanted to say...
I'm doing well.
I hope you are doing well too.
Goodbye, my pretty boy.
Goodbye, Satoru.
P.S, You don't have to reply anymore."
You placed the letter on your desk.
Beside it, you set a photograph — the one from your last date. You were standing on the bridge, wearing his coat, the sleeves bunched around your hands. The sunrise was behind you, pink and gold and orange.
And beside you, there was empty space.
His space.
You pulled the coat tighter around your shoulders. It didn't smell like him anymore. But it was still warm.
"Goodbye, my love." you whispered.
The room was quiet.
The sun was setting outside your window.
And somewhere — somewhere beyond the snow, beyond the bridge, beyond the place where Gojo Satoru, your fiancé, had taken his last breath — you finally let yourself believe that he was at peace.
A/N. i can't count how many times i cried writing this. i'm not okay. we're not okay. this is a sequel to "Frozen in Time" — the proposal in the snow, the recording, the ring on the chain. in that fic, he died. and in this one, she learns to let him go. thank you to the manhwa "Sincerely yours" for the devastating concept. i adapted it with love and tears but for satoru and reader. i'll be in my coffin if anyone needs me. (┬┬﹏┬┬)
Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3
synopsis. Gojo Satoru has never been the jealous type. He's confident, untouchable, the strongest — why would he ever feel threatened? Then some guy at a work event puts his hand on your lower back, and Satoru learns something new about himself. He's very, very jealous. (And terrible at hiding it.)
pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader
content & warnings. fluff, jealous gojo (soft version), established relationship, possessive but not toxic, satoru is EMBARRASSED about being jealous, protective vibes, kissing, LOTS of pet names, shoko and geto teasing gojo HIHII
word count. 3.4k+ (does not include text messages!)
A/N. this is part one of the satoru as your boyfriend series!! HES SO CUTEE AWHAWH
Satoru didn't get jealous.
That was the thing about being him. He was Gojo Satoru — the strongest sorcerer in the world, the most wanted man in every room he walked into, the kind of person who could have absolutely anything or anyone he wanted. Jealousy was for people who had something to fear. People who weren't sure of themselves. People who weren't him.
And he had nothing to fear.
Or so he told himself, standing in the corner of yet another boring Jujutsu High networking event, a glass of champagne dangling from his fingers that he hadn't taken a single sip from.
"You're doing it again," Shoko said, not even looking up from her phone. She was leaned against the wall next to him, already bored out of her mind, watching the room through half-lidded eyes.
"Doing what?" Satoru asked, his voice casual. Too casual.
"That thing where you stare at someone like you're calculating exactly how to make them disappear from the face of the earth. You know. Your specialty."
Satoru's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I'm not staring at anyone."
"You've been staring at that guy for seven minutes," Shoko replied, finally glancing up. Her eyes followed his gaze across the room. "Seven minutes, Satoru. I counted."
"I've been observing," he corrected, his tone clipped. "There's a difference."
"Mm. And what, exactly, are you observing?"
Satoru didn't answer. Because he couldn't. Because if he opened his mouth right now, he might say something he couldn't take back — something like "I'm observing the way his hand keeps finding excuses to touch my girlfriend's arms" or "I'm observing how he's standing way too close to her" or "I'm observing the exact angle I'd need to Infinity his stupid face into next week."
Shoko finally looked up from her phone, following his gaze across the room. You were talking to someone — some assistant from the Kyoto branch, some guy Satoru didn't recognize and didn't care to know. The guy was tall, annoyingly handsome, and he kept laughing at things you said. Too loudly. Too eagerly. Like he was trying to impress you.
Like he didn't see Satoru standing right there.
"You're jealous," Shoko said flatly.
"I'm not jealous."
"You're literally turning green."
"I'm not turning anything—" Satoru started, but then he saw it. The guy's hand slid down to the small of your back. Casually. Like he had any right to touch you there. Like your boyfriend wasn't ten feet away, watching the whole thing.
Satoru's eye twitched.
Shoko smirked, taking a slow sip of her drink. "Oh, this is going to be good."
You were mid-conversation — something about mission protocols, something boring that you were only half-paying attention to because this guy had been talking for five minutes and you were starting to wonder where Satoru had wandered off to — when you felt an arm wrap around your waist.
Not roughly. Not aggressively. Just... there. Warm and familiar and distinctly his. The arm tightened just slightly, pulling you back against a solid chest, and you felt the brush of lips against your temple — soft, almost absent, like he couldn't help himself.
"Hey, baby," Satoru said, his voice smooth and easy. But you felt his fingers press just a little more firmly into your hip. A reminder. A claim. Mine.
You looked up at him. His blindfold was on, but his head was tilted in that particular way that meant he was looking at the guy across from you. Not glaring. Not threatening. Just... looking. The kind of looking that made lesser men break into a cold sweat.
"Hey, sweetheart," you said back, playing along even though you knew exactly what he was doing. "I was wondering where you went."
"Got bored," he shrugged, but his arm didn't move from your waist. Not an inch. "Who's your friend, pretty girl?"
The guy — you'd already forgotten his name, something with a K maybe? — shifted uncomfortably under Satoru's unseen gaze. "I'm— we were just discussing—"
"Great." Satoru smiled. Not his real smile. The other one. The one that didn't reach his eyes and made everyone who saw it take a small step backward. "Well, we should get going, my love. Things to do. People to see."
"We do?"
"We do." He was already steering you away, his hand sliding from your waist to the small of your back — right where that other guy's hand had been. Like he was erasing the touch. Replacing it with his own. "Nice meeting you. Enjoy the rest of your night, yeah?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He just guided you across the room, his touch warm and steady, until you were standing by the windows at the far end of the venue, away from everyone else, the city lights glittering behind the glass.
"Satoru," you said, turning to face him. You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow. "What was that?"
"What was what, darling?" He was playing innocent, but his ears were already turning pink.
"You just... dragged me away from a conversation."
"I didn't drag you, princess. I escorted you. There's a difference."
"That's literally the same thing."
"It's really not."
"Satoru."
He sighed, running a hand through his white hair. His blindfold had slipped slightly during his dramatic intervention, and you could see the edge of his eyebrow, the furrow in his brow. He looked flustered. Embarrassed. Cute.
"Who was that guy, anyway?" he asked, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.
You blinked. "I don't know. Some assistant from Kyoto? I think his name started with a K?"
"And he had to stand that close to you?"
"He was just talking, Satoru."
"His hand was on your back, sweetheart." Satoru's voice dropped, losing its playful edge. "I saw it. He put his hand on your lower back and left it there for way too long."
"He was just being polite, Satoru." you pointed out, though you were struggling not to smile. "Not everyone is trying to steal me away."
"I touch your back when we talk," he said, stepping closer. His hands found your waist again, pulling you gently toward him. "He doesn't get to."
You stared up at him — at his pink ears, his slightly furrowed brow, the way his bottom lip was caught between his teeth like he was trying not to say something he'd regret.
And then, slowly, you smiled.
"Satoru," you said, drawing out his name like a tease. "Are you jealous?"
"No."
"You are. You're totally jealous."
"I'm not jealous. I'm protective. There's a difference, princess."
"Name one difference."
"The difference is—" He stopped. Paused. His ears went from pink to red. "I don't have to explain myself to you."
"You're so jealous, baby."
"I'm not—" He groaned, dropping his forehead to your shoulder in defeat. His arms wrapped around you fully, pulling you against his chest. "You're impossible, you know that?"
You laughed, reaching up to run your fingers through his messy white hair. He melted into your touch instantly, his whole body relaxing against yours, a soft hum escaping his throat.
"I don't get jealous," he mumbled against your shoulder, his voice muffled. "I'm not that guy, sweetheart."
"You're literally that guy right now, my love."
"I'm never that guy."
"You're being that guy, darling."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't, pretty boy."
He sighed. His arms tightened around you. "...I really don't, baby. I really, really don't."
Later, when you got home, Satoru was quiet.
Not the bad kind of quiet — not the distant, unreachable kind that made you feel like he was a thousand miles away even when he was right next to you. Just... thoughtful. Introspective. His hand found yours on the couch, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your palm while he stared at the ceiling.
"You know I trust you, right, sweetheart?" he said finally, his voice soft.
You turned to look at him. His blindfold was off now — just his eyes, soft and blue in the dim lamplight, reflecting something vulnerable. Something honest. He looked young like this. Unprotected.
"I know, Satoru," you said.
"It's not that I don't trust you, baby." He paused, searching for the right words. "I just... I don't trust them. I don't like the way they look at you, my love. Like you're something to be... taken. Like I'm not standing right there. Like you're not mine."
"Satoru—"
"I know it's not rational." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just a hollow, self-deprecating sound. "I know I'm being stupid, princess. I'm Gojo Satoru. I'm not supposed to feel... threatened. By anyone. I'm the strongest. I've faced down curses that would make grown men weep. But when I see someone touch you — when I see someone look at you like they have a chance—" He stopped. Swallowed hard. "I want to remind them that you're mine. And I hate that, pretty girl. Because you're not mine. You're your own person. You can talk to whoever you want. You can let whoever touch—"
"Satoru."
