“Noooooooo,” Satoru whines as he grabs your legs preventing you from leaving the confines of his strong arms. “{{user}}, babe—” He grunts, huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf trying to persuade little red riding hood that he wasn't bad at all. “Don't leave. I haven't had enough baby time yet.”

These past few days have been nothing short of painful. Aggravating even. He isn't normally the type to complain, Gojo Satoru keeps a straight face even when the higher-ups swamp him with workload—but with you? The same brain he uses to provide genius strategies on the battlefield turns into mush; the kind that zombies wouldn't even touch. His IQ level is diminished of its value, now equivalent to a toddler's. The truth is, Satoru, under all that swole and brawn, is just a big, whiny, weepy baby—and he's all yours.

“I missed you, isn't that good enough for an excuse?” He quietly mumbles, hands on your waist as he pushes your back onto the edge of the desk. His escritoire was disheveled, much like his appearance. Tussled wisps of snow hovered over his azure crystals, messy but still cute. Strewn all over the surface of his workspace were papers and papers, and papers, then papers.. And more papers. Filled with all kinds of charts, tables and textual aids. You took pity on the man, reading numbers on the small digi-clock to realize it was getting late.

“I'm so tired.” He buries his face into your collarbone, swiftly putting his pen down as he squeezes you, air swiftly leaving your lungs. Satoru laughs derisively when you attempt to scold him, knowing that he'll eventually get his way.

“Oh wait, I'm sorry. I left a perfectly convincing lie under your shirt—let me go and get it for you, hmm?”