comesatimecomesashadow

[comesatimecomesashadow]

throwing up because suguru would 100% pet his calloused hands over your hair while you cried into the soft fabric of his gojo-kesa; whispering how you deserve to feel like a good person, because you are one. telling you how much you are loved not because of what you do but because of the sole fact that you exist. in a world full of hate and expectations, you find solace in the man who would never judge you. the man who will not love you despite your flaws, but because of them. the man who would not ever use words sharp enough to cut you, but would instead let his his honeyed murmurs soothe the wounds of your heart. the man who would tear the entire world down if it meant you could live without ever being hurt by anyone.

i am so fucking sick i need him

[comesatimecomesashadow]

i love suguru in a religiously traumatized way, no i will not elaborate

[comesatimecomesashadow]

me quedare aquí, esperando. (drabble)

[ reader is latina ]

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ᯓ★ . . .

satoru can do anything he puts his mind to, so he never commits to anything as he is guaranteed to succeed 99% of the time. he had been in love with you, committed to you, for about a year now. the relationship was something new; like a flower in the spring finally blooming to bless the world with its beauty. it seemed that he too, had succeeded in being the most capable lover that he could be, to you.

even when he struggled to understand your mannerisms, or language.

see, satoru and you were different.

different in the sense that you were a foreigner. you moved to japan in your early twenties for college and since then, your journey in this new country had been nothing short of fulfilling. japanese tradition and culture quickly grew on you and your japanese had gotten better since the first day you trued speaking it.

now, six years later, you had a boyfriend who was utterly head over heels for you. a boyfriend who, instead of distancing himself from your mystique, chose to embrace it and love it as if it was his own. from the homemade, heartfelt meals to the not-so-flowery language you used to speak to your family members on the phone — he enjoyed every bit of it.

so much so that he began picking up your mannerisms and phrases.

to hear him imperfectly utter a, "mi amor" after flirting with you made your heart swell with admiration. when he sang along with you to the rock en Español songs you would put on the speaker during Saturdays —or cleaning days as he called them— a smile would inevitably find itself onto your lips.

when he helped you made traditional home-cooked meals like tamales or sopa de res, you realized what true, wholehearted devotion felt like; it was in the way he made an effort to comprehend why your work ethic was as strong as it was. it was in the way he —with time— understood that growing up as a woman in a latino family means inheriting a sort of motherly position at home. it was in the way he then made it his mission to make sure he would take care of you instead of you doing all the caretaking.

yes, you might be different than he is.

but to love is to appreciate difference.

y no hay nada mas que el quiere, que amarte como que si tu fueras su mundo entero.

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ᯓ★ m.list

[comesatimecomesashadow]

just wanna let yall know that id rather get my advice from reddit than let a clanker affirm my insecurities about my prose THANKS ❤️

[comesatimecomesashadow]

i want to braid suguru's hair but like in a nonromantic asexual, enemies-to-some-secret-third-thing way

[comesatimecomesashadow]

this is so funny to me because i started getting grey hairs when i was twelve and now they just dont stop coming, im not even twenty yet😭😭

thank you for this author, i had a laugh <3

affection, strand by strand. ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

you spot one white strand and you’re being dramatic about it. you call it aging, but satoru calls it matching. wc ᯓ 1.8k.

satoru treats your hair like a shrine he gets to live in.

you’re sprawled across his chest, the way you always end up when netflix is “are you still watching?” shaming you for the third time. he’s behind you on the couch, spine slouched, knees bracketing your hips, your weight poured back into his chest like you’re exactly where gravity wants you. 

one hand is under your shirt, flat against your ribs just to feel you breathe. the other is busy—parting, smoothing, learning the map he’s already memorized. knuckles graze your ear, fingertips circle your crown, nails skim just enough to make your shoulders drop. when he finds a knot, he whispers sorry to the strand like he’s bumped a masterpiece. you lean into him. into it. into the way he always makes a ceremony out of touching you.

he goes still.

“...what,” you say, instantly suspicious.

“nothing,” he says, which is exactly what you say when you’ve done something and don’t want to die for it. a beat. then, very delicately, like he just discovered a rare artifact: “huh.”

you bolt upright. “what is ‘huh,’ satoru.”

he props himself on an elbow, blue eyes dramatically wide. “babe.” he shows you his fingers. pinched between them is a single glint of silver, thin as a secret, betraying under the living room light. “you have a shiny.”

“what?”

he leans down, lips grazing your ear in the process. “you have a silver thread,” he whispers, reverent. “a single, shimmering strand.”

you shoot upright so fast he nearly headbutts you. “a what.”

you go very, very still. “that’s not mine.”

“baby, it’s literally attached to you.”

“no. no, because i’m young—” you wave a hand, “—and i deep-condition and sleep on silk and have a whole relationship with my hairdresser. i’m not… i can’t…” your voice pitches into a tiny, fragile squeak.

satoru blinks at you, then at the strand, then back at you again. “wow. the dramatics.” his mouth curls. “is this the part where you write a will?”

“don’t joke,” you hiss, already spiraling. “i love my hair. i have a whole identity built on it. if this is the beginning of the end, people are gonna start calling me grandma on the subway and i don’t even have kids yet—”

he claps a hand to his chest, theatrically wounded. “you hate white hair? in front of me? in my own home? me, a humble white-haired citizen just trying to live his life?”

“it’s different on you,” you say, flapping a hand so wildly you brush the stupidly soft ends of his hair. “it’s—your brand. a vibe. a whole… satoru thing.”

his eyes go wide, wounded-angel style—feigned innocence framed by lashes too long to be legal. he actually presses a hand to his chest like he’s clutching pearls he doesn’t own. “so when i walk down the street you see a grandpa?” he breathes, tragic, as if he hasn’t spent the last decade weaponizing cheekbones and a smirk against the general public.

you huff, steam still spilling. “you are hot. literally the snowstorm that cancels school. i’m the one gray cloud that ruins a picnic.” you gesture at his head, where those airy strands defy gravity like they got a pep talk from physics. “on you it’s ‘celestial, ethereal, can i have your autograph.’ on me it's ‘ma'am, the orthopedic sandals are aisle seven.’”

he opens his mouth—probably to wax poetic about the majesty of aging and how it’s just the body leveling up—but you steamroll him with a glare, stealing the strand from his fingers. it’s paler than paper, almost blue in this light, and for a second, you hope maybe it’s his, shed mid-cuddle and sneakily entwined with yours. but no; this is definitely yours, a rogue flag of mortality that’s just declared war on your scalp.

“oh my god,” you breathe. “i’m young—like, aggressively in my twenties. my id still gets checked at bars. will i look like somebody’s cool aunt who keeps crystals in her bra?”

satoru makes a soft, delighted noise, the kind that means he’s about to be infuriating and sweet in equal measure. “first of all, your aunts wish.” his breath ghosts your temple; you can feel him smiling. “second… it’s pretty,” he says, which is, frankly, an unhelpful opinion in this economy. 

you round on him so fast the traitor strand glints like it’s waving. “pretty? pretty?” your voice climbs a tree and refuses to come down. “i love my hair. i have a relationship with my hair. we’ve been through bangs. we’ve been through box dye. we survived the at-home trim era and that wolf cut tiktok tried to sell me. we’ve endured humidity, hard water, and everything. we don’t deserve early retirement.”

“yeah. but you're pretty.” he says it like a verdict. like he’s ready to take the stand and perjure himself for your self-esteem.

you swat his chest. he catches your wrist, kisses the inside of it without even thinking, like he always does when you’re wound too tight. a quick press of mouth to pulse. the kind of kiss that says breathe. you do, involuntarily.

“let me see her,” he murmurs, already separating the strand like he’s handling a relic. his hands are so careful it makes your throat tight—pads of fingers, no tugging, just the warm promise of touch. he angles you under the lamp, steps in so your spine is flush to him and his breath warms your temple. his scent is soap and something sweet you can’t place, and he stands like he’s sheltering you from the weather. from everything. “also, she’s kind of cute.”

“do not gender my crisis.” you mutter.

“i’m gonna anyway,” he says. “her name is stardust. she stays.”

you glare. he kisses your knuckles. you try not to notice the way it unhooks something low and panicked in your chest.

“it’s one strand,” he repeats, softer now, a smile pressed into the word. “exactly one. the six eyes did the math for me. i could chart it for you. put a little protective barrier around it. no one touches stardust.”

you narrow your eyes. “you’re joking.”

he’s already cupping the strand like he might bless it. “i have literally used infinity for stupider things.”

your mouth opens. closes. the traitor strand shivers in his hold like it knows you’re losing.

“i’m going to be grandma-coded,” you say anyway, because drama is your coping mechanism and he knows it. “i don’t even have kids yet.”

satoru’s smile tilts wicked. “better start now then.”

you choke on your own gasp. “satoru! don’t weaponize my crisis to soft-launch parenthood.”

“soft-launch?” he laughs, easy and bright, and he’s already catching your wrist before the pillow can make contact. his thumb settles over your pulse like it belongs there, slow circles, slow mercy, like he’s resetting a meter only he can see. the pillow slips out of your grip because of course it does—he’s distracted you with touch and he knows it. “baby, this isn’t even a launch. it’s a reminder i set on my phone for every day until 2060.”

“i’m going to secure stardust somewhere cute,” he says solemnly.

“why did you name it,” you deadpan.

“because she's cute.” he sections, smooths, and starts a loose braid—his version of a halo, his fingers moving with a grace that makes your chest ache. he braids around the silver, guiding it so it sits like an intentional ribbon. it takes him two minutes and you look like you paid for it. show-off.

you watch his concentration in the mirror. the slight furrow between his brows he gets when he’s trying to make something perfect for you. the way his expression softens when he meets your eyes, like, there you are. like, i got you. he tucks the last strand and secures the tie, then pulls a tiny clip from the coffee table (because he’s been feeding your addiction and now your apartment is a dragon hoard of hair accessories). he clips it near the silver, tilts his head, approves of his own work.

“there.” he kisses your shoulder through your shirt. “if it’s going to be dramatic, we honor the drama.”

you turn your head this way and that. the silver catches and flashes, a deliberate accent. you hate how immediately you like it. you hate how immediately you like him. you’re doomed.

“what if it multiplies,” you say, because you refuse to go down without a fight. “what if next week i have a constellation.”

he leans in, mouth grazing your ear. “then we name the constellation after you.”

“do not romanticize aging at me.”

“i literally only know how to romanticize you,” he murmurs, not even pretending otherwise. “and for the record, if you try to pluck it, i’m going to gently intercept your hand like this—” he catches your fingers once more, brings them to his lips again, presses a kiss to every knuckle, one by one, like a prayer, like he’s bargaining with the universe for more time, “—and remind you that if you rip her out she’ll respawn with friends.”

you deflate a little. which is to say: you lean back into him until all your weight is on his body, like you always do when you’re finished pretending you’re fine without him. he adjusts instantly, hands settling at your waist like they live there.

