out of all my sins, you are my favorite

Paring: stalker!Toji Fushiguro x reader

Synopsis: rough, frantic, wall shaking, dirty talk—non-context pure smut (18+)

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Her back hit the wall—gently, but fast—and before she could blink, his hands were under her thighs, lifting her like she weighed nothing.

She gasped—half in shock, half in something else—as her legs instinctively wrapped around his thick waist. Her hands flew to his shoulders for balance, but all she could feel was muscle—hard, flexed, and straining under his control.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pressing her against the wall with his body, his breath hot on her neck. “You make the prettiest sounds when I throw you around.”

Her lips parted, eyes wide as the air left her lungs. Her mind was already slipping—caught between how easy he made it look and how good it felt to be pinned this way.

“I could hold you like this for hours,” he murmured, grinding his hips into hers slowly, teasing, letting her feel the full weight of his cock pressing right where she needed. “While you beg. While you come. While I make this tight little body mine.”

Her pulse spiked.

She hated how wet she was already—how her panties were sticking to her from the pressure of him between her thighs.

“You’re heavy,” she whispered, biting her lip as her voice trembled—but it wasn’t a complaint.

He smirked, leaning closer, tongue grazing her bottom lip.

“And you’re perfect. Tiny little thing all wrapped around me like you belong there.”

His grip tightened on her thighs as he shifted—cock now pressed directly against her soaked center, grinding slow and steady.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “That’s what you do to me. You make me fucking hard with one look. And now I’ve got you in my arms, dripping through your panties, and baby—” he bit her lip, “—I’m just getting started.”

Her back slammed into the wall again—this time harder—and she barely had time to moan before he was inside her.

Fully.

One brutal thrust, thick cock dragging through soaked heat, forcing her cry to catch halfway out of her throat.

“F-fuck, you’re so big—” she gasped, fingers clawing at his shoulders as he pinned her up with nothing but brute strength and sheer need.

He grunted, teeth bared, hips slamming into her again, again, faster now, rougher. The wall shuddered behind her. Her legs clamped tight around his waist as her tits bounced against his chest with every savage thrust.

“Don’t worry,” he growled, voice low and dark and ragged. “I’m not stopping ‘til this tight little pussy can’t take it anymore. ’Til you’re leaking down my cock, shaking, begging for more.”

She moaned hard at that—no shame in the way her hips rolled back into him, matching his filthy rhythm.

“I am begging,” she gasped, eyes wild. “Fucking ruin me—right here, where anyone could hear. I don’t care. Just—harder.”

That cracked him.

He grabbed her wrists and slammed them against the wall above her head, fucking her so deep she cried out, her voice raw and wrecked.

“You like that?” he hissed, lips at her ear, biting hard. “Like being pinned and pounded like a fucking toy?”

“I love it,” she sobbed, clenching around him. “Love how you break me—need you to.”

“Then take it,” he growled, thrusts turning brutal, relentless. “Take every fucking inch. So deep you’ll feel me tomorrow.”

Her head fell back, mouth open, as her orgasm hit like a crash—full-body, raw, shaking—and he followed right after, groaning deep, cock pulsing inside her as he filled her to the hilt.

Still holding her there. Still thrusting, slower now, drawing out every broken sound she gave him.

“You’re mine now,” he murmured, forehead to hers. “No one else gets to hear you scream like that. No one else gets to fuck you like this.”

And the way her body clung to him, dripping and twitching, was all the answer he needed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~

Paring: Sukuna Ryomen x Reader

synopsis: soft smut, softer Sukuna. (18+)

3:12 A.M.

The world was hushed, save for the low hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional creak of settling wood. Moonlight spilled through the half-drawn curtains in silver sheets, painting soft shadows across the bed.

She shifted under the weight of sleep, curling slightly away from the edge of the mattress, her back warm where the blanket had fallen low around her hips. That’s when she felt it—a slow, deliberate rustle behind her, followed by the brush of his breath against her shoulder.

He hadn’t been sleeping.

Not really.

His hand moved across the sheets like it was seeking home—fingertips grazing the curve of her waist before finding her belly, pulling her back gently into him. No urgency. Just need. Just familiarity.