He looked at you.
You leaned over and kissed him. Soft. Slow. Deliberate. You poured every ounce of reassurance you had into that kiss, and you felt him exhale against your lips, felt his shoulders drop, felt his hand come up to cup your cheek like you were something precious.
"I am yours, baby," you said against his lips. "I'm yours and I'm my own person. Both things can be true at the same time."
He stared at you for a long moment — at your eyes, your lips, the small smile playing at the corner of your mouth. Then his shoulders relaxed completely, and he pulled you into his lap, burying his face in the curve of your neck.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he mumbled against your skin. "For being weird tonight. For being jealous. For dragging you away like a caveman."
"You weren't weird, my love. You were... cute."
"Cute?"
"Jealous you is very cute, darling."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, one eyebrow raised. "I'm never being jealous again, princess. I'm above it."
"Sure you won't, baby."
"I won't. I'm the strongest. I don't get jealous."
"Mmhmm."
"I'm serious, sweetheart."
"The strongest jealous boyfriend."
He groaned, dropping his head back against the couch. "I'm leaving you."
"You're not going anywhere, pretty boy."
He sighed. His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer until your chest was pressed against his and you could feel his heartbeat, steady and warm. "You're right, baby. I'm not."
The next time it happened, you were at a small café down the street from your shared apartment.
It was a Saturday morning, the sun was golden through the windows, and you'd just wanted a quiet coffee before heading back to curl up on the couch with Satoru. Nothing fancy. Nothing worth noting.
Except the barista was cute.
You noticed — because you had eyes, not because you were interested. He was tall, lanky, with kind brown eyes and a friendly smile. The kind of guy who probably had a dog and went on hikes and remembered people's orders.
"One oat milk latte," he said, sliding the cup across the counter. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter, his smile widening. "It's on the house today. For the pretty customer."
You laughed politely, reaching for your wallet. "Oh, thank you, but I can pay—"
"She said she can pay."
Satoru's voice came from directly behind you, smooth as silk and cold as ice. His hand appeared on your lower back — firm, possessive, deliberate — and he stepped up beside you, towering over the counter like a warning sign.
The barista's smile faltered. "Oh, I didn't realize—"
"Clearly." Satoru's smile was razor-sharp. "Thanks for the coffee. Very generous. We'll be going now, baby."
He took the cup from the counter, wrapped his other arm around your waist, and guided you out of the café before you could even process what had happened.
The door swung shut behind you. The morning air was cool on your flushed cheeks.
"Satoru," you said, turning to face him. "Did you just... jealous-interrupt me again?"
"No, baby."
"You did. You totally did, my love."
"I was being efficient, sweetheart. He was wasting your time."
"He was being nice, Satoru."
"He was being flirty, pretty girl. There's a very big difference."
You stared at him — at his red ears, his stubborn jaw, the way he was holding your coffee like a trophy. He stared back, unblinking, refusing to admit defeat.
"You're impossible, darling," you said finally.
"You've mentioned that before, princess."
"I'm dating a toddler."
"You're dating the strongest sorcerer in the world, actually."
"You're a jealous toddler, baby."
"I am not—" He stopped. Took a breath. Ran a hand through his already messy hair. "Okay, sweetheart. Fine. Maybe I'm a little jealous."
"Maybe?"
"...A lot jealous, my love. I'm a lot jealous. Are you happy now?"
You smiled — wide and bright and full of affection — and reached up to cup his face in your hands. His eyes fluttered shut immediately, his whole body leaning into your touch like a sunflower seeking the sun.
"I'm not going anywhere, Satoru," you said softly. "You don't have to scare off every guy who looks at me, pretty boy."
"I know, baby." He opened his eyes, and they were soft now. Warm. Vulnerable. "But I want to."
"That's not healthy, darling."
"I never claimed to be healthy, sweetheart." He pressed a kiss to your palm. "I just claimed to be yours."
You laughed — bright and surprised and so full of love it made your chest ache — and he kissed you right there on the sidewalk, coffee forgotten, the world fading away around you.
"You're ridiculous, Satoru," you whispered against his lips.
"I'm yours, princess," he corrected, his forehead resting against yours. "There's a very big difference."
Later that night — after the café incident, after you'd spent the afternoon curled up on the couch together while watching bad movies, and after Satoru had apologized approximately seventeen more times (you'd stopped counting) — his phone started buzzing.
He glanced at the screen. Rolled his eyes.
"It's Shoko," he said, already reading through the messages. "She's being annoying."
"Nothing new there," you said, leaning over to look.
The group chat was, as always, chaotic.
Satoru's fingers flew across the screen, his expression indignant.
He hesitated for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Then, with a dramatic sigh you could hear from across the couch, he typed:
You laughed, the sound muffled against his shoulder. Satoru shot you a look of betrayal. "You're supposed to be on my side," he complained.
"I'm on no one's side," you said sweetly. "I'm an agent of chaos."
He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "traitor" before turning back to his phone.
You watched his thumbs hover again. He was typing, deleting, typing again.
Satoru stared at his phone for a long moment. His ears were turning pink again. You could see him trying to come up with a comeback.
He failed.
You burst out laughing — actually laughing, the kind that made your stomach hurt and your eyes water. Satoru tossed his phone onto the couch cushion beside him and flopped backward with a dramatic groan.
"They're the worst," he declared, staring at the ceiling.
"You love them," you said, still giggling.
"I tolerate them. Barely."
"You literally just said you don't hate Shoko."
"Don't quote me at me."
You grinned, crawling over to curl up against his side. His arm came around you automatically, pulling you close like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"You're cute when you're flustered," you said.
"I'm never flustered."
"Your ears are red."
"The room is warm."
"It's November."
"The heater is warm."
You reached up and tugged gently at his earlobe. He swatted your hand away, but he was smiling — that soft, private smile he only let you see.
"I love you, you know," he said quietly.
"I know, baby."
"Say it back."
"I love you too, Satoru. Even when you're a jealous mess."
"I'm not a jealous mess."
"Your phone says otherwise."
He groaned, burying his face in your hair. "I'm never looking at that group chat again."
"Sure you won't, pretty boy."
"…I really hate you sometimes."
"No, you don't."
He sighed, his arms tightening around you. "…No, I don't."
That night, you were lying in bed, half-asleep, the sheets tangled around your legs and Satoru's arm draped across your stomach. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the city outside the window, and everything was quiet and warm and safe.
"Hey, baby," he whispered.
"Mm, Satoru?" you mumbled, barely conscious.
"I'm sorry. For being... like that tonight. At the café."
You opened your eyes, blinking in the darkness. He was propped up on one elbow, looking down at you. His hair was a complete disaster — flattened on one side, sticking up on the other — and his eyes were soft in the dim light. He looked adorable like this. Unprotected. Yours.
"Like what, my love?" you asked, your voice still thick with sleep.
"Jealous. Possessive. Weird." He paused, his thumb tracing small circles on your hip. "I've never been like this before, sweetheart. With anyone. I've never cared enough to be."
You reached up and brushed his white hair back from his forehead, your fingers trailing down to trace the line of his jaw. He leaned into your touch like a cat seeking warmth, his eyes fluttering half-closed.
"I know, Satoru," you said softly.
"I don't like it, princess. Feeling like I could lose you. Even when I know I won't." He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "It makes me act... not like myself, pretty girl."
"Maybe this is yourself, darling," you said, your thumb brushing across his cheekbone. "Maybe you've just never cared enough about anyone to feel it before. Maybe jealousy isn't weakness, Satoru. Maybe it just means you love me."
He was quiet for a long moment. His eyes searched yours in the darkness, looking for something — reassurance, maybe. Or permission.
"That's... actually really insightful, baby," he said finally.
"I have my moments, my love."
He smiled — that soft, private smile he only gave you in moments like this, when the world was asleep and nothing existed except the two of you — and leaned down to kiss you. Slow. Sweet. Full of everything he couldn't say out loud.
"I love you, sweetheart," he whispered against your lips.
"I know, pretty boy."
"Say it back, princess."
"I love you too, Satoru. More than all the baristas in the world."
He laughed — a real laugh, warm and surprised — and buried his face in your neck, his arms wrapping around you like he never wanted to let go.
"I'm still going to glare at anyone who touches you, baby," he mumbled into your skin.
"I would expect nothing less, my love."
"And I'm not sorry about the Kyoto assistant."
"I know you're not, darling."
"Or the barista."
"Definitely not the barista."
"And if anyone ever puts their hand on your back again, sweetheart —"
"Satoru."
"—I'm not saying I'll do anything violent. I'm just saying I might, pretty girl."
You laughed, pulling him closer until there was no space left between you, and pressed a kiss to the top of his messy white head.
"Go to sleep, Satoru," you murmured.
"Can't, baby."
"Why not, my love?"
"Too busy being jealous of your dreams, princess."