“okay,” you say, quiet now. “but what if people see me and go, ‘aw, look at her, someone’s sweet grandma’—”

“—with the smokin’ hot boyfriend who follows her around carrying her bag and her makeup and her spare hair ties,” he cuts in, aggrieved. “watch your mouth.”

“you carrying my bag is a choice you make because you like attention.”

“i carry your bag because it’s heavy and i am strong and in love,” he says, affronted, then ruins it by preening, “and also it looks great on me.”

you swallow. heat flares behind your eyes, and he catches that too, of course he does. he turns your face with two fingers, gentle. “hey. one strand is natural. it won’t kill anyone. it doesn’t make you a grandma. it makes you a person. and you’re my person.”

your throat does something you don’t authorize. you press your mouth into a line, then break it with a wobbly smile. “say ‘pretty’ again.”

he crowds your space like a tide. “pretty.” he kisses your cheek. “pretty.” your forehead. “prettiest.” your mouth, a heartbeat longer, a promise tucked into it. “i’ll say it till the paint peels off the walls.”

“annoying,” you whisper, dizzy.

“accurate,” he agrees.

“if you end up with white hair, we’ll be matching, right?” he mumbles—and he’s already swallowing your giggles in a soft kiss, another, until the only thing brighter than that tiny silver thread is the smile he leaves pressed to your mouth.

[comesatimecomesashadow]

i be giggling to myself as i write the nerdjo x nerdgoth reader fic and then i realize im nowhere near done and i have to lock in 💔

[comesatimecomesashadow]

It’s easy to forget that Suguru has depression.

He hides it so well. Not because he’s ashamed, it's just because he’s used to that dreaded feeling. He’s learned how to move around it, how to hold it carefully behind his glimmering violet eyes while he smooths your hair and calls you his love. He knows how to laugh, to kiss you silly, to make everything feel light and safe and whole. He makes you feel adored, every single day.

But even someone like Suguru gets tired.

Sometimes it shows in the smallest ways. Like how his laughter dies a little too quickly. How his smiles stretch wide but don’t quite reach his eyes. Or how, after you’ve been playing around - his hair loose, cheeks pink, pinning you down with that boyish look in his eyes - he suddenly goes quiet. Still. Retreats inward in the space of a breath.

You know better now. You didn’t, at first. You used to think he just needed space. That maybe he was worn out. But the more you watch, the more you see it: the way his eyes go distant, as if he’s slipping underwater. The way his body stills, acting like it takes too much effort just to exist.

He rolls onto his back, head tilted to the side, long black strands of hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink. He stares up at the ceiling, lashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks. And he doesn’t say anything - not even when you look at him.

But that’s when you go to him.

You climb on top of him gently, settle your body across his chest, tuck your cheek into the crook of his neck. He doesn’t ask you to, but his arms still come up to hold you. One hand splaying across your back, the other weaving through your hair. And you feel him breathe again, slower this time. It’s easier with you there.

Because you’ve learned what kindness looks like in these moments.

It’s brushing your fingers through his hair when he’s too quiet. It’s joining him in the shower, hugging him from behind, pressing soft kisses to the broad planes of his back even when he doesn’t say a word. It’s making Soba for dinner without asking what he wants, just setting the bowl down and watching the flicker of relief pass over his face. How his shoulders relax, the tightness in his brow softens. It's curling into him at night even when the air is heavy and the heat clings to your skin, just to remind him you're not going anywhere.

He doesn't always say thank you. But you feel it in the way his hand finds yours beneath the covers. The way he tugs you just a little closer, kisses your forehead, and exhales, like maybe he can finally let go of something.

And you don’t expect him to bounce back right away. You don’t wait for the moment he becomes bright again. You just love him. Through the quiet. Through the stillness. Through the weight he carries.

Because soon, he’ll be Suguru again, cheeky and soft, tugging you into his lap, calling you all those sweet names like nothing in the world ever hurt him.

But until then, you’ll be soft enough for both of you.

[comesatimecomesashadow]

ok ok ok i hear you, yearner satoru.

so: yearner satoru who tries remaining neutral when you crush on someone else and gush about them; satoru, being the great friend he is, asks why you dont go and talk to them (he's breaking into pieces), and when you mention that you think theyre out of your league or that you wouldnt ever actually talk to a guy like that satoru's chest begins to ache because you're everything to him. how could you not be enough??

satoru still remembers promises from the playground, where the two of you first met. he remembers waiting outside your place and asking your mom if you could come out to play only for the two of you to spend hours playing digimon together. he remembers how much you hated when he'd ragebait you by saying mint chocolate chip ice cream tastes like toothpaste only to keep stealing kitten-licks of your desert.

he remembers how tightly you hugged him when your middle school 'crush' didnt like you back. he remembers listening intently when you'd read out excerpts of the books you were reading — specifically the romantic parts — and how he wished he could one day be that guy for you.

he remembers you admitting the fact that you were a hopeless romantic; how serene you looked underneath the light of the sunset while admitting to him that you never really felt likeable enough to be someone's 'one and only'.

and it was then that he made it his personal mission to treat you like the world belonged to you, stars and all.

not because he wanted you to look at him (despite how badly he wanted that), but because you deserved nothing short of the universe.

if you were blind to his hints, then he hoped that he could at least be the blueprint of what a lover-should be.

even if he wouldnt be in that place any time soon.

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somebody take my phone away; yearner satoru is killing me

i am so so so sick in the head over pining childhood bestfriend satoru who gives you princess treatment not because he’s naturally flirty, not because he wants anything back, but because he still remembers that one yearbook entry you wrote in second grade:

“when i grow up, i wanna be a princess!” 😭😭😭

and so he makes it true. he makes it real. he makes you feel like one. he spoils you. calls you his highness. insists on carrying your bags. picks petals out of your hair. makes sure your favorite candy is stocked in his apartment. holds out his hand like you're royalty every time you get out of the car.

and you just laugh. roll your eyes. nudge him like, “you’re so dramatic.”

you don’t know it’s NOT a joke to him. you don’t know he’s still trying to give you what you once dreamed of having. that he’s loved you since you wore paper crowns and pink glitter sandals.

i am writing a short fic about this because YEARNER SATORU YEARNER SATORU YEARNER SATORU AAAAAAA

fic is already posted here

[comesatimecomesashadow]

as a psychology major with a nonexistent love life- this was an amazing read. thank you author <3

operation: get over your childhood crush! — gojo satoru

synopsis. in an attempt to move on from your childhood best friend—who definitely doesn’t see you the way you want—you hatch a series of plans to help you get over him. it doesn't go as planned.

contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, nerd!gojo, college au, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, unreliable narrator, miscommunication, insecurity, dorky references bc u make him go dumb and digimon inaccuracies probably

notes. i did not proofread this monster!! enjoy :P

The hum of the air conditioning fills the room as night settles in, the light from Satoru’s bedside lamp casting a soft glow over his mess of a room. You’re both sprawled out across his bed, limbs entangled like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Because, for the two of you, it is.

Satoru’s Nintendo Switch is balanced on his stomach, hands lazily tapping away as his little Digimon charges into battle on screen. You’re curled into his side, one leg hooked around his and a blanket thrown haphazardly across you both. The half-abandoned textbooks sit at the edge of the mattress, tragically ignored. Another study session: failed. Not that Satoru needed it. He passed everything with flying colors. It was more of an excuse for you to come over.

“Your room still smells like that cheap vanilla air freshener,” you mumble, nose scrunching.

“That’s because you bought it,” he replies without looking up, thumb expertly guiding his character through an attack.

“Because your room would end up stinking with sweat and whatever freaky stuff you do in here.”

“Hey!” He whines. “I shower everyday and you know it. The stink is all you. Have you ever sniffed yourself, princess?”

You swat at his stomach, and he lets out a dramatic grunt. “Rude. I brought that candle to add ambiance.”

“Ah yes,” he deadpans, “nothing like artificial sugar scent.’”

You snort, settling your head back down on his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft beneath your cheek. There’s a long pause before you say, “You know, if we fail our exams, I’m blaming your Digimon addiction.”

He grins. “I’m raising digital warriors, thank you very much. And I’ve never failed an exam, don’t wound me now!”

“They look like mutant toddlers with attitude problems.”

He gasps, clutching his heart. “They’re champions, you monster.”

You laugh, letting the sound dissolve into something quieter as your fingers absentmindedly trace a pattern into the blanket. His hand rests near yours. Not holding it. Not not holding it.

His glasses are tilted again. Of course.

You reach up and straighten them with a sigh. “Honestly, you’d be lost without me.”

“Not true.” He says it reflexively, then pauses. His voice softens. “Okay, maybe. I’d probably just let them slide down until I walked into a wall.”

You smile faintly. “And there’d be no one there to patch you up.”

“Tragic,” he agrees. “Would bleed out on the floor, probably.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re so bossy,” he counters, shooting you a sideways look. 

“Admit it,” he says, voice full of faux-smugness, “you’d miss me if I died tragically and left you all alone.”

You hesitate for a second too long before mumbling, “Don’t joke about that.”

It’s quiet. The game music loops in the background as his Digimon wins the battle with a triumphant fanfare.

He doesn’t say anything.

You suddenly feel too warm under the blanket. The joke had been harmless, stupid even.

But something inside you twists, the same something that’s been unraveling lately every time he mentions another girl.

Another type. That’s not you.

“You know,” you say slowly, eyes peeling from the screen to his phone, which lights up with a notification, revealing one of his favorite gravure model’s latest issues as its wallpaper. “You could probably date any girl you wanted. Why do you partake in freak stuff like this? It’s anti-girl repellent.”

He makes a noncommittal sound. “Doubt it.”

“I don’t. You’ve got that whole genius-who-doesn’t-realize-he’s-hot thing going on.”

He glances at you, skeptical. “Is that a thing?”

“It is. Annoying, but effective. Girls love it.”

He hums, clearly amused, cheeks slightly flushed. “Well, good to know I have options.”

You try to laugh, but it catches in your throat.

You shouldn’t ask. You really shouldn’t.

But you’re lying in his bed. Wrapped up in him like you belong here. And some part of you aches to know the answer.

So you pretend it’s a joke. You tilt your head against his shoulder, voice airy, teasing. “Hey, be honest—do you think I’m cute?”

He goes still.

His hand tightens slightly on the Switch. You think you’ve pushed too far, so you try to backpedal before he can respond.

“Not like… like that,” you say quickly. “I just meant, like, in general. Compared to those girls you’re into. Say, Waka Inoue. You know, long legs, shiny hair, cute face?”

His jaw tightens.

You’re still trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m not fishing for compliments. I just—was wondering.”

He finally turns to look at you.

His gaze lingers. And for the first time all night, he’s not smiling.