“You’re awake?” she whispered, voice still thick with sleep.

His lips found the place behind her ear, lingering. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

Her breath hitched as he pressed closer, his bare chest flush against her back, his voice gravelly and low from disuse. “But you were reaching for me,” she murmured.

“I always do.”

His hand splayed wide against her stomach now, warm and grounding. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the unmistakable way his body had stirred behind her—hardened, slow with want, but patient.

She turned her head slightly, cheek brushing his jaw. “You gonna ask, or just hope I keep pretending to sleep?”

A soft chuckle rumbled through him. “Thought I’d just hold you,” he said, his hand slipping lower, teasing the edge of her sleep shirt, fingers tracing feather-light circles along the skin just beneath. “Unless…”

She shifted back into him, hips meeting his with quiet invitation, her hand reaching to lace with his where it rested on her stomach. “Don’t ask. Just stay.”

And he did. His mouth trailed down her neck, reverent. His hands, once hesitant, moved with a lover’s memory—sure, slow, mapping her body like it was still the only geography he trusted in the dark. Every touch was unhurried, intimate—a conversation carried out in sighs and silken friction under moonlight.

Their bodies moved together like a shared secret, whispered into the early hours where nothing had to be defined. No performances.

She moved with him like she’d always known the rhythm of his body—like her hips were carved for his hands and her breath existed to sync with his. Sukuna’s hand slid down to her thigh, lifting it slightly over his so she was fully open to him, around him, and he could stay buried in that hush of heat and soft whimpers where nothing else existed.

The quiet creak of the bed was the only evidence that time hadn’t frozen

His mouth was by her ear, his lips brushing it with each ragged word “Don’t want to let you go. Just us as one.”

It wasn’t poetry. It wasn’t meant to be. It was a fever—thick and heavy and raw in his throat, guttural and instinctual, like some part of his soul had crawled out to wrap around her from the inside.

Just closeness.

Just warmth.

Just the quiet kind of love that slips in when the rest of the world is asleep.

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Paring: Megumi Fushiguro x reader

Part one(here), Part two(here)

Synopsis: Part Three (18+)—Jujutsu High — First Year Dormitories, Training Grounds, Megumi’s (Soft yearning, silent protection, possessive tension) for the reader. (longing gazes, unaware beauty, dirty thoughts in a soft setting)

Megum Fushiguro’s POV

Life around Jujutsu High moved in rhythms. Training. Missions. Recovery. Repeat. But somehow, her presence wove warmth into the cold stone halls—like her footsteps softened even the ancient wood underfoot.

She made everything feel like after the storm.

She would hum while watering plants outside the dormitory window boxes—a simple habit she’d picked up, saying the green helped the students relax. No one noticed the way she leaned into the sunlight, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair tied messily. No one but him.

Megumi always found his way to the railing across from her. Silent. Present. Pretending to scroll through mission reports or “wait” for Gojo. But he was never really doing anything.

Just watching her.

There was something disarming about the way she existed. The way she pushed her sleeves up with her knuckles when her hands were wet. The way she tilted her head when she listened. The way her mouth shaped words when she read alone under the common room lights at night.

Panda caught him staring once.

“Bro, you good?”

Megumi didn’t even flinch. “Fine.”

“You’ve been reading the same page for twenty minutes.”

He turned it.

Panda looked toward where she sat, her legs tucked underneath her on the couch, eyes moving along the page of a novel with a faint smile ghosting her lips. She twirled a pen between her fingers, occasionally mouthing lines as if they were spells, too soft to share.

Panda smirked. “You’re so down bad.”

“Shut up.”

⸻

The worst—or maybe best—was when she smiled at him. Just him.

Sometimes after sparring, sweaty and tired, she’d glance up from tying her shoe and catch his gaze—still and watching. Her smile would curve slow, almost like she knew she was disarming him with it.

But she didn’t know.

She never knew.

He kept it all under the surface:

The filthy thoughts that came uninvited when she was sweet.

The quiet need to praise her, filthily, breathlessly, for being gentle in a world that didn’t deserve her.