"My dreams, darling?"
"You might dream about someone else, sweetheart. Someone with better hair."
"No one has better hair than you, pretty boy."
"That's true." He paused, pulling back just enough to look at you. "Wait. Was that a compliment, baby?"
"Go to sleep, Satoru."
"...I love you, my love."
"I love you too, darling."
"More than the barista?"
"Satoru."
"I'm just asking, sweetheart!"
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling so wide your cheeks hurt. And when you felt his breathing even out a few minutes later, his arms still wrapped around you like he was afraid you'd disappear, you pressed another kiss to his forehead and held on just as tight.
Jealous Gojo was a lot.
But he was your jealous Gojo.
And you wouldn't have him any other way.
A/N. if you can't tell, i am NOT talented at writing jealousy, so i hope you guys still enjoyed this!! 😭
next up: sick gojo.. or maybe a cooking disaster?.. 🧐
Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3
synopsis. The summer festival comes once a year. The yukata, the lanterns, the goldfish that always slip away. Gojo Satoru has faced down curses that would make grown men weep, but none of that prepared him for this — you, in a borrowed yukata, looking up at the fireworks like they hung the stars just for you. Or: he's been in love with you for years. Tonight, he's finally going to do something about it.
pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader
content & warnings. pure fluff, mutual pining, friends to lovers, festival date, yukata agenda, gojo is DOWN BAD, hand holding, fireworks kiss, actual confession, geto and shoko are MENACES (affectionate and yes, geto is alive guys ily), no season 2 energy (derogatory but we love it)
word count. 2.4k+
A/N. its 1am rn so im scheduling this to post at 3am instead!! φ(*￣0￣)
"You're staring again."
Satoru blinked. "I'm not staring."
Shoko didn't even look up from her phone. "You've been staring at that door for ten minutes. Suguru took a picture. He's making it his wallpaper."
"I am not," Suguru said from somewhere behind him, but Satoru heard the click of a camera shutter and chose to ignore it.
He was not staring.
He was... anticipating.
There was a difference.
The three of them were waiting outside your apartment building, the summer air thick and warm. Lanterns glowed in the distance — the festival had already started, music and laughter drifting down the street. Satoru had been here before. He'd been to a hundred festivals. They were fine. Loud. Crowded. Nothing special.
But tonight was different.
Because tonight, you were going with them.
And you were wearing a yukata.
"Don't think about the yukata," he told himself. "You'll short-circuit. You'll say something stupid. You'll—"
The door opened.
Satoru forgot how to breathe.
You stepped out into the golden evening light, and you were wearing a yukata the color of summer peaches — soft pink with little white flowers scattered across the fabric. A pale yellow obi wrapped around your waist, tied in a perfect bow. Your hair was different too — pinned up, with a few strands falling loose around your face.
You looked like something out of a dream.
Like the main character of every summer festival episode he'd ever watched.
Like home.
"Sorry I took so long," you said, tugging at the sleeve self-consciously. "I've never worn one before. Does it look okay?"
Okay? She asked if it looked okay? He was going to pass away. Right here. On the sidewalk. Suguru would take another picture.
"You look," Satoru started, and his voice came out strangled. He cleared his throat. "You look beautiful."
Behind him, Shoko's eyebrows shot up.
"Beautiful?" his brain screamed. "That's better than "nice" but you're still—"
"Beautiful?" you repeated, a smile tugging at your lips.
"I mean—" His ears were burning. "You look. Good. Great. Fantastic. Beautiful was the first word. I'm going to stop talking now."
You laughed — that soft, wonderful laugh — and something in his chest cracked open.
"Thank you," you said. "You look beautiful too."
He was wearing a simple gray yukata. Nothing special. But the way you said it — like you meant it — made him feel like the luckiest person in the world.
"Okay, lovebirds," Shoko interrupted, already walking toward the festival. "The fireworks aren't going to watch themselves."
Suguru fell into step beside her, but not before shooting Satoru a look that said "you owe me for this".
Satoru ignored him.
Because you were walking next to him now, close enough that your sleeve brushed his arm, and he could smell your perfume — something floral, something soft — and he was never going to survive this night.
The festival was everything you'd hoped for.
Lanterns strung across the street like little golden stars. The smell of grilled corn and sweet soy sauce. Children running past with cotton candy clouds in their hands. Laughter and music and the warm glow of a thousand lights.
And Satoru.
Satoru, who kept looking at you when he thought you weren't watching.
Satoru, who bought you taiyaki without asking because he remembered you said you liked the red bean ones once, months ago.
Satoru, who was currently watching you try to win a goldfish with an expression of intense concentration, like he was the one holding the paper scoop.
"You're going to break it," he said.
"I am not."
"You're being too aggressive. You have to be gentle. Like this—" He reached over, his hand covering yours on the scoop. His palm was warm. His fingers were long and careful. "Slowly. See?"
You weren't looking at the goldfish.
You were looking at his profile — at the way the lantern light caught his white hair, at the soft focus in his eyes, at the small smile playing on his lips.
"Satoru."
"Mm?"
"You're not helping."
"I'm instructing."
"The goldfish is getting away."
He looked down. The goldfish had, in fact, swam off.
"...That wasn't my fault."
"It was entirely your fault."
"You distracted me."
"I didn't do anything."
"You exist. It's very distracting."
The words hung in the air between you.
Satoru's ears turned red. He pulled his hand back like he'd been burned.
"I mean—" he started.
"I know what you meant," you said softly.
And you smiled — a small, private smile that made his heart stutter — and turned back to the goldfish.
You didn't catch one.
But Satoru bought you a little plushie from the booth next door instead. A tiny white cat with blue eyes that looked suspiciously like someone he knew.
"This is stupid," you said, hugging it to your chest.
"It's sentimental."
"It's a cat."
"It's a very handsome cat."
You laughed, and Satoru decided that was his new favorite sound.
The four of you found a spot on a grassy hill overlooking the festival — close enough to see the stage, far enough to hear each other speak. The sky was darkening, the first stars just beginning to appear.
Shoko and Suguru had conveniently wandered off to "get food" ten minutes ago and hadn't come back.
Satoru knew exactly what they were doing.
He was going to kill them. Slowly. With Infinity. Maybe.
But for now — for now, he was alone with you. On a hill. Under the stars. And you were sitting so close that your shoulders touched every time you breathed.
"Your friends are very obvious," you said, not looking at him.
"They're not my friends. I don't know them."
"They literally live with you."
"Roommates. Acquaintances. People I tolerate."
You laughed. "Liar."
"I'm the strongest," he said, staring straight ahead. "I don't lie. It's beneath me."
"Mm."
"I don't."
"Okay."
"I'm serious."
You turned to look at him — really look at him — and his breath caught in his throat.
"Satoru," you said softly.
"What?"
"Thank you for tonight."
He swallowed. "For what?"
"For this." You gestured vaguely at the festival, the stars, the space between you. "For... everything. For always being here. For remembering I like red bean taiyaki. For the stupid cat."
"He's not stupid. His name is Gojo Satoru Jr."
"His name is what?"
"Too late. I've already decided. He's our son now."
Our son. He said our. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You were quiet for a moment.
Then — softly — you said, "You're different than I thought you'd be."
"Different how?"
"I don't know." You looked down at your hands. "I thought you were just... Gojo Satoru. The strongest. Untouchable. But you're not. You're just... Satoru. Who buys me taiyaki and loses at goldfish and names stuffed animals after himself."
"I didn't lose at goldfish. I was instructing."
"You distracted me."
"I exist. It's very distracting."
You looked up at him, and your eyes were soft, and your lips were parted, and the space between you had somehow gotten much smaller.
"Satoru," you whispered.
"Yeah?"
"I think—"
A firework exploded overhead.
Then another. And another.
The sky erupted in color — gold and red and blue — and the crowd around you cheered. Children clapped. Couples held hands.
And Satoru sat there, heart pounding, watching the fireworks reflect in your eyes.
You turned to him, smiling. "They started!"
"Yeah," he said. "They started."
But he wasn't looking at the fireworks.
He was looking at you.
And he thought — I love you. I love you. I love you.
The words were on the tip of his tongue.
But before he could say them, you moved.
You leaned in — so close that your nose brushed his, so close that he could feel your breath on his lips — and the world stopped.
"Satoru," you whispered again.
"Yeah?"
"Stop thinking."
And then you kissed him.
Right there. On the hill. Under the fireworks.
His brain short-circuited.
She's kissing you. She's KISSING you. DO SOMETHING—
His hand came up to cup your cheek, gentle, almost reverent. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his yukata, and you were smiling — he could feel it against his lips — and he was pretty sure he was dreaming.
When you finally pulled back, the fireworks were still exploding overhead, painting your face in gold and blue and red.
Your eyes were bright. Your lips were parted. Your cheeks were pink.
"Hi," you said softly.
"Hi," he said back, his voice barely a whisper.
"I've wanted to do that for a while."
"You—" He blinked. "You have?"