You feel your breath stutter in your throat underneath his gaze.

Then he shrugs.

“…Nah.”

It slices through the air with quiet finality.

Your heart drops. You don’t let it show. Not fully. But it must flicker in your face, because he quickly looks away.

You laugh. It sounds forced.

“Yeah, that’s fair. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a yes or anything.”

He’s silent.

You shift away from him slightly, giving him space. “I should head home soon. We didn’t really get any studying done, anyway.”

“It’s late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Usually, you’d accept his offer with a smile, but you really wanted to go home and wallow in your own self pity.

“It’s fine, I have something to do anyway,” the lie slips out of your mouth easily as you begin to pack your things.

And you miss the way he watches you—guilt in his eyes, frustration on his tongue. 

You knew it was time. Twenty years of hopeless, fruitless pining had done enough damage to your heart.

It had started the day your parents moved next door. Satoru had been the loud, obnoxious, too-pretty-for-his-own-good boy on the playground who shoved candy in your hand and asked if you wanted to be friends.

You’d been doomed since day one.

And to make things worse, you’d both gotten into Japan’s most competitive university—together. Same neighborhood. Same school. Same train route. You weren’t just stuck with him. You were haunted.

But you were young and hot. And allegedly in your prime. You couldn’t keep orbiting around a guy who still thought microwave gyoza was a food group and used your shampoo because it “smelled like you, so why not?”

You were sipping coffee with your two closest friends, and today’s topic was—unfortunately—your love life.

“Honestly, I can’t believe you’ve been stuck on Gojo for this long,” Utahime said, disgusted, as she stirred her latte like it personally offended her. “You could do so much better.”

“It was kind of cute in high school,” Shoko added “but now it’s just sad.”

You sighed, blowing on your drink. “I know, okay? It’s not like I haven’t tried. But he’s literally the only guy I’ve ever been close to. I don’t even talk to guys besides him.”

“That’s because he’s been gatekeeping you since the two of you met,” Utahime said flatly. “I swear, every time someone so much as glanced at you, he pulled that overprotective act.”

You wrinkled your nose. “That doesn’t sound like ’Toru…”

Shoko and Utahime exchanged a look. One of those knowing glances.

Utahime cleared her throat. “It doesn’t matter! What matters is you are hot. You’ve got the face, the body, the grades, the personality. You just need the confidence.”

You peeked up at her, unsure. “You really think so?”

Utahime leaned forward, smirking like she’d just won a war. “I know so. And that’s why I’ve come up with a plan.”

You narrowed your eyes. “A plan?”

She slammed her hands down on the table, eyes alight. “Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru.”

You blinked. “That’s… a long title.”

Shoko blew a slow stream of smoke. “It’s either this or pine until you die and haunt him as a love-sick ghost.”

You stared into your cup, sighing. “Fine. I’m in. What’s step one?”

Utahime grinned.

“Whatcha doing?” 

Gojo’s voice drifts lazily over your shoulder, followed by the soft rustle of his hoodie as he leans in. He’s far too close, obnoxiously so, his breath tickling your ear and his chin was nearly resting on your shoulder.

You don’t even glance up. “Studying.”

The two of you are supposed to be studying— finals loom overhead like a guillotine, but as usual, very little academic progress has been made. Mostly because your study partner is a six-foot-something genius who insists on sitting sideways in the booth, long legs tangled in yours under the table like it’s second nature.

He hums, skeptical. “Liar.”

You hum noncommittally, thumbing through the dating app Utahime suggested with vague disinterest. The guys blur together: not tall enough, too cocky, too bland, too not Satoru. One makes a joke suspiciously close to a Gojo classic, and you immediately hit unmatch with a scowl.

“Wait,” Satoru says slowly. “Are you on a dating app?!” He practically yells the last part. Half the cafe turns to glare at the source of the disruption.

You hiss under your breath, mortified, swatting at him. “Keep your voice down, idiot!”

His eyes widen dramatically, hands thrown up like you’ve stabbed him. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you’re already planning a life with someone named ‘Keita, aspiring poet and spiritual healer’? I’m wounded.”

“You weren’t supposed to read that far.”

“I’m a speed-reader,” he says with a smug grin. “It’s part of the whole ‘genius’ thing.”

Before you can argue, he snatches your phone with a level of ease that tells you this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this. He grins like he’s won a prize.

“Satoru!”

“Relax, I’m not texting anyone,” he says, fingers flying across the screen. “Just optimizing.”

Your heart drops. “What are you typing?”

“Nothing~”

You make a grab for your phone, but he effortlessly leans back, holding it above his head with those ridiculously long limbs. You glare at him from across the table, arm outstretched like a furious cat trying to swat at the moon.

“Give it back!”

“Patience.”

“Gojo Satoru—”

“Okay, okay!” he relents with a dramatic sigh, finally placing your phone face-down on the table like he’s done you a huge favor.

You snatch it up immediately, eyes scanning for damage. No weird messages. No unsolicited likes. No new matches.

“…What did you do?”

“I didn’t message anyone,” he assures, too innocent to be trusted. “I’m not that cruel.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious.

“But,” he adds with a grin, “I didn’t know you were dating.”

“I’m not,” you mutter, clicking your phone off. “Just considering it. Trying. It’s not going well.”

“Good.”

The word comes out too fast. Too sharp. And his face doesn’t match the light tone he’s trying to play off.

You raise an eyebrow. “Good?”

He shifts, leaning back in his seat, suddenly very interested in stirring the foam in his overpriced coffee. “I mean, it’s good you’re not settling. You should be picky. Guys are the worst.”

You snort. “You are a guy.”

“Exactly. I know what we’re like.”

You smile despite yourself, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure you think you’re the exception.”

“I know I am,” he says, winking. Then he sobers slightly, eyes flickering to yours. “I’m just… looking out for you.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You wish it was more than just him being protective in that big-brotherly, annoyingly loyal kind of way.

You take a sip of your coffee to cool your nerves. It doesn’t help. The words come out before you can stop them.

“You know with the way things are going… maybe you should just date me at this point.”

Silence.

It’s a joke. Supposed to be. But the second it leaves your lips, it tastes real.

Gojo freezes.

You panic. “I didn’t mean—like, I was just joking—”

But he turns toward you, eyes unreadable behind the fringe of snowy white hair. “Maybe I should.”

You blink.

And then, with infuriating ease, he grins.

“Anyway,” he says quickly, swiping your phone from the table again before you can stop him, “Yuto here looks like the type to ghost you after three dates and a karaoke duet. You can do better.”

You gape at him, completely thrown off, your heart slamming in your chest.

You don’t even notice what he’s done until later—until you get home and open your app to find that your bio has been changed.

Taken. Mentally married to a nerd since birth.

You want to scream.

Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru?

Yeah. Not going great.

Not at all.

You weren’t sure why you agreed to it.

Maybe it was the look in Utahime’s eyes, so determined and hopeful. Maybe it was Shoko promising she would help you find true love. Maybe it was the quiet part of you that wanted to see yourself through someone else’s eyes. Someone who wasn’t Gojo Satoru.

“Today,” Utahime had declared, curling the last strand of your hair like she was threading a spell, “is the first day of your Gojo-less future”

You laughed nervously, tugging at the hem of your skirt. It wasn’t your usual style—not the dewy makeup you weren’t used to seeing in the mirror, not the new haircut that made your eyes look almost too bright, not the blouse that left your shoulders bare in a way that made you feel strangely noticed.

But when you caught your reflection, your heart fluttered. You looked beautiful.

When you stepped onto campus, the sun was out, the wind teasing your hair. You spotted him immediately—Gojo, slouched against the wall outside your lecture hall, nose buried in his Switch as he muttered something under his breath about evolving stats and attack modifiers.

He didn’t notice you at first.

Then he looked up.

His game froze mid-battle. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like someone had unplugged his brain.

“Wha—” he said eloquently. “Wh—what did you do.”

You blinked. “Hi to you too.”

He stared, unabashed. His glasses were slightly crooked, his ears glowing scarlet. He looked like someone had just told him Digimon was real and living in your shoes.

He blinked. “You look like… like you skipped two evolution stages overnight. Straight to Mega. Like if Angewomon fused with… I don’t know, some kind of rare, limited-release goddess-type Digimon that only spawns on a lunar eclipse.”

You blinked.

Utahime’s voice in your head: You’re hot. Unstoppable. He’s going to be speechless.

And Gojo was. But not in the way you wanted.

You tried to laugh. “So I look like a cartoon?”

“A beautiful cartoon,” he said, serious now. “Like the kind of boss character they only show for two frames because animating her costs too much.”

Your heart stuttered. It was the sort of compliment only Gojo could give: clumsy and dorky, yet brilliant in its own way.

But the moment passed.

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, sunglasses slipping slightly as he muttered, “You just… you look different. That’s all.”

Different.

Not better. Not prettier.

Just different.

You swallowed. “Yeah, well. Thought I’d try something new.”

“I didn’t say it was bad,” he added quickly, but the words felt unsure. Flimsy.

“I should… use the restroom,” you mumbled, turning before he could say anything else.

In the bathroom, you stared at your reflection. Your lipstick looked too bold now. Your lashes too heavy. Despite the change, you were still painfully you— the you Gojo teased during study sessions, the one he let borrow his hoodie when it rained, the one who sat next to him during endless all-nighters. And maybe that was the problem. You weren’t like those girls on the magazines. 

What you didn’t see, what you couldn’t see, was Gojo still standing outside the lecture hall, staring after you, Switch forgotten, game over screen blinking on the screen.

He didn’t even notice.

“You good, Satoru?” Shoko asked, walking by.

He blinked. “I think I just saw my best friend… and my final boss… and my future wife… all at once.”

Shoko snorted. “You’re a dork.”

Gojo just sighed, shoulders slumping as he muttered, “I’m so doomed.”

It’s a mild Friday evening when you meet him—Kazuya, the guy from your psychology class. He’s polite, articulate, and kind of cute. The kind of guy who asks if you prefer cats or dogs before ordering his drink, and actually listens when you answer.

Utahime and Shoko had insisted you say yes. “A change of pace,” they called it. “You need a baseline. Not every guy is going to be Gojo Satoru.”

Exactly. That was the point.

You’re sipping a matcha latte and nodding along as Kazuya explains his thesis on cognitive development when a very familiar voice cuts through the air.

“Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here.”

Your stomach drops. You look up, and sure enough—

Satoru.

In all his tall, obnoxiously eye-catching glory, wearing a white t-shirt that was inside out and a grin like he just won the lottery. He's holding a bottle of ramune and standing directly next to your table, like he’s been there the whole time.

You blink. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Thirsty. Wanted a drink.”

“At this café? On this side of campus?”

“Yeah,” he says, tone innocent. “Weird coincidence, huh?”

Kazuya offers a polite smile. “You’re her friend, right? Gojo?”