“You’re so good… too good. No one else gets to ruin that. No one else gets to touch what I crave to protect and destroy in the same breath.”

⸻

He nearly lost it the day she wore that loose off-shoulder shirt in the kitchen. It wasn’t meant to be seductive—just lazy, cozy, clean laundry. But her collarbone glinted faintly in the morning light as she reached up to grab a cup, the hem of her shorts riding high on her thighs.

He was walking past.

He stopped dead.

She turned, cup in hand, smiling sleepily. “Want tea?”

He could barely get the word out. “Sure.”

The image of bending her over that kitchen counter while her voice broke against his mouth, asking “is this what you meant by tea?”—it burned into him like a curse he didn’t want to cleanse.

⸻

Maki started noticing next.

“Do you always lurk around her dorm window when she’s out there doing her little plant thing?”

“I don’t lurk.”

“You’re standing so still, birds think you’re a damn statue.”

He didn’t reply. But his eyes—dark, focused—never left her frame. She was crouched down, talking softly to a stray cat that had made the courtyard its territory. Her hand gently brushed the fur behind its ears.

Megumi’s jaw clenched.

“You pet strays with more tenderness than anyone’s ever given me. If I could crawl into your lap and be forgiven for the thoughts I have—filthy, broken, worshiping thoughts—I would.”

⸻

And every night, he locked his door.

And every night, she haunted him

Her laugh.

Her hair sticking to her neck after training.

The curve of her back in the cursed energy uniform.

The way she still said thank you like no one ever gave her anything without strings.

He’d wake up hard, aching, her name burning behind his teeth, never letting it out.

Because she still looked at him like he was safe.

And he didn’t know how long he could be.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

It was the color that caught his eye first—muted charcoal, soft cotton—familiar. Too familiar.

She stepped out onto the balcony near the dorms, just as the sun was folding itself into the horizon, painting her skin gold and peach. Hair loosely tied. No makeup. Bare legs. And his shirt.

His.

Oversized, swallowing her in the best way. One shoulder had slipped down, revealing the strap of her bra. The hem brushed high on her thighs, dangerously close to indecent if she so much as stretched.

She stood with a cup of tea in her hands, completely unaware.

And Megumi, halfway through sipping water at the dorm railing across from her, nearly dropped the bottle.

He knew that shirt. It was one he left in the laundry room a week ago—soft from too many washes, the one he wore under his uniform when training. He hadn’t even realized it was missing

And now it was on her.

She was watching the sunset like it was telling her secrets. Quiet, soft-spoken serenity radiated from her, like the world didn’t make her feel heavy anymore. She looked like the calm he never got to have.

And all Megumi could think was:

“That shirt should be on my floor. Wrinkled. Smelling like sex.”

⸻

He stayed where he was, silent. Watching.

Her fingers curled around the mug. Her legs shifted slightly, weight settling to one side. That tiny stretch of movement—so harmless—sent heat crawling beneath his skin.

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know how it looks. How that fabric clings to her hips, how good she looks in my scent, how perfect she’d look gasping under me in nothing but that.

Or maybe she does. Maybe she knows and she’s testing me. Maybe she wants me to break.

He wanted to press her against the glass behind her and make her say his name between each kiss. He wanted her thighs around his waist, that shirt bunched at her ribs.

He wanted to hear her whimper when he whispered, “you walked out in my clothes like I wouldn’t claim you?”

But instead, she glanced across the dorm yard and spotted him.

Her face lit up with a smile—pure, gentle, completely innocent.

“Megumi!” she called softly. “The sky’s pink today. Come look.”

He stood still for half a second too long. Then forced his feet forward, heart hammering like he was walking toward a death sentence he wanted to die.

He stepped onto her balcony, hands in his pockets, face calm as ever.

She turned to face him fully—and god, that shirt—

“Is that mine?” he asked, voice low, even.

Her eyes widened slightly, looking down. “Oh—! I didn’t realize. It was just in my pile after laundry duty. I figured it was mine from training.”

She said it so casually. So sweetly.

She had no idea what she’d just done to him.

No idea that she’d just made it worse.

She sipped her tea. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Megumi swallowed hard. “No. It looks better on you.”