"Months, Satoru. Months."
He stared at you.
Then he laughed — breathless, disbelieving, so full of love it hurt — and pulled you into his chest.
"I love you," he said into your hair. "I love you. I've loved you for— I don't even know how long. Years. Maybe longer. Maybe since the beginning. I can't remember what it felt like not to."
You pulled back just enough to look at him. Your eyes were wet.
"I love you too," you said. "I've been waiting for you to say something."
"I was scared."
"I know."
"I'm the strongest. I'm not supposed to be scared."
You smiled — that soft, wonderful smile — and kissed him again, quick and warm.
"Everyone's scared," you said. "Even the strongest."
He looked at you — at your messy hair, your smudged eyeliner, your bright, beautiful smile — and felt his heart crack open in the best way.
"Stay," he said. "After the festival. Stay with me tonight."
"I was planning on it."
He grinned — that stupid, brilliant, heart-stopping grin — and kissed you one more time.
The fireworks exploded overhead.
Neither of you watched.
The festival ended.
The crowds thinned. The lanterns flickered. The music faded into the warm summer night.
Satoru walked you home.
His hand was in yours.
Neither of you had stopped smiling.
"Today was perfect," you said.
"Today was okay," he said, and you swatted his arm. "I'm kidding! It was perfect. You were perfect. The fireworks were—" He looked at you. "The fireworks were fine."
"The fireworks were beautiful."
"They had nothing on you."
You stopped walking. "That was so cheesy."
"I'm romantic."
"You're embarrassing."
"And yet you kissed me."
"And yet I kissed you," you agreed, and you reached up to cup his face. "I'd do it again, too."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You did.
And when you finally reached your door, and when you kissed him goodnight, and when he floated home on a cloud of disbelief —
He thought, "I should have done that months ago."
And then he thought, "Suguru owes me fifty bucks."
One year later, you stood in front of the same mirror.
But this time, the yukata was different.
White and blue.
His colors — or rather, both of your colors now.
You ran your fingers over the fabric — soft, elegant, with little silver threads that caught the light like stars. You'd bought it weeks ago, hidden it in the back of your closet, smiled every time you thought about his face when he'd see it.
What you didn't know was that Satoru had done the same thing.
In his bedroom — across town, in the apartment you'd practically moved into — he was standing in front of his own mirror, adjusting the collar of a new yukata.
White and blue.
Your colors.
He'd bought it the same week you'd bought yours. Great minds thought alike.
"You're going to make her cry," Shoko called from the couch, not looking up from her phone.
"I'm not going to make her cry. I'm going to make her happy."
"It's the same thing with you."
Suguru, sitting in the armchair with a book, smirked. "Remember our bet?"
Satoru's ears turned red. "Shut up."
"You owe me fifty bucks if you didn't confess by the summer festival."
"I did confess. At the festival. Last year. Remember? The fireworks? The kiss? The—"
"I remember. That's why you owe me fifty bucks."
Satoru glared at him. "That's not how the bet worked."
"That's exactly how the bet worked."
"Suguru."
"Satoru."
Shoko sighed. "Can you two save the domestic dispute for later? She's going to be here any minute."
Satoru's heart jumped.
She.
You.
You were coming over. Tonight. To go to the festival together. Just the two of you this time — no Suguru, no Shoko (they were "coincidentally" busy, which Satoru knew was a lie but appreciated anyway).
The doorbell rang.
Satoru's heart stopped.
"Go get it, Romeo," Shoko said.
He walked to the door on autopilot, his hands slightly sweaty, his heart pounding. "Why was he nervous? He'd known you for years. You'd been dating for a year. You'd seen him cry. You'd seen him with bed hair. You'd—"
He opened the door.
And forgot how to breathe.
You were wearing white and blue.
White fabric with blue flowers — hydrangeas, maybe, or little morning glories — scattered across the silk. A pale blue obi tied in a perfect bow. Silver pins in your hair that sparkled like the fireworks from a year ago.
And you were looking at him with wide eyes.
Because he was also wearing white and blue.
His yukata was the inverse of yours — blue fabric with white flowers, a white obi, his white hair falling softly around his face.
"You're—" you started.
"You're—" he started at the same time.
Both of you laughed.
"We're matching," you said.
"We're matching," he agreed, and his voice was so soft, so full of wonder, like he couldn't believe this was his life.
"I bought this weeks ago," you admitted. "I wanted to surprise you."
"I bought this weeks ago," he said. "I wanted to surprise you."
Behind him, Shoko called out, "You two are disgusting. I love it."
Geto added, "Take a picture. It'll last longer."
Satoru ignored both of them.
He reached for your hand — your fingers intertwined with his, warm and familiar — and pulled you inside.
"You look beautiful," he said.
"You look beautiful too."
"I'm handsome."
"You're something."
He grinned — that stupid, brilliant, heart-stopping grin — and kissed your forehead.
"The festival?"
"The festival," you agreed.
You walked out together, hand in hand, white and blue matching under the evening sky.
Behind you, Shoko took a picture.
Suguru added it to the group chat.
And Satoru — walking beside the person he loved most in the world, wearing matching yukatas like the universe had planned it — smiled.
"Best fifty bucks I ever won," he thought.
A/N. HES SO ADORABLE WSHHHDHW !!! this idea popped up into my mind since i was watching a shoujo anime, shh!! i js know satoru would EAT in a shoujo anime JUSTICE FOR SHOUJO ANIME MALE LEAD SATORU !!!!!!!!! （；´д｀）ゞ
Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3
synopsis. One year before Shinjuku, Gojo Satoru got down on one knee in the snow. He was flustered, fumbling, so desperately in love that he forgot every word he'd rehearsed. You said yes. You kissed him in the falling snow. You thought forever meant forever. — Or: a proposal captured on accident, and the winter that came after.
part 2. please read "Maybe in Another Life" here!
pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader
content & warnings. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH (canon compliant — shinjuku showdown), angst/NO comfort (i'm sorry), fluff in the first half, proposal, happy tears then REAL tears, blood, death scene, last kiss, snow motif, grief, BRING TISSUES!!!!!!!, you will cry. i'm sorry. i cried too.
word count. 2.9k+
A/N. before u read, i highly suggest playing je te laisserai mots by Patrick Watson, sparks by Coldplay, or The Night We Met by Lord Huron while reading !! ^^ enjoy <3
The snow started falling on a Tuesday.
Not the angry, biting kind of snow that made you want to stay inside forever. This was the soft kind — the kind that drifted down in lazy spirals, catching the streetlight glow like little falling stars. The kind that made the world feel quiet. Made everything feel possible.
You were standing in Satoru's backyard, bundled in one of his coats — the black one that swallowed you whole, the sleeves falling past your fingers, the collar smelling like him. Mint and something warm. Something safe.
"Satoru, it's freezing," you called out, your breath fogging in the air.
He was across the yard, already packing a snowball with suspiciously efficient hands. His blindfold was pushed up into his hair — messy, falling over his forehead — and his cheeks were pink from the cold. He looked young. He looked happy.
"That's the point!" he called back. "Snow fights require snow! And cold! And—"
A snowball hit him square in the chest before he could finish.
He looked down at the white splatter on his dark sweater. Then back up at you. His eyes narrowed.
"Oh, you're dead."
You shrieked and took off running, your boots crunching in the fresh snow. His laughter chased you across the yard — loud, bright, echoing off the trees.
You didn't stand a chance.
He was faster. He was always faster. His arms wrapped around your waist from behind, spinning you around once before both of you tumbled into a snowbank in a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter.
"I win," he announced, hovering over you, his face inches from yours.
"You cheated."
"I played strategically."
"That's not a thing."
"It is when I do it."
Snowflakes were catching in his white hair, melting on his eyelashes. His nose was pink. His lips were parted, still smiling. He was so beautiful it made your chest ache.
"I love you," you whispered.
The smile on his face softened into something quieter. Something real.
"I know," he said, just as soft. "I love you too."
He kissed you then — cold lips, warm heart — and the snow kept falling around you like the world was giving you its blessing.
"Okay, okay, round two," you said, propping your phone against a snow-covered rock. "But this time — this time — I'm going to win."
Satoru raised an eyebrow from across the yard. "You want me to go easy on you?"
"I want you to try."
"Bold words from someone who's already wearing my coat."
"Your coat is my coat now. I stole it fair and square."
He gasped dramatically, one hand over his heart. "The betrayal! The audacity! And on the Lord's day—"
"It's Tuesday."
"—on the Lord's Tuesday!"
You threw a snowball at his face.
He dodged it effortlessly (annoying), packed three of his own in rapid succession (unfair), and the battle began again.
The snowball fight reached its peak quickly. You were laughing so hard your stomach hurt, your cheeks were numb from the cold, and you were winning — or at least, that's what you kept telling yourself.
"Last one!" you called out, ducking behind a snowbank. "I'm getting the final shot!"
Satoru's laughter echoed across the yard. "You can try, sweetheart!"