“Oh, best friend. Lifelong. Practically her shadow.” He plops into the empty seat beside you without asking, casually tossing his ramune onto the table. “What’s your name again? Kaname?”

“…Kazuya.”

“Right, right. I always mix those up. You look like a Kaname, though. Or maybe a Yusuke.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “Satoru—”

But he’s already leaning over, squinting at the book tucked under Kazuya’s arm. “Ooh, Piaget. Bold move. Love that for you.”

Kazuya blinks. “Do you… like developmental theory?”

“I like being correct,” Gojo says with a cheeky smile. “Also, [Name] hates Piaget. She called him ‘the Freud of toddlers’ last semester.”

Kazuya turns to you in mild surprise. “Really?”

“I—I mean, yeah,” you mumble. “Sort of.”

Gojo beams. “Told you.”

Kazuya makes a valiant effort to steer the conversation back to safe, neutral ground.

“So, you mentioned you're interested in behaviorism, right?” he says, offering a gentle smile. “I thought Dr. Takeda's lecture on conditioned responses was kind of fascinating—”

“Oh, riveting,” Satoru cuts in, lounging back in his chair like he owns the café. “Nothing like bonding over Pavlov’s dogs to spark romance. Did she tell you she cried during Inside Out because the depiction of core memories was ‘psychologically resonant’? Real charmer, this one.”

You shoot Satoru a look. “I was twelve!”

Kazuya blinks, trying not to smile. “I actually thought that was pretty moving, too.”

“Wow,” Satoru deadpans. “A match made in neuroscience.”

Kazuya laughs politely and continues, undeterred. “So, uh, any research plans after graduation?”

You open your mouth to answer, but Satoru beats you to it again.

“She used to want to be a vet. Cried when she had to dissect a frog in middle school. Tragic day.”

“Is that true?” Kazuya turns to you, amused now.

“Technically, yes,” you mutter into your drink.

By the time your cup is empty, you realize you’ve laughed more at Satoru’s interjections than you have at anything Kazuya’s said. Not because Kazuya wasn’t interesting—he was. He was calm, thoughtful, well-read, and clearly trying. But next to Satoru, whose entire presence seemed impossible to ignore, Kazuya didn’t stand a chance.

Still, to his credit, Kazuya maintains a steady, if slightly strained, expression as he sets down his cup and finally says, carefully,

“So… is Gojo your boyfriend?”

The question hangs awkwardly.

You and Satoru answer at the same time.

“No,” you say quickly.

“Yes,” he says with a smile.

You both turn to stare at each other.

“I mean—no,” he corrects, waving his hands. “Just a joke. Hah. Obviously.”

Kazuya blinks. “Right.”

You can’t meet either of their eyes. Your drink is finished, your palms are damp, and the café is suddenly too warm, too small. You push back your chair and stand.

“I should go. Early lab meeting tomorrow.” It’s the weakest excuse, but neither of them calls you on it.

Kazuya stands too, polite as ever. “Thanks for meeting up. You seem like a really cool person.” He hesitates, then adds, gently, “I just think maybe you’ve already got someone.”

You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it again. There’s nothing to say.

Outside, the cold air kisses your cheeks like a reminder. It stings a little, or maybe that’s just the confusion burning in your chest.

Satoru’s already waiting for you. Of course he is. He’s leaning against the lamppost, silver hair catching in the wind. But his eyes are downcast, trained on the sidewalk.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you.

You exhale, watching your breath curl white in the air. “You didn’t have to crash it, y’know.”

“I didn’t crash,” he replies without looking at you. “I was invited.”

“By who?”

“Fate. Karma. The gods of poor decision-making.” He shrugs.

You roll your eyes, but it tugs a laugh from you anyway. Stupid, annoying, charming Gojo.

“So,” he says after a beat, nudging your arm gently with his elbow, “how’d it go?”

You glance at him. He still won’t meet your gaze. His lips are pursed like he’s holding back a hundred words and none of them are funny.

“He was nice,” you admit. Despite being rudely interrupted by the white haired idiot beside you.

“Nice is boring,” he mutters, kicking at a loose stone on the pavement.

You laugh, soft and tired. “You’re the worst.”

He finally looks at you then, lips quirking into that smug, too-knowing smile. “But you like me anyway.”

You look away, cheeks burning, heart thudding like a traitor in your chest.

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Despite Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru failing in every imaginable way, things were starting to feel bearable.

Almost good, even.

Satoru still hovered a little too close, always with that same half-smile like he knew something you didn’t. And maybe, just maybe— his constant sabotage, the teasing, the jealousy, the way he looked at you like he was about to say something important but never did. Maybe it all meant something.

You let yourself believe it, just a little.

And that was your first mistake.

It happens quietly, without fanfare or warning. Just a throwaway line between sips of lukewarm coffee and the soft shuffle of paper. You’re both at your usual spot in the library, surrounded by open notebooks and highlighted packets, pretending to study more than you actually are.

You’re halfway through underlining a term in your psychology notes when Satoru leans back in his chair, stretches like a cat, and says far too casually:

“So, guess who asked me out?”

You hum absentmindedly. “Who?”

“Ayane.”

The name hits you like a slap.

You freeze, highlighter paused mid-sentence. “…Ayane? From the biochem track?”

“Yeah,” he says, practically glowing. “You know her, right? She's in your study group sometimes.”

You do know her. Of course you do. Everyone knows her.

She’s beautiful, with this effortless, clean kind of elegance—long legs, perfect posture, and that quiet, poised confidence that makes professors adore her and guys fall over themselves. The kind of girl who posts one blurry bookshelf photo and still racks up a thousand likes. The kind of girl Gojo always jokes about marrying.

But he’s not joking now. He’s beaming.

“She asked me out to dinner this Friday. She’s so smart, too. I didn’t even have to pretend to know what quantum entanglement was. It’s wild.” He laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. “I thought she’d never go for a guy like me, y’know?”

You force a laugh. “A guy like you?”

“Yeah. I dunno. Too much, I guess? But she said I was ‘refreshing.’” He grins. 

Your stomach sinks.

This is what you thought you wanted—for him to move on, so you could finally do the same. For Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru to succeed, for real this time.

But now that it’s happening, it feels like someone’s slowly pulling your ribs apart.

“Oh,” you manage, smiling like you’ve practiced it. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

He doesn’t notice the way your voice cracks on happy. He just keeps talking, rambling about restaurant reservations and how she likes contemporary poetry and used to live in France. You nod in all the right places, but your thoughts are already slipping away.

Because it isn’t just that he’s going out with someone else.

It’s that he chose her.

Her with her flawless skin and quiet charm and the kind of beauty that doesn’t need to try. Her, with everything you’re not. And more than that, it’s that he made you believe you could have meant more to him, when really, he’d been searching for someone else all along.

You excuse yourself early, mumbling something about laundry.

He doesn’t follow.

You don’t cry until you’re halfway home, the cold air biting at your cheeks as your vision blurs.

For the first time in years, you don’t text him goodnight.

You don’t wait for a meme. Or a dumb joke. Or his usual, “Hey, genius. Sleep.”

You go silent.

And when he texts the next day, you don’t reply.

You skip your library meet-up. You don’t sit next to him in class. You even duck into the stairwell when you see his ridiculous white hair from across campus.

It’s not because you’re mad. It’s because you’re heartbroken.

And you can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter.

You weren’t just losing your best friend.

You were losing the love of your life.

And he didn’t even notice.

It takes him three days to notice you’re gone.

Well—no. That’s a lie.

He notices immediately. The moment your usual seat in the library stays empty. When your laugh doesn’t echo in the café line. When your name doesn’t pop up on his screen at 2AM with some stupid meme captioned, “this reminded me of you, idiot.”

But he tells himself you’re busy.

Midterms, right? Stress. Coffee. You get like this sometimes, and he gets it. He really does.

So he waits. Tells himself not to be clingy.

But then Friday comes.

And he's sitting across from Ayane in some expensive, quiet restaurant where the napkins are folded like origami cranes and the water tastes filtered. She’s telling him about her research internship in Osaka, about enzymes and international grants, and all he can think is—

You’d be making fun of me right now.

You’d be kicking him under the table. Whispering some dumb pun about digimon. You’d be pulling faces every time he tried to pronounce the items on the menu. You’d be you.

Ayane is lovely.

But she doesn’t laugh when he says something stupid. She just smiles politely.

She doesn’t ask about why his glasses are always crooked (it’s so you could fix them). Doesn’t tease him for double-knotting his laces like a paranoid grandma. Doesn’t call him “Sato” like it’s some private joke only the two of you get.

He walks her home. Thanks her for a nice evening.

Then he goes to the convenience store. Alone.

And he sees your favorite snack on the shelf and buys two out of habit.

He stares at his phone the entire train ride back.

No new messages.

Just the last one you sent days ago:

“Laundry. Rain check?”

And nothing since.

He waits. Another day. Then two.

You don’t show up to class again.

You don’t like his latest meme.

You don’t comment on the Digimon pun he texted you out of desperation.

You are silent.

And Satoru Gojo—brilliant, blind-sighted, the golden boy of theoretical physics, always five steps ahead realizes, too late, that he’s been a fool.

That he didn’t just lose a study partner.

He lost the one person who knew him better than he knew himself.

The one person he couldn’t replace with rare Digimon pulls, half-solved physics equations, or overly sweet desserts.

And for the first time since he was a kid—

He’s afraid.

It’s been a little over a week.

A little over a week since Gojo Satoru has heard your voice. Since you shoved your coffee at him without asking, muttering “too sweet for me” when you really meant “I got this for you.” Since you poked fun at his stupid sock choices, or knocked your foot against his under the table like it was nothing.

And Satoru is suffering.

He's tried everything. Showed up to your house with excuses too weak to be called plans (“Hey, I brought your favorite snacks. I just... figured maybe you forgot you liked them?”). Waited outside your lecture hall until a security guard asked if he was lost. Took detours between classes hoping to catch a glimpse of your ponytail, your laugh, anything.

But you were always one step ahead.

You stopped answering his texts. Blocked him on that stupid dating app (which—ouch, even though you hadn’t used it seriously). You didn’t even show up to the library anymore. And even Shoko started looking at him with thinly veiled pity and a you really fumbled the bag look in her eyes.

Gojo Satoru is just tired.

Miserable.

So when he finally finds you—not because he’s chasing you down this time, but because he’s walking the long way home, and there you are, sitting on the old swings at the park where you first met—it knocks the wind out of him.

You don’t look surprised to see him. Just tired too.

“I figured you’d find me eventually,” you say quietly.

He swallows. His hands curl at his sides like he’s preparing for a fight.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, like it isn’t obvious. “Why?”

You look away. “You’re smart. Figure it out.”

Gojo looks down at his feet.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and stinging. The playground is empty except for the wind dragging a soda can down the sidewalk and the faint creak of the swing chain.

