Satoru Gojo was sprawled upside down across your couch like he owned the place, one long leg dangling off the backrest, the other twitching idly in the air as he let out a dramatic, theatrical groan that echoed off the walls.

“Ugggghhh,” he whined, drawing out the syllables like a child denied dessert. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re really gonna sit there all day messing with cursed techniques while I’m over here rotting?”

He flipped himself upright in a sudden, fluid movement, white hair flopping into his eyes before he brushed it back with an exaggerated flourish. “C’mon, hand-to-hand isn’t that bad,” he pleaded, practically skipping over to you. “It builds character! Muscles! Life skills! What if you get caught in a domain with no cursed energy? Huh? What then?”

Gojo dropped to his knees beside you like a man begging for divine intervention, clutching at your arm like you were his last hope. “Pleaseeeeee,” he sang, dragging out the word with all the force of someone who had absolutely no shame. “Just one round! One little spar! I promise not to use Infinity… for the first five minutes.”

He grinned, teeth flashing behind his blindfold, then leaned in closer with a dramatic stage whisper. “I’ll buy you boba. For twenty years. Twenty. Years. That’s two whole decades of brown sugar tapioca pearls delivered directly to your soul.”

He threw himself backward in defeat when you still didn’t budge, arms flailing like he’d been struck down by the gods. “You’re killing me,” he groaned, lying flat on the floor like a fallen soldier. “Do you want me to shrivel up from loneliness and inattention? Is that your plan? Because it’s working. You monster.”

Then, as if struck by a bolt of inspiration, he popped up again and clapped his hands together. “Orrr,” he said slowly, voice dropping into a dangerously mischievous tone, “I could just start poking you until you agree.”

Without warning, Gojo reached over and jabbed your side with one long finger, snickering when you flinched. “Tickle jutsu is a forbidden art,” he said solemnly. “But I’ll use it. I’m not above that.”

He hovered there, inches from your face, practically vibrating with anticipation. “Soooo… sparring? Please? Pretty please with mochi on top?”

Silence.

He fell back again with a huff, limbs dramatically splayed out as he stared up at the ceiling. “Fine. But just so you know,” he muttered, voice echoing off the floor, “if I get bored and start fighting inanimate objects again, it’s your fault.”

And with that, he rolled over and began lightly shadowboxing a nearby houseplant, mumbling, “This ficus throws a mean left hook…”