You scooped up a handful of snow, packed it tight, and grinned to yourself. This was it. The winning shot. He'd never see it coming.
"Satoru?"
You paused.
His voice had changed. It wasn't playful anymore. It was... softer. Quieter.
"Can you— can you come here for a second?"
You rolled your eyes, still grinning. "Nice try! You're not tricking me that easily!"
"I'm not— I'm not tricking you. I promise."
Something in his voice made you stop.
Not because he sounded like he was lying. But because he sounded like he was scared. And Gojo Satoru was never scared.
You dropped the snowball.
Slowly — confusion prickling at the back of your mind — you stood up from behind the snowbank and turned around.
And then.
And then.
He was on one knee.
His white hair was messy, falling over his forehead. His cheeks were pink — from the cold, or from something else, you couldn't tell. His hands were shaking. His blindfold was pushed up into his hair, and his eyes — those impossible, endless blue eyes — were looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
In his trembling hands was a small velvet box.
Open.
A ring inside.
The snow was falling around him — catching in his hair, melting on his shoulders — and he looked like something out of a dream. Like something too beautiful to be real.
"Satoru?" Your voice came out as a whisper.
"I had a speech planned," he said, and his voice cracked. His voice never cracked. "I practiced it. Like, a lot. Shoko helped. She said it was 'acceptable,' which from her is basically a standing ovation."
Your hands flew to your mouth.
"You forgot the snowball," he continued, rambling now, words tumbling out like he couldn't stop them. "You were about to throw it at me. I saw you packing it. And I thought — I thought, if she throws that snowball, I'm going to lose my nerve. So I called you over. And now you're here. And I'm—"
He swallowed.
His eyes were wet.
"I'm on my knees. In the snow. Asking you to marry me. And I forgot every single word I was supposed to say, because you're standing there in my coat with snow in your hair and you're beautiful and I can't— I can't think. I can't breathe. I can't do anything except—"
He held out the ring.
His hands were shaking so badly.
"I've been planning this for a year," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "A whole year. I had spreadsheets. Geto made fun of me. Shoko called me pathetic. Which — fair. But I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted you to know that I didn't just... wake up one day and decide. I've been choosing you. Every day. For so long I can't remember what it felt like not to."
A tear slipped down your cheek.
Then another.
Then you were crying — full-body sobs that shook your shoulders — and you didn't even care. You didn't care that the snow was cold. You didn't care that your nose was running. You didn't care about anything except him.
"Please don't cry," he said, his own voice wobbling. "If you cry, I'm going to cry, and then we're both going to be crying in the snow and the recording is going to be ruined—"
You let out a wet laugh, gesturing vaguely toward the rock. "You're the one who set up the recording!"
"For memories!" he protested. "Not for— not for this—"
"For what? Me saying yes?"
"For you crying! I didn't plan for the crying!"
"You're crying too!"
"I'm emotional! There's a difference!"
You laughed again — a real laugh, wobbly and tearful and so full of love it hurt — and dropped to your knees in front of him, snow soaking through your jeans.
"Yes," you said, cupping his cold face in your hands. "I will marry you. I will be your wife. I will wear your last name and steal your hoodies and wake up next to you every single morning until I'm old and gray and you're still annoyingly pretty."
"I'm not pretty, I'm devastating—"
"Shut up and put the ring on me."
He did.
His hands were still shaking. He almost dropped it twice. You laughed at him. He didn't even care.
When the ring finally settled on your finger — a perfect fit, because of course he'd checked — he let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
"We're getting married," he said.
"We're getting married."
"I'm going to be your husband."
"You're going to be my husband."
He kissed you then — snow falling around you, your phone still recording on the rock, the whole world quiet and soft and right.
And when he pulled back, you were both crying.
"I love you," he whispered.
"I know."
"Say it back."
"I love you too, Satoru."
Behind you, forgotten in the snow, the snowball you'd dropped was slowly melting.
You didn't need it anymore.
You'd already won.
The snow started falling on a Thursday.
Not the soft kind. Not the kind that made you think of laughter and proposals and warm coats. This was the angry kind — the kind that fell in sheets, driven by wind, stinging your cheeks like tiny shards of glass.
You didn't feel it.
You couldn't feel anything.
Because Satoru was in your arms, and he was dying.
No.
The word echoed in your skull, hollow and useless. A denial that meant nothing. A prayer that wouldn't be answered.
No, no, no, no, no—
His blood was soaking through his clothes, dark and warm against your hands. You pressed down — you pressed so hard — but it kept coming. Kept spilling. Kept leaving him.
"Satoru," you whispered. "Satoru, stay with me. Please."
His eyes were open — those impossible blue eyes, the ones that had looked at you like you were the only real thing in the world. But they were hazy now. Distant. Like he was looking at something you couldn't see.
"Hey," he said, and his voice was so soft. So tired. "You're... you're crying."
He was the one dying and he was worried about your tears.
"Don't," you choked out. "Don't talk. Save your strength."
"I've saved enough strength," he murmured. "I've been saving it... for years. For this."
"Don't."
"You look beautiful." His hand — cold, trembling — reached up to touch your face. His fingers left a trail of red on your cheek. "Even now. Even with... the crying. You're so beautiful."
"Satoru, please—"
"I should have... married you sooner." His lips twitched — almost a smile. "I was scared. Isn't that funny? The strongest... scared of a wedding."
"Stop it. Stop talking like—" Your voice broke. "You're going to be fine. You're going to— the others are coming. Shoko can—"
"She can't fix this."
The words hit you like a physical blow.
"Don't say that."
"You know I don't... lie to you. Not about... important things."
The snow was falling on both of you now — catching in his white hair, melting on his pale skin. He looked like a painting. Like something frozen in time.
"Do you remember," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "the snow... last year...?"
"Stop talking."
"I was so nervous. I forgot... everything. Every word."
"You proposed. That's all that matters."
"I wanted it to be... perfect. For you." His hand found yours — cold fingers intertwining with your bloodstained ones. "Was it... was it perfect?"
"Yes," you sobbed. "It was perfect. You were perfect. Please stay."
"I can't."
"You promised."
His eyes — those beautiful, terrible eyes — found yours one last time. And even now, even like this, they were soft. They were loving.
"I know," he whispered. "I'm sorry."
"Satoru—"
"Tell me... about the snow. Tell me... you remember."
"I remember," you said, your voice cracking. "I remember everything. You were wearing that stupid sweater. You kept fixing your hair. You were so nervous you dropped the ring in the snow and had to dig for it."
"I did not—" A weak laugh. "Okay. I did."
"You called me beautiful. You said you'd been choosing me every day. You said you couldn't remember what it felt like not to."
"Sounded... smoother... in my head."
"It was perfect."
His eyes were drifting. His hand was getting colder.
"Satoru." You gripped his fingers tighter. "Satoru, look at me. Please."
He did.
Barely.
"I love you," you said. "I love you so much. I'm going to say it every day. Every single day. Even when you can't hear me anymore."
"Waste of... good words."
"They're not wasted. They're for you. They're always for you."
His lips curved — just a little — into that soft, private smile he only ever gave you.
"I love you too," he breathed. "My... my wife."
You weren't married. You never got the chance. The wedding was supposed to be in spring — cherry blossoms, not snow. A white dress, not bloodstained hands.
But he called you his wife anyway.
And you let him.
Because you were. You always would be.
"Kiss me?" he asked. Quiet. Hopeful. Like he was asking for something small.
He was asking for a last kiss.
You leaned down — snow falling on his face, on his lips, on his closed eyes — and pressed your mouth to his.
He was cold.
He was so cold.
But his lips moved against yours — weak, fading — and you felt his hand squeeze yours one last time.
"I love you," he didn't say.
"I know," you didn't answer.
When you pulled back, his eyes were closed.
The snow was falling on his face — on his white hair, his pale cheeks, his parted lips.
His hand was limp in yours.
"Satoru?"
Nothing.
"Satoru, wake up."
The wind howled.
The snow kept falling.
And Gojo Satoru — the strongest sorcerer in the world, the man who had grinned in the face of death, the man who had dropped a snowball and forgotten every word of his proposal because you were too beautiful — did not move.
Did not breathe.
Did not open his eyes.
He was gone.
You don't know why you watched it.
It's been three months. Or six. Or a year. You've stopped counting. Time doesn't feel real anymore — not without him.
But tonight, the snow is falling again. Soft. Gentle. The kind that reminds you of him.
And you find yourself scrolling through your phone.
Past the mission reports. Past the concerned texts from Shoko. Past the photos you can't bring yourself to delete.
And then — there it is.
The video.
The one you recorded on that Tuesday, one year before the world ended. Before he ended.
Your thumb hovers over the screen.
"Don't," you tell yourself. "Don't do this to yourself."
You press play.
The video is shaky at first — your phone propped against a rock, the lens speckled with snow. You hear your own voice, distant and laughing: "Okay, round two. But this time — this time — I'm going to win."
And then — him.