She blinked. “What?”

He looked at the sunset. “Nothing.”

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

They stood in silence for a while, side by side. The wind moved slowly around them. Her shoulder brushed his lightly every now and then. She smelled like tea and laundry and him.

He let the silence stretch, watched the sky turn from gold to rose to twilight.

He knew she wouldn’t ask why he’d come. She never did. She just let him be there, near her, like his presence was natural, not loaded.

She was still holding the cup when he finally spoke, voice darker than he meant “You should be more careful.”

She glanced up, confused. “With?”

He met her gaze, eyes locked and unreadable. “Wearing things that aren’t yours. Especially mine.”

Her lips parted slightly, something flickering in her expression.

“I—I said I was sorry, I—”

“I’m not mad,” he said, voice dropping further. “Just possessive.”

Her breath caught. She looked at him, then down at the mug again.

“…I didn’t mean anything by it.”

He stepped closer. Not touching her. Just close enough to make her forget the rest of the world.

“I did.”

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A/N—Next stop is Smut stop. Buckle up.

Plagiarism is not authorized.

Gojo Satoru: who was in the middle of his own shopping spree turns, “Yeah yeah,” he says, taking the bag quickly—but not without side-eyeing it like it pays Mei Mei more than he ever could. Not on his watch. Slips the purse onto his shoulder, lets it seat under his armpit like it was designed for him. No hesitation. Immediately transforms into a fashion icon who got kicked off the runway for being too beautiful. Starts strutting around like he is on Milan fashion runway, leaving you behind in the store. Refuses to give the bag back—even when you ask. Not with his sunglasses serving the entire look. “SATORU—my wallet’s in there.” “Then run, baby. I’m booked and busy.”

Geto Suguru: Takes it without blinking. Swings it over his shoulder like it’s a duffel bag. No grace. No delicate handling. Just pure menace with monk hair. That’s it. No more room for improvement. The Hermès bag has seen war now. It’s part of the cult. He’s walking through the mall like he’s on a mission. You’re yelling, “It’s not a gym bag!” “It is now, baby”

Nanami Kento: “Do you like this one on me?” He stands there, arms crossed, eyes narrowed—like he’s not just looking at a dress, he’s evaluating its soul. Dissecting every seam to see if it’s worthy of being wrapped around you. Finally nods. “Of course, love.” Then—“Can you hold my bag?” Takes it. Immediately squints at it. Holds it out like it’s either a live detonator or an ancient relic that demands reverence. Possibly both. Grips it with both hands against his chest. Doesn’t let it sway. Doesn’t let it wrinkle. You’d think it was sacred. Because to him—if it’s yours, then it is.

Fushiguro Megumi: He’s already halfway lost in the men’s section, eyeing the dark slacks like it’s a tactical mission. Because as much as he pretends to be over it, he’s got a shopping addiction. Just like his unsolicited stepfather who didn’t just step up—he spoiled him ROTTEN. You hand him the bag. He holds it up—lets it hover mid-air like it’s allergic to his hoodie. Anyone stares for longer than a second? He’s throwing side-eyes sharp enough to exorcise them. Muttering under his breath: “It’s not mine. It’s my girl’s.” Dead serious. Would die for you. Would never carry your purse like he means it.

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A/N: part one of it—I’m already wheezing and dying

Imagine yourself whispering and praying as Gojo left to fight Sukuna—Megumi, the kid he raised like his own, now possessed by the King of Curses, and someone he was forced to put down for that very reason.

Gojo had told you—no, ordered you—to stay put inside Jujutsu High. “I swear to Yaga, if you move your ass an inch from this hall, I’m not bringing back the Kikufuku. I’m eating it all myself on the way,” he’d said, swaggering out with that ridiculous confidence, leaving you breathless and eyes brimming with tears.

You sat down on the floor, letting your head fall back against one of the pillars—in the very living hall where Gojo used to train Megumi. Where he gave advice by flicking his forehead so hard the poor boy had to see Shoko for the bleeding.

You muttered, not caring if Yaga or any of the students heard you “Come back to me, Satoru. You promised you’d come back… Just don’t go where I can’t follow, Toru.”

