#writing gojo is hard cos his characterisation is rlly complex

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹｡ 11:49 p.m. | gojo satoru

wc: 421 summary: gojo is larger than life, but you make him feel small. contains: none really, can be read as gn!  a/n: he’s a big baby :’(

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

There’s something in the way you hold Gojo that makes him feel so incredibly small.

He stays tucked under your chin, like a child, your palm lying flat on the top of his head. White wisps of hair poke at the corners of your nose, but all you feel is the soft puffs of air tickling your neck. 

Gojo has always been affectionate—clingy even; he’s loud and obnoxious, always the first to touch but never the one to feel. He takes up space, the very thing he holds power over, and squeezes it to fit in this small bed, right by you. 

Nights this quiet rarely come by anymore. If you aren’t sweeping the streets for curses, he is; if neither of you are, then curses come to find you—in your dreams, in the slight twitching of Gojo’s fingertips resting on your hip. 

On nights like this, you cradle him to you, leg slung over the expanse of his body, tugging him closer. He’s a lot bigger than you are, stronger too—long limbs and lean muscle. But you hold him like he is someone to protect, gentle and fragile—as if his single touch hasn’t killed, as if his eyes haven’t seen destruction caused by his very hands. 

When you hold Gojo in this rare, quiet night, he feels so incredibly small. And for someone so big, someone who is larger than life—all 6 feet over, all seeing, bearing all the burdens of the world, he thinks: feeling small isn’t so bad. Feeling small is okay. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Only because it’s you. 

He wraps an arm around your waist, squeezing, the other finding purchase on your thigh slung over his hip. His face nuzzles deeper into your neck, lips brushing against your skin in a blur of kisses. Your legs soon become a tangled mess when he adds his to the mix. 

The grandeur attached to Gojo’s name is a birthright he can’t escape from. It’s the responsibility of being the strongest. But in moments like this, he doesn’t feel like Gojo at all. He feels like Satoru, only wanting the simple things, like still nights tangled up in your bed, close enough to disintegrate the space he’s so proudly surrounded himself with his entire life.

Now, he feels like Satoru, made small by your hands, but so content with the simple things—like your tiny bed and the moonlight peeking through your curtains, like the thrum of your heartbeat and the fact that he can exist in this space, with you. 

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