𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 | 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔.

“what do you like about me?” gojo asks, peering up at you with wide, expectant eyes from his spot on your chest. rolling your own eyes, you snort, fingers tangling in his white locks and stroking through the strands.

it’s still slightly wet from your shower earlier, and even though you know it’ll dampen your shirt from laying over your chest, you don’t have the heart to push him off. you don’t think you ever will—not when it leaves you feeling so empty and bare.

“nothing,” you say instantly. pouting, he lifts his head up, eyebrows furrowing at your answer.

“you like my body,” he insists, raising a brow.

“what makes you say that?”

“i heard you bragging to your friend about i’m ‘actually much more muscular’ than i seem,” he snickers, pinching your cheek as you swat his hand away with a scowl, “i’m a little hurt you’d think i’m not muscular, but i’ll let it slide because you’re so cute and—”

“so you eavesdrop on me, huh?” you narrow your eyes at him, and gojo pretends to ponder your words for a moment, putting on quite the show as he taps his chin in thought. you roll your eyes and shake your head, and he fights back a grin.

“define eavesdropping.”

“listening with those giant ears of yours when you shouldn’t be,” you deadpan.

“they’re not giant,” he pouts, “and you never told me i wasn’t supposed to listen, so technically i never did any eavesdropping.”

“you’re right. they’re bigger than giant,” you tease, giggling as you grab onto one of his earlobes and tug gently to prove your point. this time, it’s gojo who swats your hand away, huffing as he grabs your hand and directs it back to his hair. “satoru, why were you listening to my conversation?”

“i wasn’t trying to listen,” he insists, “i just heard you when i was trying to find you. you left me to answer the call like a traitor, and then you said you’d be back in ten minutes. news flash, you were not back in ten minutes.”

“my call only lasted twelve,” you say dryly.

by now, you’ve grown used to the headache that is gojo satoru. you like to think you’ve grown decently accustomed to handling him—though it’s not exactly a chore, and you can’t really say you hate it. because he’s your headache if anything, and even if you roll your eyes, you can’t stop the small peck to his forehead that you press.

“well, i started looking for you at eleven minutes. i had to, you could’ve been dead, you know. wouldn’t you want me to look for you in case you were?”

“i wish i was dead, then i’d never have to share a bed with you again—”

“hey, my bed is very big. you sleep comfortably,” he argues.

“not when you’re always on top of me, i don’t,” you purse your lips. that only makes him sink more weight onto you with a huff, head perching itself comfortably on your chest as he wraps his arms around your waist. and it’s times like this that make you realize gojo really is more muscular than you initially thought—there’s no other reason he should be this heavy.

“c’mon, tell me what you like about me. and saying everything isn’t an acceptable answer, by the way. i know everything about me is great, but i want details. wow me away with something romantic—”

“i really like it when you sleep because your mouth stays closed.”

“well, you’re nothing but a liar because you always complain that i’m a sleep talker,” he glares at you halfheartedly. his hands wander under the hem of your shirt, fingers tips dancing along your hips as they explore the expanse of your skin.

gojo has felt your hips under his palms on more than one occasion, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop mapping out the valleys of your curves—he wants to learn every dip and every slant over and over again, he wants to learn every story that’s lived across your skin.

and when he squeezes your hips gently, you scratch at his scalp, and there’s love in the delicate touches that weave through your fingertips. it tingles, feels electric, feels like a subtle shock to your skin—and that’s when you know you’re really alive. when a touch becomes so much more than a touch, when it feels like time is repeating and the world is stilling and the noise is fading.

“you are a sleep talker,” you groan, “god, you scare me half to death some nights, you know that?”

“maybe i’ll scare you to full death tonight,” he grins cheekily, snickering into your shirt. it’s slightly damp from his hair, so he pulls the blankets higher to cover you better.

“toru, that would be a blessing more than anything,” you sigh.

“baby, death is nothing to me. i’ll follow you to the grave, no getting rid of me now,” he beams up at you, pearly whites flashing through the dim light of the room. gojo rests his chin on your sternum, and you brush a few loose strands of hair from his forehead.

“at least you’re loyal,” you mutter.

“course i am,” he huffs, “and you still didn’t answer. c’mon, you gotta have one thing you like about me,” he nudges you with his chin. there’s a hint of neediness in his tone now—one that tells you he needs this more than he lets on.

and for a moment, you catch a glimpse of satoru—your satoru, the one he’s ached for you to look at this whole time. he’s soft, a little sensitive, a little lonely, but a lot easier to love than anyone else you’ve ever met. it comes naturally, as naturally as the swat of your hand when he pokes your cheek and the roll of your eyes when he mocks your voice. it’s just a natural response you have to satoru, loving him is like a reflex you don’t control.

“i like when you’re silent.”

he deflates, and you smile knowingly to yourself at the small dimness in his eyes at your words. it’s not what he hoped for, you’re well aware, but it’s the truth.

“if you hate talking to me so much—”

“cause even when you’re quiet, you’re still the loudest person i know,” you murmur softly, hand wandering from his hair to cup the mound of his cheek, “because you can just look at me, and i hear everything i need to hear.”

he swallows, staring into your eyes, not daring to even blink. and suddenly, he thinks he hears it, the loudness you’re talking about—the room is silent, and there isn’t even a rustle in the bedsheets, but he hears it pounding off the walls and echoing through his ears.

i love you. i love you. i love you.

“what do you hear?” he asks quietly, hand clutching your hips a little tighter.

your fingertips move back to scratch at his scalp, and you say, “i hear, i love you.”

and his breath hitches when your lips mold against his, and he wants to say he hears i love you too, but something tells him you already know, and that’s fine by him.

this originally had an angstier ending and then i remembered the ask was for fluff sdjdhfg