Somewhere nearby, you heard Shoko inhale—shaky, nervous, heartbreakingly soft.

We were just kids.

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A/N—yeah I would throw me over the cliff as well for writing this scene

Paring: Megumi Fushiguro x Reader

Part one (here)

Synopsis: Part two—Jujutsu High — First Year Dormitories, Training Grounds, Megumi’s (Soft yearning, silent protection, possessive tension) for the reader.

A/N—I’m slowly turning jujustu high into a sitcom…wait for it in the upcoming parts ^^

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I didn’t go in.

Not at first.

I stayed rooted just outside the door, breath shallow, as if even the air inside knew something had shifted. The training ground—where I’d learned to read movements better than words, where silence usually meant calculation—felt suddenly foreign. Like it had become a witness.

The echo of his footsteps had barely faded, but the absence he left behind was deafening.

My heart was still hammering, not from the sparring, but from the way his fingers had grazed my face. Gentle. Unthinking. Like a reflex. Like he forgot, for a second, how guarded he usually was.

I hadn’t

My hand drifted up, brushing the spot where he’d tucked my hair behind my ear. It wasn’t the touch that stunned me—it was the softness. Like he didn’t see me as an opponent in that moment. Like he saw me.

The tension we carried into every match wasn’t just about strength or speed. It was everything unspoken. The glances held a beat too long. The way his body shifted slightly whenever someone else came too close to me. The way I didn’t flinch when he did.

Something was coming undone.

And it scared me more than it thrilled me.

Eventually, I stepped inside.

The space was empty.

But not quiet.

His presence lingered—coiled in the corners like smoke, pressed into the mats like a memory I couldn’t sweep away. The air was still humming, charged with things we both left unsaid. Things I wasn’t sure either of us were brave enough to say yet.

I stood there for a long time, letting it sting.

Letting it mean something.

_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_

That night, my sleep was shallow—thin, restless—shifting beneath the weight of his voice playing on a loop in my mind.

“I want you. Not like a classmate wants someone.”

The words hadn’t even been said aloud, but I heard them anyway. Felt them. Like a bruise beneath the skin.

My fingers drifted to my lips without meaning to. I could still feel the heat of his gaze, the hesitation before he pulled back. The battle had ended hours ago, but my pulse hadn’t learned that yet.

And across the dorm hallway, behind a locked door, Megumi sat on the cold floor, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced tightly together like he was holding something inside. His head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed, jaw tight. His hair was still damp from the freezing shower he’d taken—a useless ritual now. The chill had faded, but the heat hadn’t left him.

Not where it mattered.

He’d gone in hoping to erase her. Or at least quiet her.

But she followed him in.

She was in the steam curling at his neck, in the rivulets that trailed down his chest. She was in the way his hand had gripped the edge of the sink when her laugh—the one she tried to hide mid-battle—slipped through his memory like a splinter.

God, she was everywhere.

And she had no idea.

She didn’t know what she did to him when she let that wildness show.

Didn’t know what it took for him to not reach out when her breathing turned shallow, when strands of her hair stuck to her flushed face after a match.

Didn’t know how many times he’d imagined her like that again—flushed, trembling—but from him.

Because of him.

Her fingers curling into his shirt, tugging, clinging. Her mouth parted, gasping those soft, ruined sounds beneath him he swore he’d never heard but could recite like a prayer.

If she’d just let him.

If she’d just turn around and need him back.

He’d give it all.

Not just his affection—no, that had never been the issue. He didn’t just like her.

It wasn’t simple, it wasn’t sweet, and it wasn’t fleeting.

He wanted to destroy every version of himself that didn’t begin and end with her.

Wanted to burn the restraint that kept his hands off her.

Wanted to break the silence between them like it was a door he could finally walk through.

Because what he felt wasn’t manageable.

It was maddening.

And tonight, alone in the dark, every bit of him belonged to her already.

_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_

The next day at training, I was careful—too careful. I kept space between us like it would save me from the night before.

