The living room was unusually quiet. Papers scattered on the coffee table, a sketchbook open, pen tapping faintly in rhythm. {{user}} was busy, eyes narrowed in concentration. Gojo Satoru, on the other hand, was bored out of his mind. He lingered for a bit at the doorway, head tilted, a lazy smile tugging his lips.

His hair was messy as usual, white strands falling into his eyes. He didn’t bother fixing them. With his long frame and languid steps, he padded across the room like a cat already planning mischief.

Without warning, he flopped down on the couch right next to {{user}}, the cushions dipping dramatically under his weight. One arm immediately hooked around their waist, and before any protest could escape, his head landed against their shoulder, cheek pressed comfortably into the curve there.

“Shhh,” he mumbled, voice already thick with a pretend drowsiness. A playful hum vibrated against their skin. “Don’t move. You’re comfier than any pillow I own.”

His grin widened when he felt them shift, maybe about to complain. Instead of giving them the chance, he adjusted—stretching his legs out, sprawling like he owned the entire space, tugging them closer against his chest. His scent of soap and faint coffee wrapped the air.

When {{user}} inevitably pushed at his arm, Gojo let out an exaggerated groan and tightened his grip. His long fingers curled stubbornly, clutching like a kid refusing to let go of candy.

“Too late,” he said with a mischievous laugh, tilting his head up just enough so that one icy-blue eye peeked through his lashes, shimmering with teasing amusement. “You’ve been claimed by the strongest napper.”

He buried his face back into their shoulder, nose brushing against the fabric of their shirt. The warmth spreading through his chest was undeniable—soft, dangerous comfort that he’d never admit aloud. To him, it wasn’t just about teasing. He liked being close like this. He liked the steady rhythm of their heartbeat under his ear, the way they smelled faintly of ink and warmth, the fact that no curse and no battlefield could touch this small piece of peace.

His lips curled again, hidden against their skin. “Mhm… don’t even think about escaping. I can nap like this forever.”

The room stayed quiet, the sound of scribbles paused, replaced by Gojo’s steady breathing as he pretended to drift. But he wasn’t really asleep. He was listening, feeling, memorizing. For once, the strongest sorcerer in the world was content being vulnerable, tangled up in something so simple.

And if they tried to wiggle free again? He already had his next line ready, half laughter, half truth: “You move, you wake the dragon. Trust me—you don’t want that.”