Satoru appears in the frame, messy-haired and pink-cheeked, his blindfold pushed up into his white hair. He's grinning — that stupid, brilliant grin that used to make your heart stutter.
"Bold words from someone who's already wearing my coat."
You watch yourself throw a snowball at his face. You watch him dodge it (show-off). You watch the two of you chase each other across the yard, laughing, breathless, alive.
You watch yourself duck behind a snowbank. Hear your own voice: "Last one! I'm getting the final shot!"
You watch him call out: "You can try, sweetheart!"
And then —
His voice changes.
"Satoru?"
"Can you— can you come here for a second?"
"Nice try! You're not tricking me that easily!"
"I'm not— I'm not tricking you. I promise."
The video captures it perfectly: the moment the snowball fight stops. The moment your laughter fades. The moment you drop the snowball — you see it fall from your hands, forgotten — and turn around.
And then —
He's on one knee.
The snow is falling around him. His hands are shaking. His voice cracks when he speaks.
"I had a speech planned. I practiced it. Like, a lot. Shoko helped. She said it was 'acceptable,' which from her is basically a standing ovation."
You're crying now. Tears slipping down your cheeks, warm against your cold skin.
"But I forgot it. I forgot every single word. Because you're standing there in my coat with snow in your hair and you're laughing and you're beautiful and I can't— I can't think. I can't breathe."
He opens the ring box.
"I've been planning this for a year. A whole year. I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted you to know that I didn't just... wake up one day and decide. I've been choosing you. Every day. For so long I can't remember what it felt like not to."
You watch yourself say yes.
You watch him put the ring on your finger.
You watch him kiss you in the falling snow.
And you watch — at the very end of the video, just before your phone tips over in the snow — his face.
He's looking at you like you're the sun.
Like you're the only thing keeping him warm.
Like he already knows — even then, even when everything was still possible — that you were the best thing that would ever happen to him.
The video ends.
The screen goes dark.
Outside, the snow keeps falling.
And you press your hand to your chest — right where the ring hangs on a chain beneath your shirt, too precious to put away — and you whisper it.
"I love you too, Satoru."
The wind doesn't answer.
The snow doesn't stop.
But somewhere — somewhere beyond the cold, beyond the dark, beyond the place where the strongest sorcerer in the world took his last breath—
You swear you hear him say it back.
A/N. guys im sorry please dont kill me i am so sorry I LOVE YOU ALL!!!!! i cried writing this 🙁
This one's for everyone who's ever lost someone too soon.
Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3
synopsis. Gojo Satoru is the strongest sorcerer in the world. But when morning comes, he's just a man who refuses to let his wife leave the bed. Not because he's lazy (he is), but because her warmth is the only thing that makes waking up worth it.
pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader
content & warnings. pure fluff, established relationship (married), super clingy and whiny gojo, messy hair agenda, soft morning cuddles, maybe a little tooth-rotting ♪(´▽｀)
word count. 2.7k+
A/N. mama has been busy, late post !! 〒▽〒
The first thing you registered was warmth.
Not the kind from the heater or the sun filtering through the curtains. No, this was him — all six-foot-three of him, wrapped around you like an octopus who had decided you were his favorite rock.
Satoru's arm was draped across your waist, heavy and unyielding. His legs were tangled with yours beneath the mountain of blankets he'd hoarded sometime during the night. His face was buried in the curve of your neck, his breath warm and slow against your skin.
And his hair.
Oh, his hair.
The iconic white locks that usually fell in perfect, effortless waves were now a complete disaster. It stuck up in every direction — flattened on one side from the pillow, sticking out wildly on the other like he'd been electrocuted sometime around 2 AM. A few strands had fallen across his face, and he'd clearly been too deep in sleep to care.
You smiled softly, your heart squeezing in that familiar, painful way it always did when you looked at him like this. Unprotected. Unbothered. Yours.
Slowly, carefully, you tried to shift your weight.
Big mistake.
Satoru's arm tightened around you immediately, pulling you back against his chest with a strength that reminded you — not that you'd ever forgotten — exactly who you'd married.
"Mmm," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. "No."
"Good morning to you too," you whispered.
"Not morning yet."
"It's 8:30."
"That's the middle of the night."
You laughed softly, reaching down to brush your fingers against his wrist. "Satoru, I have things to do."
"The things can wait."
"They're important things."
He lifted his head just enough to crack one eye open — still half-lidded, still hazy with sleep, but sharp enough to pin you in place. That one visible eye, the color of the sky just before dawn, stared at you with an intensity that made your stomach flip.
"More important than me?" he asked, his voice still raspy.
You paused. "That's not fair."
"I'm not playing fair." He buried his face back in your neck, his nose cold against your skin. "I'm playing stay. I always win at stay."
"You made that game up."
"Doesn't make me any less good at it."
You sighed, but you were smiling. You couldn't help it. This was the same man who had stared down curses that would make seasoned sorcerers weep. The same man who had faced death with a laugh and walked away unscathed. The same man who had stood in front of you on your wedding day, blindfold nowhere to be seen, looking at you like you were the only real thing in the world.
And now he was whining about you getting out of bed.
Some things never changed.
"I really do need to get up," you tried again, attempting to peel his arm off your waist.
He responded by wrapping his other arm around you too, effectively caging you in. His legs shifted, hooking around yours like he was building a human fortress. You were pinned. Completely, utterly, hopelessly pinned.
"You're being dramatic," you informed him.
"I'm being efficient," he corrected, his lips brushing against your shoulder. "This is the only way to keep you here."
"There's nothing efficient about this. You're just clingy."
"Clingy implies a lack of purpose. I have a purpose." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder — soft, almost unconscious, like he wasn't even aware he was doing it. "My purpose is keeping my wife in bed where she belongs."
"She belongs out of bed. Living her life. Doing things."
"You can live your life right here." He tightened his arms. "This is life. Peak life. The best life."
"Satoru."
"Satoru loves you," he mumbled. "Satoru thinks you're warm. Satoru doesn't want you to leave."
You bit your lip to keep from smiling too wide. "Are you speaking in third person now?"
"I'm speaking in whatever it takes."
You felt him yawn against your skin, his jaw cracking slightly, and the sound was so endearingly human that your heart ached. This was Gojo Satoru — the strongest, the most untouchable, the man who carried the world on his shoulders without ever seeming to feel the weight.
But right now, he was just your husband. The one who ran hot at night and stole all the blankets. The one who mumbled nonsense in his sleep and always, always reached for you before he was fully awake.
"Ten more minutes," you bargained.
"An hour."
"Fifteen minutes."
"Forty-five."
"Twenty, final offer."
He was quiet for a moment, and you thought maybe — maybe — he'd fallen back asleep. But then he shifted, pulling you even closer until your back was flush against his chest, his chin resting on top of your head.
"The world can wait," he murmured, his voice soft and sleepy. "Just... ten more minutes of this."
Your resolve crumbled.
"Fine," you whispered. "Ten more minutes."
He hummed in satisfaction, his arms relaxing just slightly — just enough to be comfortable, never enough to let you go.
"Love you," he breathed.
"Love you too."
"Love you more."
"That's not how love works."
"Don't care. Still true."
You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into the warmth of him. The blankets were soft. The morning light was gentle. And Satoru's heartbeat — steady, rhythmic, alive — was the only sound you needed to hear.
Twenty-three minutes later, you were still there.
Not that you were counting.
(You were counting. You'd counted every single minute, and you'd let him have every single one.)
"I can feel you thinking," he said suddenly, his voice still rough from sleep.
"You can feel me thinking?"
"I'm very perceptive."
"You're very nosey."
"Same thing."
You laughed — a real laugh, the kind that shook your shoulders and made his arms tighten around you instinctively. "I need to go, Satoru. The world is calling."
"The world is overrated."
"The world pays our bills."
"The world can pay them later."
You turned in his arms — an awkward shuffle that involved a lot of squirming and a displeased grunt from your husband — until you were facing him. His eyes were still half-closed, his white hair an absolute disaster, and there was a pillow crease on his cheek.
He was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen.
"Hi," you said softly.
"Hi," he said back, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Your hair is a mess."
"Your hair is also a mess."
"It's your fault. You were using it as a pillow."
"It's a very comfortable pillow. You should be flattered."
You reached up, brushing the wild strands away from his forehead. His eyes fluttered shut at the touch, and for a moment — just a moment — he looked so young. So unburdened. So safe.
"I really do have to go," you said quietly.
"I know."
But he didn't let go.
Neither of you moved.
Then, slowly — reluctantly — his arms loosened. Just a little. Just enough.
"Go," he said, but his voice was thick. "Before I change my mind."
You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Soft. Lingering.
"I'll make breakfast," you promised.
His eyes cracked open again. "What kind of breakfast?"
"What kind do you want?"
"The kind where you come back to bed after."
You laughed, shaking your head. "Nice try."
"Worth a shot."
You slipped out from under his arms — a careful, practiced escape that you'd perfected over months of marriage — and stood up. The morning air was cooler without his warmth, and you immediately missed it.
