“it’s rotten work,”
“not to me. not if it’s you.”
The lights are out in the house, and you’re settled down into bed beside him when Gojo asks you why you’re there.
“What?” you return, your words coming out more as a laugh than a question.
He shrugs — the sheets crinkle when he does so you know. “Don’t laugh at me! It’s not a dumb question.”
You sigh, rolling over and resting a hand on his chest, shutting your eyes and nestling down into the comfort you were in before he started his session of sharing the obvious late night thoughts that one normally keeps to themselves.
“Go to sleep, ‘Toru.”
“Are you seriously ignoring me?”
“Mm, no,”
“You’re not answering my question,” he challenges.
“I don’t answer stupid questions, Satoru, go to bed.”
He grunts to himself, looking up at the ceiling as the hand that still rests on his chest burns through the cotton of his t-shirt. The room is quiet, but never quiet enough to make him forget where you are, where your breaths lie.
This time, he turns his head to look at you straight, his hand taking yours and playing with your fingers in the air idly like you're not trying to go to sleep.
You give up.
Opening your eyes, you tilt your head up with a sigh, looking him so dead in the eye that it almost stings.
“Hi, Satoru,” you say, voice a lot more passive than it is tired. “If you ask me that question again—“
“I won’t if you just answer,” he taunts, but you can tell there’s more behind whatever joking tone he puts on.
You scoff; your smile gives you away. “What do you mean ‘why are you here’?”
“Simple question, really.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” you groan, rubbing your eyes as you sit up. “Maybe it’s because of this?” you answer, holding out your left hand, wiggling your fingers so he can watch how your ring glimmers in the moonlight that sneaks past the curtains.
Satoru cracks a smile. “Ooh, so you love me for my money?”
“Why else?”
You both snicker; you rest your head on his shoulder.
“Why are you asking me this, Satoru?” you say in something just above a whisper, taking his hand and placing it in yours, smoothing a thumb over his pulse. Still loud, still strong — he and his heart are very much alike. It’s why you wonder how he’s so quiet, now.
He takes a deep breath, shaking his head like he knows he sounds funny. “I dunno. Just seems wild, doesn’t it?”
“Define ‘wild.’ Because wild in terms of Satoru Gojo likely outdoes my definition by a mile.”
He doesn’t hide his grin, because he knows that you don’t deserve people hiding their happiness from you.
“I’m a little fucked for someone like you, aren’t I? Messy."
“I have your lastname now, isn’t it a bit late to think about that?
“Technically, you can always give it back.”
“Over my dead body, weirdo.”
Gojo cracks a small smile as you press a kiss to his cheek, the warmth of your lips lingering on his cheek even after you’ve left. It sears the inside of his mouth in the best way.
He tilts his head, running a hand through your hair, catching his finger in a twirl of it. “I’m hard to deal with, no?”
You hum, looking around your bedroom. “Sometimes. Not always.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Not completely.”
Gojo snorts a laugh. “Hard to live with?”
“Also sometimes, never always.”
“Hard to love?”
“Always never,” you answer without hesitation, yawning as you lay against his chest. "Never sometimes."
Gojo closes his eyes, smiles to himself — even though he knows you can’t see. His head leans back against the wooden headboard of your bed.
“Okay.”
“So we’ve agreed that you’re being dumb?”
“I—well, I never agreed to that,”
“Good!” you say anyway, tugging his shirt until he laughs and sinks back down into bed. “Now stop acting like it’s a task to love you, okay? It’s not.”
Gojo stares. He watches you sink closer to him, your hand still wrapped in his, the pad of his thumb swiping over the diamond on your finger.
Yes, it was dumb to question this.
“Yes, commander.”
“Ugh, go to bed.”
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Ccino is one of my favourite sanses.. and i love designing humans.
So here the sweetheart is
i love him so much 🤍🤍 and im so proud of this drawing, like. genuinely.
HCs and ALT versions below cut
Transgender male. it fits him and its something i see in his story. also i self project.
Indian (more self projection) also he reminds me of a gulab jamun.
Youngest of the sanses and AU has been around for only a few hundred years.
Ikea. everything he owns is Ikea. or at least an UTMV version of it.
Ccino belongs to black-nyanko
Marecat design belongs to me
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