I smiled less. Laughed at the right moments, but never with him. I clung to Nobara’s energy like a shield, letting her sharp humor carry the weight of the room. I even brushed Yuji’s shoulder once—lightly, too casually—as we teased each other about cursed energy control.

It was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing to him.

Megumi’s hands curled into fists.

Every breath she took around someone else made his stomach twist. They don’t protect her the way I do. They don’t see the way she’s slipping. Her smile’s thinner today. She barely ate.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t confront.

Instead, he stepped into sparring without a word and destroyed his opponent so fast Gojo hadn’t even looked up from his blindfold adjustment.

“Damn, megumiiiii”

It was a warning. A confession. A scream without a sound.

Later, when I bent down in the courtyard to tie my shoe, the little cursed charm I kept in my pocket slipped out—silent, unseen. Or so I thought.

By the time I looked up, it was gone.

Already in Megumi’s hand.

He didn’t return it.

Didn’t even hesitate.

He just slipped it into his pocket like it had always belonged there.

Like I did.

Let her come to me for it.

Let her realize I see everything she tries to hide.

_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_

That evening, I did come.

Because I always did.

I found him beneath the old tree where the courtyard bled into forest—his body still, eyes closed, like he was made from shadow and silence.

But his voice reached me the moment I stopped walking.

Low. Controlled. Waiting.

“Didn’t think you’d come.”

“I always do,” I said quietly. “Even when you don’t ask.”

His eyes opened—slow, sharp, so impossibly clear in the dying light.

I stood in front of him, moonlight casting my shape in silver. I saw the way he looked at me—like a storm he wanted to drown in. Not feared. Not survived. Chosen. Craved.

“I’m sorry,” I said, heart pounding behind my ribs. “For yesterday. For freezing up. I didn’t… I didn’t know how to respond.”

He rose to his feet with a stillness that was all precision, no hesitation.He was taller than me by a breath. But the way he looked at me—dark, devout—made gravity feel like it bowed to him.

“You don’t need to respond,” he said. “I’m not asking you to fall for me. I’m asking you to understand why I can’t let anyone else near you.”

I blinked. “Megumi—”

His fingers brushed my wrist—light, questioning. And then slowly, almost like he was afraid I’d vanish, his hand slid up… cradling the side of my neck.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, voice raw now, thick with something dangerous. “But if someone else tries to love you before I do…”

He swallowed. “…I’ll become the thing they send other sorcerers to exorcise.”

My breath hitched.

I didn’t pull away.

Instead, my fingers tightened around his wrist—barely there, but it was enough.

“And if I let you in?” I asked, barely a whisper.

Like offering a secret.

Like surrendering a war.

He leaned down until our foreheads touched, his breath ghosting over my skin, his voice broken against my silence.

“Then you’ll never need protection again.”

A pause.

“Because I’ll tear this world in half to give you peace.”

******************************************************

Synopsis: When first-years Satoru Gojo and you— his teammate defy orders and walk into a cursed domain far beyond their level, the battlefield forces a revelation neither of you expected. As shadows strike and obsession stirs, Gojo’s protectiveness turns possessive. Back at Jujutsu High, punishment follows—but so does the undeniable pull between you both. Because staying close was never just about safety. It was always just about you and him.

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Zenin!Reader

A/N—been spiraling down the windfall of slow burn romance surrounding Gojo—so no smut from me today…

*******************************************************

“Tell me again why we’re in a half-collapsing cursed hospital with no backup?” you hissed, dragging your blade from the carcass of a lesser curse. Your uniform was torn, blood seeping down your thigh, but your voice held.

Gojo turned his head over his shoulder, blindfold still on, grinning like a bastard. “Because we’re young, dumb, and allergic to authority?”

“I blame you.”

“You’re the one who said, ‘Let’s scout ahead. What’s the worst that can happen?’”

You scoffed, stepping over rubble. “Clearly not a blessed thought.”

“Aw, don’t be mad. You’re cute when you’re bleeding.”

You glared, half-hearted. “And you’re insufferable when you flirt mid-combat.”

“I flirt because we’re in combat. I like high-stakes romance.”

You rolled your eyes—but the heat flushing your cheeks wasn’t just from exertion. You were bleeding. Breathing hard. But you weren’t afraid.