Satoru groaned, rolling onto his back and throwing an arm over his eyes. The blankets had slipped down to his waist, revealing the bare expanse of his chest, and his hair was spread across the pillow like a white halo.
"You're staring," he said, not moving his arm.
"I'm not."
"You absolutely are. I can feel it. My wife is ogling me."
"Your wife is leaving."
"Your husband is suffering."
You grabbed his hoodie from the back of the chair — the one he'd left there last night, the one that smelled like him — and pulled it over your head. It fell to your mid-thigh, swallowing you whole.
Satoru lifted his arm just enough to peek at you.
"You're stealing my clothes," he observed.
"I'm borrowing your clothes."
"With intent to return?"
"...Debatable."
He dropped his arm back over his eyes, but you could see the smile spreading across his face. "I love you. You know that, right?"
"Yeah." You walked over to his side of the bed, leaning down to press another kiss — this time to his lips. Soft. Simple. A promise. "I know."
He caught your hand before you could pull away, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. His eyes — both of them now, open and bright and so impossibly blue — looked up at you.
"Ten more minutes wasn't enough," he said quietly.
"It never is."
"Then stay longer next time."
You smiled. "Maybe I will."
And even as you walked out of the bedroom toward the kitchen, you could feel his gaze following you. Warm. Devoted. Endless.
Somewhere behind you, you heard him sigh — content, happy, utterly, ridiculously in love.
"Married," he muttered to himself. "I'm married. To the most beautiful woman in the world. How did I get this lucky?"
You didn't answer.
But you were smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.
Breakfast was half-finished when you felt arms wrap around your waist from behind.
Satoru's chin dropped onto your shoulder, and you could feel his breath warm against your ear.
"You're supposed to be in bed," you said, not looking up from the stove.
"Couldn't sleep."
"Couldn't, or wouldn't?"
"Same thing."
You felt him press a kiss to your shoulder — then another, higher up on your neck, then another just below your ear.
"Satoru."
"Satoru loves you," he mumbled against your skin. "Satoru wants pancakes."
"You're getting eggs."
"Satoru wants pancakes and eggs."
"Satoru is very demanding."
"Satoru is very loved, which means he should get pancakes."
You finally turned off the stove and turned around in his arms. He was still half-asleep, his hair still a disaster, his blindfold nowhere to be seen. He was wearing nothing but his sweatpants, and he looked like he'd rolled out of bed approximately thirty seconds ago.
Which, to be fair, he had.
"You look terrible," you said affectionately.
"I look devastating."
"You look like you were hit by a truck."
"A very handsome truck."
You laughed, reaching up to fix his hair — or try to, anyway. It was a losing battle. The white strands slipped through your fingers like silk, refusing to be tamed.
"I love you," you said softly.
His eyes softened. The teasing faded from his face, replaced by something quieter. Something real.
"I know," he said, echoing your words from earlier. "I love you too."
He leaned down and kissed you — slow, lazy, morning-sweet.
When he pulled back, he was smiling.
"So," he said. "Pancakes?"
"Eggs."
"Pancakes and eggs?"
"...Fine."
He grinned, the full megawatt smile that had made you fall in love with him in the first place, and pulled you into another hug — this one tighter, warmer, his arms wrapped around you like he never wanted to let go.
"Best morning ever," he declared.
"It's not even 9 AM."
"Doesn't matter. You're here. I win."
And honestly?
You couldn't argue with that.
You never made it to the kitchen.
Well — you did. You made the eggs. You even made the pancakes (because you were weak and he knew it). But somewhere between the last bite and the first sip of coffee, Satoru had tugged you toward the couch instead of the bedroom.
"The bed is right there," you said.
"The couch is closer," he'd argue.
"You're impossible."
"You're mine."
And now here you were — curled up on the sofa, the morning light still soft through the curtains, your half-empty coffee mug on the side table. Satoru's head rested in your lap, his long body stretched across the rest of the couch, his feet hanging off the armrest like he was too tall for any piece of furniture ever made.
His eyes were closed. His hair — still a complete disaster — fanned out across your thighs like white silk. He looked peaceful. Pretty. Soft.
You ran your fingers through his messy hair, untangling the knots gently, and he made a sound low in his throat. Something between a sigh and a hum. Content.
"You're purring," you observed.
"I'm not purring."
"You're absolutely purring."
"Shut up. I'm sleeping."
"You're not sleeping. You're just lying there with your eyes closed."
"Same thing."
You laughed quietly, your fingers trailing down to trace the line of his jaw.
"Satoru."
"Mm."
"You said ten more minutes. That was forty-five minutes ago."
"Time is fake."
"The clock says otherwise."
"The clock is a liar." He cracked one eye open, peering up at you through his lashes. The blue was striking against the morning light — bright, almost glowing. "Are you trying to leave again?"
"I'm trying to be productive."
"Productivity is overrated."
"Someone has to do the dishes."
"The dishes can wait." He closed his eye again, nuzzling his face against your thigh. His nose was cold. You yelped slightly, and he grinned — slow and sleepy and unfairly handsome. "See? You're not going anywhere."
"You're impossible."
"You've mentioned that."
You sighed, but you were smiling. Your fingers found their way back into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, and he melted. Actually melted. His whole body relaxed beneath your touch, his shoulders dropping, his breathing slowing.
"I could stay like this forever," he murmured.
"Then we'd starve."
"Worth it."
"No food?"
"You're enough."
You swatted his shoulder lightly, and he laughed — a low, sleepy rumble that vibrated through your legs. His hand came up to rest on your knee, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the fabric of your sweatpants.
"Do you remember," he said softly, "when we first started dating? And I used to fall asleep on your shoulder during movies?"
"You still do that."
"Yeah, but back then I was pretending to be cool about it."
"You were never cool about it. Your ears turned red every single time."
"...I was hoping you didn't notice that."
"I noticed everything."
He opened his eyes again, looking up at you with an expression that made your chest ache. Soft. Vulnerable. Loving.
"Good," he said quietly. "I wanted you to notice."
The morning light shifted, casting patterns on the wall. Somewhere outside, a bird was singing. The world was waking up — slowly, gently, like it didn't want to rush either.
Satoru turned his head, pressing a kiss to the inside of your palm.
"I love you," he said against your skin.
"I know."
"Say it back."
You leaned down, your hair falling forward to brush against his cheeks, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Then his nose. Then his lips — soft, quick, a whisper of a kiss.
"I love you too," you whispered. "Now let me do the dishes."
"No."
"Satoru."
"Satoru loves you. Satoru thinks you should stay right here. Satoru's head is very comfortable in your lap and he refuses to move."
"You're ridiculous."
"You're ridiculously in love with me."
"Unfortunately."
He grinned — that full, blinding smile that made your heart stutter — and pulled your hand down to rest over his heart. You could feel it beating beneath your palm. Steady. Strong. Alive.
"Ten more minutes," he said.
"You said that forty-five minutes ago."
"Ten more minutes this time."
You looked down at him — at his messy hair, his sleepy eyes, his soft smile. At the man who could destroy cities but chose to spend his morning with his head in your lap.
"...Fine," you said. "Ten more minutes."
He closed his eyes, still smiling.
"I win."
"Yeah," you said softly, your fingers finding their way back into his hair. "You win."
The coffee grew cold. The dishes waited. The world kept turning, slow and patient.
And Satoru stayed exactly where he was — head in your lap, heart in your hands — exactly where he belonged.
A/N. he's so adorable he could keep me in bed all day and i wont complain (┬┬﹏┬┬)
Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3
synopsis. Gojo Satoru has faced down special grade curses without flinching. He's looked death in the eye and laughed. But none of that — none of it — prepared him for the terror of your period mood swings. Or: five times he walked on eggshells, and one time he didn't have to.
pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader
content & warnings. fluff, established relationship, period comfort, mood swings (anger and crying), gojo is SCARED of you (affectionate), soft gojo, he memorized your cycle like the nerd he is, snacks, heating pads, forehead kisses, pet names galore, cinnamoroll plushie agenda.
word count. 1.8k+
A/N. im going out to the mall so i quickly posted this, hope you guys will enjoy!! <3
The first time Satoru Gojo realized he was genuinely, truly afraid of you was a Tuesday.
Not because you were scary in the normal way — you weren't a curse user or anything that could actually hurt him. You were just... you. Soft. Warm. The person who fell asleep on his shoulder during movies and traced little patterns on his chest and called him "toru" when you were feeling extra sweet.
But Tuesdays were different.
Tuesdays were dangerous.
Because Tuesday was Day Two.
He'd memorized your cycle three months into dating.
Not on purpose — okay, maybe completely on purpose. He couldn't help it. He noticed things. The way you'd start craving salty stuff instead of sweet. The way you'd curl into a tiny ball and refuse to be touched, then cry because he wasn't touching you. The way you'd text him "i love you", then five minutes later "actually i'm annoyed at you" and then "no i'm not come over"
He'd started marking it on his phone after the third time you'd burst into tears because he "looked at you wrong."