Then he exhales, ragged and unsure. “Look, I can’t—I can’t take this anymore.”

You glance up.

“I can’t either.”

Hope flares too fast, too naive in his chest. His shoulders drop like he’s been holding up the world. “That’s good,” he breathes, stepping forward. “Because the silent treatment— God, I thought I was going to—”

“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

The words stop him cold.

“What?” he breathes.

You laugh, but it’s hollow. Like something already broken. “Don’t you get it? I can’t be friends with you and pretend that nothing’s changed. That I’m okay just being your best friend. I’ve been in love with you for years, Satoru.”

His heart stutters. You don’t stop.

“And I love myself too much to keep hurting for someone who doesn’t even look at me that way.” Your voice cracks, but you push through. “Do you know how humiliating it feels? To love someone so much it aches, and still feel like you’ll never be enough?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You never even thought I was cute.”

He looks like he’s been hit.

“I’ve been chasing scraps. Leftovers. Mixed signals and stupid inside jokes. I—I can’t do it anymore.”

You finally meet his eyes, and that’s when he sees it: the hurt you’ve been hiding behind every smile, every brush-off, every joke you cracked to keep the silence from swallowing you.

And for once, Gojo Satoru can’t find a single thing to say.

Not yet.

Not until he stops you from walking away.

“Where did you get an idea like that?” His cerulean eyes search yours desperately. “I-I don’t think you’re just cute, are you kidding?” he blurts, eyes wild.

“Y-you’re breathtaking! Everything I’ve dreamt of and more! That night when you asked me if I thought you were cute, I only said no because it would be a divine crime to reduce to such. All of my fantasies have been centered around you since we first met on that playground—since you tripped over your shoelaces trying to race me to the monkey bars!”

Your breath catches.

He continues, desperate now, like every second of silence might kill him.

“I love you! And not like a brother. Like—I want to marry you. Like, small wedding in Okinawa, barefoot on the beach, you wearing that soft blue dress you like. I already planned it. Our firstborn would be a daughter, with your eyes, my hair. She’d be the boss of the house.”

You gape.

“Wait—”

“I’m not done!” he says, hands thrown up. “Then we’d have twins. Boys. Chaos gremlins. One would look like my twin and the other yours, and they’d absolutely terrorize us—but their sister keeps them in check, she’s fierce like you.”

You blink. A tear slides down your cheek.

“I want to move to Kyoto,” he says, softer now. “Buy a house with a dumb little garden. Grow tomatoes we’ll never eat. Live out the rest of our lives where it’s quiet.”

You cover your mouth, stunned. “You… really thought all that out?”

“It’s easy,” he breathes, “when all I can think about is you.”

He steps closer. The wind tugs his white hair into his eyes, but he doesn’t blink.

“I go to study nonlinear quantum field theory and all I see is your face. I try to cool off and play Digimon, and even that’s ruined—my lineup is garbage now! I only keep the ones you said were cute!”

A laugh bubbles out of you, fragile and watery.

“You idiot,” you murmur.

“I am,” he nods solemnly. “I’m the world’s biggest idiot. And I’m in love with you.”

Another tear slips down. He wipes it away before you can.

“Is it too late?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. “Please tell me it’s not too late.”

You stare at him, this man, this brilliant, ridiculous boy who had held your heart long before you ever admitted it.

“It’s not too late,” you whisper.

He doesn’t speak. Just steps closer. Gently and carefully, like he's handling something sacred, he cups your cheek in his hand.

Your nose bumps his. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for years,” he whispers.

And then, finally, he kisses you.

It’s not perfect, your cheeks are still wet, his nose bumps yours again, and his hand trembles just a little, but it’s warm and sweet and soft. It tastes like home..

When he pulls away, his smile is sheepish. “So… are we still doing the whole ‘Operation: Get Over Gojo’ thing, or?”

You laugh, heart full, forehead pressed to his.

“Mission failed,” you whisper.

He grins. “Good.”

And then he kisses you again.

art by leimiruu on x!

[comesatimecomesashadow]

tw// hypersexuality mention, sexual trauma mentioned

comfort fic abt satoru with a hypersexual reader is invading my mind because the way satoru's heart would fucking break upon witnessing the way you sell your sex for any ounce of his affection like its been engraved into your mind that your body is your worth; he'd cut off his own hands before ever taking your sexual offers to make him feel good when you perceive that he's upset with you. he'd never lay his hands on you and take advantage of the result of your trauma. never.

[comesatimecomesashadow]

charlotte sometimes *ೃ༄

╰┈➤ you're reading part ii.

pairing *ೃ༄ il capitano / fem goth reader

fic type *ೃ༄ mini-series, angst, fluff, comfort, pining, slowburn.

cw *ೃ༄ yandere themes, mentions of stalking, reader has family drama, descriptions of panic attacks, let me know if I missed anything.

summary *ೃ༄ living as a recluse for the better part of your life, you'd grown used to the solitude of your daily life. however, when you catch the eye of the fiercest harbinger in teyvat ー the solitude you had grown accystomed to, dissipates.

note *ೃ༄ sorry i've kept all of you waiting for this part, i realized that the second part had been up on ao3 for some time and i seemed to have forgotten to update it on tumblr as well. i hope you enjoy nonetheless !

｡⋆˚࿔°‧ word count . . ! 4k+

masterlist *ೃ༄ || part i . . part iii .

   “I’m sorry.. We don’t seem to have a patient by that name. Are you sure it is correct?” The nurse at the registry asked you. A few days after your meeting with Yessenia, she had sent a letter with the hospital’s location to make sure you’d be able to get there. Due to your general mistrust of her and that family, you decided to pay the institution a humble visit a day earlier — only to find that there was no patient under your family name. Yessenia’s mother, by what you could remember, was ever the arrogant woman. So for her to not use your father’s surname was unheard of. However, just to make sure, you gave the nurse the woman’s maiden name. Unfortunately, the answer stayed the same. 

   At this hospital, there was no patient under her name.

   The heels of your boots clapped against the pavement as you made your way from the hospital to your home. Many questions filled your head but you pushed them away along with the resurgence of memories that came. Why would she lie? Especially about something so.. So grave!? Then again.. Did she even need a reason? Was she still so callous as to lie about something like this for money?

   The skin of your bottom lip was raw after you had been biting it for so long and so anxiously too. With your brows furrowing and the emotional tears in your eyes welling up, it was hard to keep your composure — especially in public. 

   Hearing the nurse’s words only triggered all of those memories from your past to let loose from the space in your subconscious that worked hard to keep them locked away. It was then that you realized that Yessenia and that family had not changed — They were still as shallow as ever. You were foolish to believe that they could be anything but. 

   You wiped your waterline with your gloved fingertips. The wind was quite calm by now but that didn’t stop the cold from holding back its bite. People passed by your figure in a hurry. It was always busy in the later hours of the afternoon. Some were trying to get home to their families, others were ready to hang out with friends — Yet here you were. Alone.

   It was times like this when you wished Rosalyne was still around. 

   ‘Quit your crying, dearest. I hate to see you so broken up about things like this,’  were the words Rosalyne had told you one night when you’d finally told her about your past. She was never the best at comforting and her words were always rough. Nevertheless, her words warmed your heart. So much so that you remembered them during times like this. You’d already gone to see her earlier this month, but another visit wouldn’t hurt. In fact, you quite needed it. 

   Even if your dearest friend was no longer around, the warm memories kept her in your heart long after her passing. 

   Thus, in a moment's time, you were curled up against the tomb she laid in, with your knees to your chest and your face buried in them. The cold marble against your back was comforting in an odd way. Your gloves were discarded beside you, allowing the cold to seep into your once-warm fingers. “... What should I do?” Your tone was quiet but the acoustics at her mausoleum made it sound louder than it was. “Is there anything to do? I could say no.. But then it’d turn into a whole argument. Which I personally do not want.. -and she knows where I live! There’s no doubt she’ll turn up again if I refuse…” You sighed heavily and buried your face in your cold, bare hands. 

   “Sometimes.. I really wish you were here. I miss you, Rose.. I wonder if you’re happier in the afterlife, if you can see me.. Though, I know you can't- You can’t hear me.” The statement made your throat close up. Words felt too great to utter. “You’re gone. . . you..” A hot tear escaped you, a plethora more following suit. “You’re never coming back..” 

   The fairytales you escaped in during your youth were nothing more than stories. 

   This was your sad reality. There would be no knight in shining armor to save you from your troubles and no amount of magic could fix the torment in your heart. There was no dragon you could kill and no spell to doom you to eternal sleep. There was only the complexity of your past and a tall man draped in furs .. Wait. 

   A man? 

   Through the crevices in between your fingers, you caught a glimpse of The Captain through your teary vision. In an instant, you were up, gloves in hand and the evidence of your tears sloppily dried off. In his presence, your adrenaline spiked. “What, uhm, why are you here?” you asked, unsure of how to address him. It felt compromising to have him merely staring at you in this state when you couldn’t even see so much as his face. 

   “The door was open.” Capitano answered, his voice as strong as ever. “Are you visiting Rosalyne?” 

   “I..” your head lowered and your arms dropped down to your sides to clutch the fabric of your skirt. . . Did you really need to keep being strong in the presence of someone stronger? You thought it futile. “Yeah- Yes. Well, actually- I wanted somewhere to think and I couldn’t think of any place closer than uh.. here. But if i have to leave then-” 

   Capitano raised his clawed hand slowly, causing you to stop talking. Were you rambling? “I am not asking you to leave. More importantly, are you alright? You seem frantic.” 

   “I’m- I mean, I am okay, I think so. But I’m not frantic, I just.. I... ” You could feel your heart thumping within your chest. You knew this feeling well; They were the beginnings of an anxiety attack. But here? In front of him? You were mentally yelling at yourself to keep your composure at least until you got home. But your body would not yield to what your brain demanded. Your breaths became short and your hands sweaty. “-I’ll be on my way.” You slipped on your gloves with trembling hands and collected your crimson leather satchel off of the ground. 

   All you wanted to do was leave now, this situation was much too embarrassing and with the way your mind and heart were racing at the moment, you didn’t want to burden him with your weak emotional state. You hurried to be out of his presence but the Captain would not allow it. As you walked past the tall harbinger, he turned to face you. In a second, his arm shot out to gently, but firmly, hold your arm. It was then that the dam inside you broke loose. 

   The Captain had only ever seen you when you were calm and collected, in an almost regal — yet humble — Fashion. He was not used to the sight of seeing tears stream down your face while your labored breaths fanned over him. You were more than frantic — You were emotionally overwhelmed. It was safe to say that Capitano did not take kindly to the thought of someone hurting you this badly. 

   For you see, this man was already wrapped around your finger — you had yet to realize it. How were you supposed to know that the cause of your neverending paranoia was the man that held you so tightly in your moment of distress? 

   But you didn’t need to know that. 