Because he was here.

Even if the cursed energy ahead was warping the air like boiling asphalt.

The walls creaked.

Not with wind.

But something else.

A presence older than the cement holding it together. Cursed energy hung thick in the air, metallic and blood-wet, as if the building was breathing around them.

You pressed your back to the wall, hand trembling, blood trickling down your forearm.

“Don’t move,” Gojo whispered, stepping in front of you like a shield. His glasses was pulled off, no, shattered by the impact of curse’s domain—eyes sharp, unreadable, and electric, he reached behind to touch the top of your thigh, assuring a sign of comfort. “You’ll be fine. Stay close to me.”

And for the first time in your life…

You believed someone.

It wasn’t the words.

It was the way he said them.

Like your death wasn’t even a possibility in his mind.

And the curse lunged.

It slithered through the corridor like sludge wearing limbs, baring a stitched mouth and dragging soundless shadows in its wake. You watched Gojo move—inhumanly fast, fingers a blur, blue light cracking the air as he unleashed a blast that splintered the floor.

But it kept coming.

And he was focused on defending you.

Too focused.

It struck him in the ribs. Not enough to wound but maim and enough to knock him back, which made rage boil in your throat.

You weren’t just a Zenin.

You were you.

You stepped forward, dragging shadows behind your heels like a second skin, even as your knees buckled from blood loss. The curse flickered toward you. It saw your weakness. It assumed you were done.

But it didn’t see what came next.

Snap.

The air thinned.

A violent suction.

Your palms meet the floor of the curse’s domain with shattering force, rattling the walls of it

“Ryoiki Tenkai—”

Gojo turned, eyes wide, sensing it in real time. “Wait, you’re not ready—!”

“Dark Chamber of the Night Veil.”

The earth collapsed.

A dome of utter black descended—a velvet eternity stitched with starlit tears, where your opponent was frozen in a theatre of oblivion. There were no exits. No prayers. Just a pitch black flame licking through the shadows

Infinite dark silk, flickering with veiled curtains and mirrors that only showed the reflection of those about to die. Your domain overtook the curse’s easily

The curse screamed, disoriented. It couldn’t see you. Couldn’t smell you. Your domain—unlike Gojo’s—was not infinite in space, but in perception. You blended into every flicker of darkness. And when you struck… it was always from behind.

From his place at the edge, Gojo watched, stunned. He hadn’t seen you use it before. Fully. You hadn’t even known if it would work.

But it did.

The curse crumbled under your black flame, igniting with a final scream.

And when the domain broke, the world snapped back to silence. Your knees buckled slightly. You dropped to your knees, gasping, curse energy draining from your pores like you’d aged twenty years in a second.

Gojo caught you before your cheek kissed the floor.

He cradled you against his chest, his breath uneven, fingers cupping the back of your head like you were made of crystal. “You idiot. What the hell were you thinking?” he muttered, voice rough but not angry.

You smirked weakly against his shirt. “I was thinking you’d be annoying if I died.”

“Tch. Please. I’d be devastated. I’d have to start caring about someone new.”

You snickered lightly but moaned in pain against his torn uniform

He exhaled through his nose. “You terrified me.”

“I’m not afraid anymore,” you murmured.

“I am,” he admitted. “Of losing you…”

His thumb brushed your side—accidental? No. Not with Gojo.

Then his voice dropped to a low murmur: “Next time if your Zenin clan dares say women can’t survive without dying alone, tell them you’re mine.”

Your breath caught. “…You’re delusional.”

“I meant what I said,” he whispered, eyes burning—blue like ice melting from the inside. “You stay close to me.”

“…You’re shaking,” you muttered.

He grinned wider, tugging you in even closer if possible

“You’re blending into my shadows, y’know. Be careful. I might keep you there.”

You blinked away from his stare to look at the mess your domain has caused inside the hospital building. But Gojo sat down on the wreckage for more than half an hour, with your body resting half on his lap.

And something in you—something primal, buried and quiet—reached out for him, like a second nature you’d forgotten you had.

He saw it.

Felt it.

A thrum passed between you both.

Matching hearts. Matching madness.