(He had looked at you. Normally. With his normal eyes. It was terrifying.)
So yes. Satoru Gojo — the strongest sorcerer alive, the honored one, the man who could stop a bullet with his brain — had a recurring calendar notification on his phone.
Day One: heating pad. chocolate. do NOT make jokes about her appetite.
Day Two: TREAD LIGHTLY. DO NOT EXIST TOO LOUDLY. BUY MORE CHOCOLATE. oh and maybe a stuffed animal. something round.
Day Three: she'll be hungry and sad. prepare offerings. do not take it personally if she cries at you.
Day Four: almost over. you survived. you did good. buy yourself a treat.
Today was Day Two.
Satoru stood outside your apartment door — your apartment, not his, because he'd learned the hard way that you needed your own space when you were hurting — and listened.
Silence.
That was either very good or very bad.
He knocked. Soft. Gentle. The way you'd knock on a door you weren't sure would open.
Nothing.
He knocked again. "Sweetheart?"
Still nothing.
He used his key — you'd given it to him after he'd camped outside your door for three hours because you'd texted "don't come over" and he'd learned that "don't come over" actually meant "please come over but i'm too proud to ask."
"Just come in," you'd said afterward, exhausted and tear-stained. "Even if I'm mad. Even if I say I don't want you there. Just... come in. Please."
So he did.
The apartment was dark.
Not the nice kind of dark. Not the "let's watch a movie and cuddle" dark. Not romantic dark. Not sleepy dark. The kind of dark that said "I've been lying here for hours thinking about how much everything hurts and also I hate the sun."
He found you on the couch, wrapped in approximately seventeen blankets, with your face shoved into a pillow.
"Hey," he said softly.
The pillow moved. He thought maybe you were looking at him. It was hard to tell.
"I brought things," he said, holding up the bag like a peace offering.
The pillow shifted again. This time, he was pretty sure you were glaring.
"What kind of things," you said. Your voice was flat. Emotionless. Terrifying.
"Good things," he said carefully.
"Define good."
"Chocolate things. Warm things. Soft things." He pulled out the offerings one by one, like a man trying not to startle a wild animal. "Your favorite tea. The expensive one. And- look- I found that heating pad you said was better than your old one. And-" He held up the last item. "A friend."
You sat up.
The blankets fell away from your face. Your eyes were red. Your hair was a disaster. You looked like you'd been crying and also like you wanted to commit murder.
"That's not a friend," you said. "That's cinnamoroll."
"He's friend-shaped."
"He's a stuffed dog, Satoru."
"He's round," he said defensively. "And soft. And he has blue eyes like my eyes. And you said you wanted something to hold onto at night when I'm not here, so-"
"I said that months ago."
"I remember everything you say."
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Your lip wobbled.
Oh no, he thought. Oh no no no.
"Don't cry," he said. "Please don't cry. I'll do anything. I'll buy you twenty cinnamoroll plushies. I'll fight the moon. Just-"
You burst into tears.
He was on the couch in half a second.
Not touching you — he'd learned that lesson the hard way (you'd thrown a book at him. it was a paperback, but still). But close. Present. There.
"I hate everything," you sobbed into your hands.
"I know, pretty girl."
"I hate my body. I hate that it hurts. I hate that I'm crying over a stuffed dog that looks like you and I don't even know why."
"I know, baby."
"I hate that you're being so nice because it makes me feel guilty for being mean to you earlier."
He bit back a smile. "I know, sweetheart."
"And I hate that you know."
He paused. Considered his options. "...I'm sorry?"
You looked up at him, tear-streaked and furious and absolutely beautiful. "Why are you sorry?"
"Because you're crying?"
"Don't apologize for my feelings, Satoru."
"What do you want me to do, then?"
You stared at him for a long moment. Your chest was heaving. Your hands were shaking. He could see the war happening inside you — the anger and the sadness and the exhaustion, all tangled up together.
Then you pointed at the floor.
"Sit."
He sat.
"On the floor?"
"You're too tall. You make me feel small. Sit on the floor."
He sat on the floor.
From below, he could see your face better. The redness in your cheeks. The way you were holding the stuffed-toy to your chest now, even though you'd pretended not to want it.
"I'm not gonna hit you," you said quietly.
"I know."
"Even though I thought about it."
"...I know."
You let out a shaky breath. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize, my love."
"You just said-"
"I know what I said. I'm allowed to change my mind." He tilted his head, looking up at you. "I'm not scared of you, you know."
You raised an eyebrow. "Liar."
"I'm not scared of you. I'm scared of... hurting you. Or making it worse. Or breathing too loud and having you cry harder." He paused. "Okay, maybe I'm a little scared of you."
Your lips twitched. "A little?"
"Terrified," he admitted. "Absolutely terrified. I'd rather fight a thousand curses than watch you cry and not know how to fix it."
You were quiet for a long time.
Then you reached down and grabbed his hand.
"Come here," you said.
He climbed up onto the couch — slowly, carefully, like he was approaching a small angry animal — and you immediately curled into his side. Your face pressed against his chest. Your hand fisted in his shirt. Cinnamoroll was squished between you.
"Cinnamoroll is stupid," you mumbled.
"I know, princess."
"He has blue eyes like your eyes."
"I know, baby."
"That's why I love him."
His heart stopped. "Yeah?"
"Don't sound so surprised." You looked up at him, and your eyes were still red, but you were smiling. Just a little. "I love you even when I'm angry. Especially when I'm angry. Because you don't leave. Even when I tell you to."
"You told me to leave once."
"And?"
"You texted me 'come back' before I got to the elevator."
You buried your face in his chest. "I was emotional."
"You were," he agreed, pressing a kiss to your hair. "You were also holding a spatula and crying about eggs."
"I don't want to talk about the eggs."
"Okay, sweetheart."
You stayed like that for a long time — him holding you, you holding cinnamoroll, the heating pad warming your abdomen and stomach and the chocolate waiting on the table.
"Satoru?"
"Hm?"
"I want the chocolate now."
He reached for it without moving you from his chest. Because he'd learned. He always learned.
"You're doing that thing," you murmured, mouth half-full of chocolate.
"What thing?"
"The thing where you're all gentle and it makes me want to cry again."
"Should I stop?"
"No." You pressed a kiss to his collarbone. "Never stop."
He pressed a kiss to your hair. "Wasn't planning on it, pretty girl."
Later — much later — you were asleep on his chest. Still on the couch. Neither of you had moved. The blanket was pulled up to your chin, tucked around you like a cocoon. Cinnamoroll was tucked under your arm — soft, round, white, with little blue eyes. You'd looked at it with swollen eyes and said "His eyes look like your eyes." and he'd almost cried. The heating pad had been kicked somewhere into the blanket nest. The chocolate was gone. There were crumbs on his shirt. He didn't care.
His phone buzzed.
Satoru looked down at you — at your messy hair, your tear-stained cheeks, the way you were holding little Cinnamoroll like it was the most precious thing in the world. A strand of hair had fallen across your face. Very carefully — so carefully — he tucked it behind your ear, his fingers lingering on the curve of your cheek. You didn't stir. Just breathed softly, warm against his chest.
A/N. satoru's replying to shoko!!
He put his phone down and wrapped his arms around you tighter, pulling the blanket higher over your shoulders. The apartment was quiet. The only light came from the street outside, filtering through the curtains, painting everything in soft gold.
You stirred, just slightly. "Toru?"
"Go back to sleep, my love."
"Mm." You nuzzled closer, the plushie squished between your chests. "Love you."
"Love you too, pretty girl."
"Even on Day Two?"
He smiled into your hair. "Especially on Day Two."
You laughed softly, breath warm against his neck. "You always say that."
"Because it's true."
"Still." You tilted your head up, eyes half-closed, lips curving into a sleepy smile. "You're gonna wear it out."
"Then I'll find a new one." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Day Two and a half. Day Two point five. Day Two-"
"Satoru."
"What?"
"Kiss me and go to sleep."
"Yes ma'am."
He kissed you — soft, slow, tasting like chocolate and your lip balm and something that was just you.
"Go to sleep," he whispered against your mouth.
"You first."
"That's not how it works."
"Don't care."
He laughed quietly, pulling the blanket higher around both of you. His fingers found your hair again — just playing with it now, twisting the ends around his fingertips, feeling how soft it was against his skin. You sighed, melting deeper into his chest.
Cinnamoroll watched from between you, blue eyes round and unblinking, white ears flopped to the side.
"Goodnight, my love."
"Goodnight, Toru."
You were asleep in seconds — your breathing slow, your body heavy against his, your hair still tangled in his fingers.
He stayed awake a little longer.
Counting your breaths. Tracing the shape of your shoulder. Memorizing the way you fit against him. Letting your hair slip through his fingers like silk.
He pressed one last kiss to your hair.
"Yeah," he whispered.
"Especially on Day Two."
A/N. SO CUTE !! and yes, i wrote this since im on my period and i need this man to comfort me 🥹💞
Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3