   What you needed right now was tenderness and care. Thankfully, he was ready to give you that exact thing. Capitano pulled you further into him, the cold gold chains against your warm, tear-stained cheeks felt odd to you, but you didn’t pull away. In fact, your arms readily slinked around his torso which surprised you — But you weren’t really thinking at this moment anyway. 

   Your entire life, there was a loneliness that seemed to follow you wherever you went. 

   Even when your bed was covered in stuffed animals in your youth. Even when you found Mittens in that alleyway and made him your first friend. Even when you tried to psych yourself into believing that you did not need, or want, the warm embrace of another being. Even when you tried to trick yourself into believing that living alone with your feline and your cottage was enough. 

   The loneliness always left you feeling destitute. 

   Yet, here, in the arms of the First Harbinger, you found warmth. The warmth of someone else. And it was then that you realized that it was pointless to keep lying to yourself like this. You didn’t want to be alone. You wept quietly into his chest, his clawed hands cradled you like fine china. As if you were to break if he held you too tightly. Here, in his secure embrace with his furs draped around the two of you with his soothing words telling you to breathe slowly, is where you realized that no amount of lying would ever satisfy your desire to be wanted. 

   And as much as you wanted to be selfish and let this moment last forever, you also realized that you were probably nothing but a stranger to him. 

   So you let go. 

   Your sobs quieted and you pulled away from Capitano. The Harbinger didn’t stop you from pulling away, but his vision remained trained on you. “I’m sorry,” You began, wiping your tears. “About your shirt and the crying, I’ll pay for the-” 

   “You need not trouble yourself for my sake, ______. Was I not the one who told you to not hesitate to come to me if you were in trouble?” His clawed thumb came up to your cheek, he didn’t miss your slight flinch, and swiped a stray tea from your warm skin. The way you gazed into the black void where his face should be, was endearing to him. 

   “I..” you could feel your face getting hot now that you weren’t as overwhelmed. You’d never met a man like him: someone assumed to be cold and heartless and yet so gentle with you.  “I believe you’re right… forgive me for the inconvenience. You seem to be saving me a lot lately.” Your downcast expression with a slight hint of pain tugged at the Harbinger’s heart. His deep chuckle sent your heart out of your chest, it was a sound you’d never expect to come from him. 

   Though now, you guessed that maybe nothing about this encounter was expected. 

   “This was of no inconvenience to me, I can assure you that.” His hands remained at his sides. Every second that you were alone with him a little longer was a second that he spent in heaven. Your presence was refreshing to him. For he too, had not met someone like you; Someone humble and so skilled. You were strong. Not in the same way that he was, but still strong. 

   And even the strong have their moments of weakness; He was only glad he was there for yours. 

   “Will you be heading home?” 

   You nodded, “Yes, it’s getting late, I have someone waiting for me at home as well.” 

   This piqued his interest, but he didn’t inquire further. It wasn’t his place — at least not yet. “Well then, would you like me to accompany you?” 

   You smiled at his offer. “I would. Thank you, Capitano.” 

   The snow fell on the two of you as you walked out of the mausoleum. His coat would brush against your arm every now and again which made your stomach feel as if butterflies were fluttering around in it, but you made no effort to part from him. In fact, you found yourself wishing to see more of him. The carriage was waiting only a few blocks away, so you didn’t have to walk much. All of that sobbing had left you drained and all you wanted to do was sleep in your cozy bed. 

   Capitano gave you a hand as you mounted the carriage. The carriage itself felt way too ostentatious for your liking. It was not that it was ugly — of course not. It had accents of gold to decorate the black exterior. The cushions on the inside were colored in a dark navy and comfortable as well. It felt like you were stepping onto unknown terrain; You felt too much like someone of higher status — which you weren’t. 

   But you didn’t have much time to dwell on it with Capitano sitting beside you. His breaths were calm and cool. You noticed his long tresses the day you’d met him but it was just now that you were admiring the way they framed his mask. Like any other person, you too wondered what was under the mask. He was a decorated fighter, therefore he was bound to have quite a few scars. You thought then that maybe you’d like to see them if he had any.  

   “You seem to be quite the observant woman,” he commented. Heat rushed up to your face and you tore your eyes away from him and to the window that was showcasing the endless snow and the less-busy streets. 

   “Sorry. I don’t mean to stare, it’s quite rude..” You fidgeted with your hands in your lap, clearly embarrassed that he had caught you staring. 

   “You’re not the only one who does,” He said, his voice a little softer. “It’s only natural, human curiosity knows no bounds.” Your eyes shifted from your own hands to his. They were claws, not fleshy fingers like your own. It was then that you realized that he had his own burdens as well. Being the strongest fighter could not have been easy. 

   You resisted the urge to take his hand in your own to bring at least some type of comfort to him. “Still it must be unsettling.” 

   “At times, yes. I assume the mask is what attracts that curiosity. If I were to take it off..” He chuckled a little. “I’m sure people would avert their gaze.” 

   You smiled and gazed out at the window. 

   “There can be beauty in the darkest of places.” 

   If he had been without his mask, you would have seen the look of sincerity upon the Captain’s face. This was why he had fallen for you. After observing you for months now, the Harbinger was certain that you would make a wonderful wife for him. You found wonder and happiness in the things that others would deem gloomy and ghastly. Features that society would deem unpleasant were appreciated by you; Looks never deterred you. 

   But your heart was too giving, in his eyes. The way you disregarded your own feelings to help someone who had hurt you in your past was admirable. To find out that their single lie would cause you this much pain only meant that they had to be taken care of. But that would all be dealt with in due time, out of your presence and without your knowledge of course. 

   Soon enough, the both of you arrived at your cottage. The Captain was the first to descend, he offered you a hand while you got off of the vehicle. Your fingers lingered on his own before eventually letting go of his hand. “Thank you again, Capitano. I’m grateful.” You offered a warm smile to him. 

   He only nodded in response, chains clinking during the action. “Think nothing of it. I quite enjoyed conversing with you. Hopefully your visitor did not wait long.” 

   At this, your expression turned into one of confusion. ‘My visitor?” 

   “Yes.. Did you not say you had someone waiting for you?” After a moment, you remembered your words to him and laughed softly. The Harbinger stood there looking at you confusedly, though you couldn’t see it of course. 

   “Wait here,” you said after calming down. You quickly entered your home only to return a moment later holding your beloved feline. Mittens was wrapped in a blanket since you didn’t want to expose him to the frigid weather. “This is who was waiting for me.” Capitano looked down at the feline inquisitively. Mittens peered up at the Harbinger and immediately started reaching for the chains on his helmet, attempting to play with them. 

   “Ah. I see.” Only you could make Capitano speechless. “This feline, it has a name I'm sure?” 

   You gazed down at your companion, your eyes were warm and full of love as you cradled him in your arms. “Yes, His name is Mittens.” 

   “Mittens?” 

   You reached into the blanket and fished out Mittens’ paw. Mittens had black fur at the ends of his paws only, the rest of him was white. “He looks as if he’s wearing mittens so I named him that.” At this, Capitano chuckled. 

   “Your naming skills are admirable.” 

   “Lies,” you joked dramatically before you turned your eyes back to him, “They’re basic at best.” After a few short laughs, you sighed in satisfaction. ‘Today wasn’t all bad’, you thought. “I should probably take him inside..” 

   Capitano nodded. 

   “But..” your heart began to race again but you kept yourself under control. “Before I do, um..” 

   “What is it?” Capitano was interested in what you had to say, especially seeing you so nervous so suddenly. In a short moment, you quickly stood onto your toes and placed a short kiss on his helmet.   “Thank you for today, Capitano.” You smiled up at him warmly, “Have a good night.” 

   The Captain, surprised by your gesture, stood there with the words caught in his throat. After a quiet moment, he replied simply,  “.. Good night to you as well, _____.” Satisfied with the interaction, you took your feline inside the warm cottage and closed the door. Capitano waited for you to disappear into your home after he was sure you were safe for the night, he turned and entered the carriage once more. 

   Capitano was a busy man most of the time, but this did not mean he was too busy to take care of the problems that ailed you. 

  And so, like the dutiful lover he was, he got to work rather quickly. 

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

  “Capitano? Why are you here?” It was a bright day in Snezhnaya, one of those days in which the sun reared its head and bathed the snow in its warm rays. In Snezhnaya, this was rare. But despite your love for the colder aspects of the nation, it still brought a smile to your face. Even more so when the man of your latest interest came knocking at your door under the guise of asking you some questions for his work. 

   The Captain was as direct as ever. “I’ve come on business. I hope this isn’t an inconvenience.” 

   “Never,” you answered, ushering the man inside your home. “Would you like a cup of tea? Or Coffee?” You adjusted your robe, realizing that you seemed as if you’d just woken up (which you did but you didn’t want him to know that). Mittens hopped down from the kitchen counter and ran to Capitano’s feet. The feline intently sniffed at him, taking in new information about the stranger in your home since you rarely brought people inside

   “You need not trouble yourself for my sake,” he denied while watching the feline. 

   “Nonsense! I was going to make myself a cup of coffee anyway.” You lit the stove and set aside two black mugs before joining Capitano in your living room. Admittedly, you were more nervous than usual, especially after realizing the obvious connection between the two of you. 

   “Very well then,” The Captain was seated in front of you, Mittens sitting at your side on the sofa. “Do you know someone by the name of Yessenia Ivanov?” 

   Your heart sank to your stomach. Just what had she done that had garnered the attention of the Harbingers?? “I.. Yes, she is my half sister. Why? She’s not in any trouble is she?” It irked Capitano that you were so worried over someone who had screwed you over. Your heart was too big for the cruel world you lived in. By now, Capitano was aware of Yessenia’s actions. 

   How? 

   Well, It wasn’t exactly a difficult task to get his hands on your family’s history. 

   “I cannot disclose any information about this certain investigation, I'm afraid.” The kettle whistled, causing you to snap out of your trance-like anxiety and tend to it. “However, you do not need to worry. I can assure you that.” 

   A thousand questions flooded your mind but the act of making coffee soothed your nerves a little. His words made you feel uneasy for once. “.. How do you take your coffee?” Your voice was noticeably quieter; Something the Captain did not miss. 

   “However you make your own is fine, ______.” In response to your mood dampening, the Captain chose to speak in a softer tone to ease you. Of course, he knew that this entire ordeal would cause you some amount of distress but it was all a means to an end. Even if you had to suffer a little, he was sure that you would be happy once your problems were dealt with. After a few minutes, you returned to the living room with two hot mugs of coffee and set them down on the coffee table. 

   “So.. What is it that you’d like to know? I’m sure you have more questions.” You seemed a bit more serious now, Capitano noted. 

   “Have you had any contact with Miss Ivanov?” 

   “About two weeks ago she came to my door.. Asking for help.” Your eyes averted his gaze, clearly there was something you were hiding. 

   “Can you specify the contents of that meeting?”

   “Is it relevant?” 

   “Significantly.” 

   Capitano noticed the silent fire in your eyes. It didn’t take a genius to know that you were on guard. He decided right then that this new, more defiant side of you was quite interesting. “Very well..” you sighed. There was no harm in telling the man what your half-sister had requested you, even if it had been a lie. You told him about her connections to you up until the time that she came to ask you for money. You did not withhold the fact that you had gone to check to see if Yessenia’s mother was actually in critical condition, only to find out that it was a lie. 

   Aftwards, he thanked you for the information and swiftly finished his cup of coffee before leaving your home as quickly as he had come. But before he left, he told you not to worry at all about her and that justice would be enacted. 

   You wondered what exactly he meant by that. 

   Fortunately, you did not have to wait long to find out. 

   On a snowy afternoon, a month after Capitano came to question you, a letter was sent to your door. The wax seal was that of the Tsaritsa.  Along with the Harbingers and other noble-people, you had been selected to attend a banquet to commemorate La Signora and her achievements. Her funeral was first only announced to you because of your closeness to her but you guessed that the Tsaritsa decided to go public with the news. 

   While you often refrained from going to big gatherings like this, the Tsaritsa’s last sentence to you convinced you to accept the invitation: 

   ‘I know that you are quite a shy one, but it is my belief that your attendance would mean a lot to a certain stoic harbinger we both know.’ you could almost hear the cadence in her laugh; it made you smile that Capitano’s affection for you was that obvious to her. 

   “What do you think, Mittens?” you glanced down at the feline beside you on the couch. He slowly blinked at you and closed his eyes while you pet him. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.” The banquet was to be held at the end of the week, which meant you had exactly seven days to get ready for it. You flipped through the multitudinous amounts of clothes you had and yet none of them seemed to catch your eye. It wasn’t a surprise to you. It was only natural that you had no ‘fancy’ clothes to wear to the banquet since you often declined invitations like this. 

   And so, the search for a worthy dress began. 

.

.

.

   After endless searching, going in and out of boutiques and different dress shops around the city, you’d finally found the perfect dress. It was a simple, yet beautiful, silky fishtail dress. It had silver jewels embroidered around the neckline which you thought was a nice touch. The moment you’d slipped it on, you’d fallen in love with it. Even if you were only going to wear it once, you wanted to wear your best clothes for this banquet. 

   It was a banquet held in the memory of your closest friend after all. 

   One evening, after coming home from your monthly visit to Rosalyne’s grave, you entered your home in the late hours of the afternoon, like you always did. There, sitting on your coffee table was an elegantly decorated box. Your brows knitted together in confusion, you certainly hadn’t bought this for yourself.. So who could it be from? You set your bag down on the couch and reached towards the box. “What do you think it is, hm?” you asked your feline who only purred in response, his eyes glued to the box. 

   It seemed Mittens was curious as to what it was as well. 

  Your fingers delicately took the top part of the box to reveal a vintage style necklace made of what seemed to be white gold or silver with an obsidian gem at the forefront of it. Your eyes widened as you stared at the clearly expensive necklace; you dared not pick it up in fear of accidentally breaking it. Your eyes then traveled back to the table where there was a hidden note under the box, only to be seen after you’d taken the box in your hands. 

   “‘It is my hope that you will wear it to the banquet should you decide to attend.’” you read the note aloud. A million thoughts raced through your head but you couldn’t figure one person who would gift you something as expensive as this. Though maybe.. Capitano crossed your mind for a moment but you ruled him out due to the fact that you were certain that he knew not of your feelings towards him. 

   After all, how could he? 

   You’d never hinted to it.. had you?

   The only other person you could think of .. was your stalker. 

   The thought of it made you sick. Without another thought, you closed the box and took it upstairs with you where you would store it in a drawer. You could not accept gifts like this, who knows where they got it from? 

   And more importantly, had they broken into your home? 

   As you closed your eyes that night to indulge in some much-needed slumber, you failed to notice the pair of sapphires that peered at you outside your window. 

© 2025 comesatimecomesashadow || do not copy or translate my works onto other platforms. more importantly: do not feed my works to ai. i do not consent to any of the aforementioned subjects.

[comesatimecomesashadow]

should i make this a mini series?

(i promise i havent forgotten about all the pending ones ive got in other fandoms guys but im so brainrotted about gojo at the moment)

i cant read shit because then i just get more fic ideas; anyway, what do we think about nerdjo x nerdgoth reader ?

[comesatimecomesashadow]

going to the mall with gojo would be frustrating because he 1. doesn't look at price tags and 2. doesn't take your word for it when you say you don't want anything. if he sees you looking at anything with interest you better believe he's getting it for you even when you pull on his sleeve at the cash register and tell him it's fine. and after a long day of getting you stuff you say you dont need, he asks if you're hungry, and when you say that youve got food at home, he tells you he'll treat you; and again when you tell him he doesn't have to, he'll tell you he wants to. satoru is annoying when you guys go to the mall but he's annoyingly well intentioned and you think maybe allowing yourself to accept his material love isnt too bad every once in a while. (if you give him an inch, he'll take a mile in the sense that he's never letting you pay for anything ever).

[comesatimecomesashadow]

FUCKING LMAOOOO "its 2025 you can be whoever you wanna be" WOKEJO IS SO GOATED xDDD

Satoru is sitting on the couch with your cat perched in a perfect upright pose on his lap.

She’s got her hind legs sprawled slightly outward, front paws dangling midair while he gently holds her up with his big hands cupped under her fuzzy little armpits.

“Wittle pwetty pwincess.” He coos dragging out the syllables like he’s talking to a baby. “My fluffy wuffy angel girl~ yes you areee~”

The cat blinks once, then she lifts one paw and bats him across the ear with all the casual force of someone swatting a mosquito.

“Ow, okay. Okay, you’re clawing me.” He winces, one hand shifting to cradle her better.

And then he sees it.

Right there. Between the fluffy legs.

Satoru squints, face slowly scrunching into a tight, confused frown.

His entire body freezes. “…Babe?”

You’re in the kitchen, pouring tea. “Yeah?”

He’s still holding the cat like it’s a baby and a bomb at the same time. “Are girls parts supposed to look like– like be red?”

“What?” The tea is forgotten and you’re walking over to the couch.

“Is she– is that period?” He looks up at you with a mixture of concern and suspicion. “Is she having her period?”

You lean over, brows furrowed to peer at what he’s referring to. There’s a pause.

“What is that?” You ask slowly, genuine horror creeping in your voice.

Satoru keeps looking between you and the cat, dead serious. “Is it period?”

“Nooo… that’s a– that’s a pointy.”

You both exchange a long, heavy look.

“What do you mean, are you saying– is that a WEINER?!” Satoru looks down at the cat like it just betrayed him. “Are you a girl? Or a guy? Ew! Why is it pointing at me?!”

You lose it, doubling over in laughter. “How haven’t we seen it before?!”

“I don’t know!” Satoru yells, waving one hand while the other still cradles the cat in disbelief. “What the fuck, is it, like retractable?!”

You collapse onto the couch next to him, tears in your eyes.

He pets the cat’s head with visible discomfort. “You’re a dude? Ew. Okay. Alright. We’ll love you either way. It’s 2025. You can be whoever you wanna be.” Satoru side-eyes him.  “Okay we get it man, you can put it away now.”

[comesatimecomesashadow]

im so dramatic when reading fics about satoru cheating bcs i treat it like its a novela xDD thank you for this author <3

honeymoon phase — gojo satoru

synopsis. the elders have always warned you that men lose interest over time. that they’re bound to find a younger, prettier toy years down into the marriage. you think your day has come. 

contents. hurt/comfort, established relationship, husband!gojo, pining (so much of it), insecurity, miscommunication, mentions of pregnancy, gojo is a freak for his wife, shoko is the voice of reason as always

notes. im back n this is not proofread. what’s new!!! anyways, enjoy yet another self indulgent piece!

You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.

The walls of the Gojo compound were made of wood and paper, thin enough for you to hear secrets that weren’t made for your ears. You had grown up used to tuning out the constant noise from footsteps on tatami and shuffling robes to muttered curses from sorcerers-in-training. But today, the voices were just close enough, just loud enough for you to hear. 

 “Still no heir after five years?”

 “What a shame. All that potential, and she retires to become a housewife.”

 “They marry young these days, but if a woman can’t carry on the clan, then what’s the point?”

 “She’s not a wife. She’s a waste.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the screen door. You forced yourself not to make a sound, not to breathe too loudly in fear of revealing your hiding spot. It was foolish to care—foolish to let the words of the elders dig into your skin. You knew better than to let the words cut you, but they did anyway, like each syllable was barbed.

You weren’t stupid. You knew that in the world of jujutsu sorcery, women were rarely praised for their power. They were expected to surrender it and retire gracefully—to raise heirs. Instead of bearing blades, they were expected to bear babies. You’ve seen it through countless of women. Satoru’s mother. Your own. And so many others. It was a quiet, lifelong obligation to the clan’s legacy.

You have been married to Gojo Satoru for five years now. Five long, loving years. And still, there were no children.

To be fair, the two of you had married young—too young, perhaps—but he had insisted. He couldn't wait, he’d said, pulling you to the altar like a man starved. He had kissed you with feverish devotion in front of the shrine, promised you the world, the stars, and everything in between.

But somewhere along the way, you felt like those promises had gone quiet. The talk of children, of anything beyond “next week” or “next mission,” had never come. The topic had never once left his lips.

Maybe he was too busy. Your Satoru wasn’t just yours, after all. He was a teacher. A leader. The head of the Gojo clan. A living symbol of power.

He spent his days shaping the next generation, mentoring students who looked at him like he was invincible. Perhaps he already had too many children who weren’t truly his. Too many young eyes to protect, young graves to prevent.

Or maybe… maybe he just didn’t want them with you.

You stirred the soup with absent hands, the wooden spoon swirling through the broth like it might uncover something at the bottom. The scent of miso filled the kitchen, but it felt hollow. Your expansive kitchen felt too quiet and it was slowly driving you mad.

Satoru was late. Again.

And when you hear the front door finally open, you don’t bother moving. You listened to the familiar sound of shoes slipping off and a coat sliding from his shoulders and landing in a heap by the door. His footsteps were slower these days. Even the great Gojo Satoru—your indestructible, overpowered husband was starting to sound… tired.

Tired of what, you’re not sure.

You, perhaps.

He appeared in the kitchen, the ever-present blindfold slung loosely around his neck. His cerulean eyes looked exhausted.

But he still smiled. Still leaned down and kissed your cheek like you were the one thing anchoring him to the world.

“Smells amazing, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Sorry I’m late.”

And without another word, he dragged himself toward the bedroom and collapsed face-first into the sheets, asleep before you even turned off the stove.

You stood there for a moment, spoon still in hand, watching the soft ripple of the soup.

This had become a pattern. 

He used to be insatiable—always touching you, reaching for you, teasing you like the mere idea of being apart from you made him physically ill. There had been times where he couldn’t keep his hands to himself even in public. Where he used to whisper sweet nothings into your skin that he couldn’t wait to fulfill.

But now he barely looked at you.

He said he was tired. That the curse rate had skyrocketed. That the weight of the world was getting heavier.

You believed him. Of course you did.

But the belief didn’t make the cold side of the bed any warmer. It didn’t make the silent distance between you any less unbearable.

It happened in a moment of weakness.

The bathroom door closed behind him, and the sound of the shower was on. It was one of his regular short, cold showers. You sat on the edge of the bed, glancing at the phone he left on the nightstand.

It was face down and silent, yet all the more inviting.

You hesitated, telling yourself not to look. You try to convince yourself that you trusted the man that you married. The one that had been in love with you far longer than you had even known. That after everything, you had no reason to doubt.

Your fingers moved anyway as if you were a woman possessed. The lock was no match for your memory. His passcode hadn’t changed—it was still your birthday. You’re not sure if that fact made you feel worse for the act that you were committing.

But the messages were right there.

And what you saw made your stomach drop.

Gojo: Shio, I need your help.

Shio: Gojo-kun, I thought we agreed that calling me just “Shio” was improper. It is not right.

Gojo: You know we’re past that stage, Shioooo.

Shio: I should like to have a word with your wife about your behavior.

Gojo: Ha! You and my wife? Over my dead body would I let you two meet. She’d kill me~~~

Shio: That would be a tragedy indeed.

You blinked.

No.

No, no, no.

The bile that rose in your throat was immediate. The evidence was damning: the banter, the flirtation, their familiarity—it was something you had once shared with him.The way he spoke to her mirrored so perfectly the way he used to speak to you. It was the same cadence, the same wry humor, the same intimacy that had once made your heart leap.

You didn’t even know who this woman was. But she had something you no longer did: his attention. 

And it made you sick.

Before you could scroll further, the sound of water stopped. You dropped the phone like it had burned you and threw yourself beneath the covers, forcing your body to still, your breathing to slow.

He came in moments later, humming faintly, smelling like the clean soap he had insisted on the both of you sharing. It is only right that we smell like each other, he had once told you. You wanted to scoff at the memory. Satoru pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head before settling in beside you.

You didn’t move. You don’t end up sleeping that night. You don't even think you let the breath you were holding in for the rest of the night.

Just like clockwork, Satoru was late again.

The table was set. The food that was once warm had grown cold. You sat alone for an hour before you gave up and placed plastic wrap over everything, sliding the dishes into the fridge.

When the door finally opened, he walked in with a bounce in his step. A cloth bag hung from his fingers.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he called out brightly. “I brought dinner!”

You turned slowly, eyeing the contents. You didn’t need to open the bag. One glance told you everything.

It wasn’t takeout. Rather, the meal appeared to be homemade and carefully prepared. It must be a subtle message from his mistress to you. 

Inside was Kyoto-style soup—vegetables simmered in dashi, hints of seaweed and root. You had watched the compound servants make it a hundred times growing up. There was even yamaimo, shredded fine and folded in.

“Where were you?” you asked softly, hoping it would mask the edge in your words.

Satoru grinned.

“Kyoto. Had a mission there. Thought I’d bring something special back.”

Your stomach dropped.

Kyoto. 

Of course it would be there. In the house where you were both born. In the same halls where those whispers about your empty womb had first begun. You imagined him surrounded by a dozen younger women, all wide-eyed and obedient who were excited to please the clanhead. The thought alone made you dizzy.

“I’m not hungry.”

You stood before he could stop you, the chair screeching against the wood.

He looked up, his smile flickering, a confused wrinkle forming between his brows.

But you didn’t look back. You didn’t want him to see your face. If he did, he might see the cracks forming. And you weren’t sure you’d survive long enough to be pieced back together.

“I miss you, [Name]. Come work here,” Shoko says on the phone, her voice in its casual cadence. “You’re an excellent sorceress. You were born for this. Plus, I miss you. Satoru’s been keeping you away for far too long.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, the phone tucked between your cheek and shoulder as your fingers trace a wrinkle in the blanket.

“Yes, but… Satoru and I agreed I’d stay out of the field. I’m retired now, remember?”

“You’d only be teaching,” she replies gently. “Nothing too intense. And besides… Gojo’s an idiot. What does he know?”

You laugh quietly, but it’s thin and brittle.

A silence stretches between you.

Shoko picks up on it. She always does.

“What’s wrong?”

You hesitate. 

Vocalizing the thought seemed so shameful.

When you do summon the courage, it comes out in a hushed whisper: “I think Satoru is cheating on me.”

There’s a pause.

“Is this a joke?”

“No.” Your voice is flat. “I went through his phone.”

Another silence. This one lands heavier.

“[Name]…” Shoko says slowly, “I don’t think that’s possible. I mean—he worships you. He annoys everyone at Jujutsu Tech talking about you like you’re the second coming of the sun. We get it, he married up.”

You close your eyes. You can almost hear his voice echoing in Shoko’s. How you missed that version of your husband.

“He pulled you from the field not because he wanted to chain you down, but because he was terrified. I’ve never seen him scared until you came back bleeding that day. He looked like someone tore the world from under his feet.”

“Shoko… you don’t get it.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“No. Not yet, but—”

“Then you don’t get to spiral like this until you do.”

You sigh and lean back.

 “I just feel so... stuck. I’m tired of this house and how quiet it is all of the time. The growing distance in between us. It used to feel like home, but now it feels like— I don’t even know.”

Her voice softens again. “Consider coming back to Jujutsu Tech. At least for a while. Let yourself breathe again.”

You’re quiet. 

“I’ll consider it. Domestic life’s been… suffocating lately.”

“There she is,” Shoko says warmly. “There’s the [Name] I know.”

You smile, and this time it’s real—even if it is just a little. But it doesn’t last long after the phone call.

The moment you step out of the bedroom you walk directly into a solid chest. You freeze and your heart sinks.

Standing in front of you was your husband. But he looked more like Gojo Satoru than your Satoru. He was home early and he did not look happy. Once bright eyes were now shadowed and unreadable.

“You’re returning to Jujutsu Tech?” he asks, voice calm in the way a man trying to keep his emotions at bay would. “After we decided you were done risking your life?”

You blink, startled.  “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to hear my wife thinks staying home with me is ‘suffocating.’” His jaw tightens. “Is that really what you think?”

Something in you snaps.

“Don’t you dare make this about you.”

He stares, stunned.

“You decided I’d retire, Satoru. You didn’t ask. You didn’t even give me a choice.” You lightly push his chest to make space. He doesn’t move but his hand reaches for yours automatically, gently, like he can’t help but hold onto you even when you’re furious.

You don’t pull away. His grip was firm enough for you to know better.

“I thought it was for my safety,” you whisper. “But now I see it was just to make room for your little affair behind my back.” The words were meant to shame Satoru, but it felt more like a double edged sword with the way your heart ache at the reminder of his infidelity.

He flinches.

“What?”

“I read your messages,” you hiss. “With Shio. You don’t even delete them, Satoru. Are you that arrogant? Or did you just stop caring?”

“[Name], it’s not what you think—”

“Then explain it!”  Your voice breaks.

 “Explain the messages. The dinners. The way you’ve been avoiding me like touching me might burn you alive. I can feel the distance growing every night, Satoru, don’t you?”

You yank your hand back.

“Tell me. Is she prettier? Younger? Is she too naive to see through your bullshit? Does she—” You laugh, but it’s sharp and bitter. “—does she even know you hate bitter vegetables? Or did you choke it down for her anyway when you brought the yamaimo home?”

Gojo looks like he’s been hollowed out.

You see it. The tremble in his fingers. The way his mouth opens and shuts, like he wants to speak but can’t breathe through the guilt.

You step back.

“Forget it,” you whisper. “I want a divorce—"

“Don’t.” His voice is quiet. Desperate. “Don’t finish that sentence. P-please.”

“Why not?” you whisper. “Give me one reason not to walk away when you’ve already left me in every way that matters.”

He shakes his head. “You think I left you? [Name]… I was trying to building a life for us.”

You stare at him, your heart in your throat.

“Shio’s not a mistress. She’s not even close to being my type—unless I suddenly go for women in their late eighties.”

You blink.

“She’s my great-aunt. She’s half-senile with hands like prunes! I—that day, when we visited the compound, she asked me why we didn’t have any kids yet. I told her… I told her I wanted them.” His voice falters. “So badly. With you. Only with you.”

You suck in a breath.

He steps closer, eyes pleading. “I know you’re scared of pregnancy. I know what it means for sorcerers. I’ve seen it, [Name]. So I never brought it up. I didn’t want to pressure you, not ever.”

His hands hover near yours. Not touching. Not yet.

“Shio said she’d help. That she’d cook meals, ones she thought would bring good fortune or increase fertility. The traditional route. And I let her. Because I thought… if I just waited long enough, maybe you’d bring it up on your own.”

You’re frozen. Tears sting your eyes, unspilled.

“I never wanted to lie to you. I just—” He lets out a broken laugh. “I was embarrassed that I wanted a dozen tiny monsters who’d take after you. That I wanted to hold your hand through every contraction and cry harder than the baby when it was born.”

You collapse into his chest, allowing your tears to stain his uniform. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Takes one to marry one.”

“You should’ve just told me.”

“I know.” He holds you up, cupping your face gently now, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “I was trying to protect you from everything. I—I never realized I was hurting you in the process.”

You close your eyes and press your forehead against his.

“I was so scared you didn’t love me anymore.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “I love you so much it hurts. It always has.”

You breathe him in, your voice shaky. 

 “So… you want kids?”

“Only if they’re bossy and brilliant like their mother. Every night, I imagine that they’d know at least ten ways to manipulate me by the age of five.”

You snort. “That sounds like a nightmare.”

“That sounds like heaven.”

 He kisses you again, except it is long and slow this time. It’s unlike the desperation from earlier, rather, apologetic and full of everything he’s been too much of a coward to say in the past few months.

When you part, breathless, your voice is softer.

“We’ll take it slow. I’m not saying yes to ten—”

“Nine.”

“—but we’ll talk. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

His grin is smug, but his eyes are misty.

“You mean I’m finally allowed to touch you again without you pretending I’m a curse?”

You smile. “I’ll think about it.”

“Can I bribe the jury?”

“With what?”

“My undying love. And, I’ll do the dishes for a month.”

You lean in close, breath brushing his ear.

“Hmm, two months… and a foot rub every night.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

[comesatimecomesashadow]

i cant read shit because then i just get more fic ideas; anyway, what do we think about nerdjo x nerdgoth reader ?