His obsession—no longer hidden behind bravado.

Yours—no longer a secret tucked in the corner of your chest.

And in that cursed darkness, your curse and his became something terrifying.

Something… together.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*

You both returned bloodied, exhausted, and still buzzing from the domain break. The air at Jujutsu High felt too crisp, too clean—as if the walls knew you weren’t supposed to be back alive.

Yaga slammed his hand against his desk, the sound thundering through the room.

“What the hell were you two thinking?”

You flinched slightly, but Gojo didn’t. He had one hand shoved in his pocket, the other lazily patting his sliver hair down to his eyes to cover them like this was a casual Monday muttering “got to buy another glasses”

“SATORU—”

“We were thinking,” he said with a smirk, “that someone needed to take that thing down before it started nesting again. You saw the energy signature.”

“That wasn’t your call,” Yaga snapped. “You’re first-years.”

Gojo leaned back against the wall, shoulder brushing yours. “First-year who just exorcised a Grade One. And her,” he gestured lazily at you, “she pulled off a Black Flame inside a domain. Wanna put her in the special grade track now or should I file that paperwork for you?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Satoru.”

He just winked. “What? Gotta gas you up when your hands are still shaking.”

Yaga’s eyes landed on you—stern, assessing. “You used your domain?”

“Uh—”

“Who the HELL TAUGHT YOU? WAS IT YUKI I SWEAR TO GOD—”

You and Gojo looked at one another, hearing Yaga screaming— knowing the three of you—including Geto, had been sneaking around to practice your domain expansion and hurting each other in the process with having Shoko stand by—who was always busy smoking and reading her book— to patch up the wounds in utter boredom. There was no real process, well, until tonight. Suguru is going to be pissed.

Then Yaga exhaled. “You disobeyed a direct order. There will be consequences.”

Gojo rolled his eyes. “Sure. Ground me.”

“I will.”

“Bet.”

“Both of you, three weeks of restricted field access.”

Your stomach dropped slightly—but Gojo only shrugged. “Fine. We’ll just train. In fact, I’ve been meaning to study how her shadow blends under pressure.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Excuse me?”

He was absolutely grinning now. “What? You nearly melted into my cursed energy. Thought I was gonna have to pull you out of my technique.”

You elbowed him hard. He laughed harder.

Yaga pinched the bridge of his nose. “God help me.”

“Already did,” Gojo chirped, tilting his head toward you with a low murmur only you could hear “He sent her.”

You looked away, pink flush crept up your cheeks and the tip of your nose.

Later, outside Yaga’s office following “GET OUT OF MY FACE” as the sun sank low, Gojo walked beside you—hands in his pockets, still a mess of dirt, dried blood, and misplaced arrogance.

He suddenly stopped.

Instinctively so did you.

“Hey.”

You turned.

He was looking at you like you were the first and last curse he’d ever need to understand.

“That domain of yours… It’s terrifying. Beautiful.”

He took a step closer.

“You could’ve lost yourself in it. But you didn’t.”

Another step.

“And I’m still not over how you stood between me and that spirit.”

His voice dropped low, warm and hungry. “No one does that.”

Your heart thudded. “I didn’t do it for you,” you whispered. Yaga’s cursed dolls could’ve lied better

He smiled like a sinner in church. “I know.”

A beat of pause then he went “That’s what’s driving me insane.” he leaned in, breath brushing your ear “You’re not staying close to me anymore.”

He turned his head just slightly, lips nearly grazing your skin.

“…You’re already inside.”

And then he walked away—leaving you standing there, shadows curling around your boots, heart thudding like a black flame waiting to strike again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Paring: Gojo Satoru x Zenin!Reader. ~.~ Word count-9,389.

Synopsis: Long after the fall of Geto and the shattering of their youth, she kept her silence—sharp, tall, strategic—a predator in plain sight. A special grade sorcerer who never needed to shine, because even Gojo Satoru watched her in the shadows. Once her crush faded into ash, but watching him now—softening for the first-years, laughing like the past hadn’t ruined him—rekindles something she thought she buried.

A/N- one part series of a slow-burning reconnection between two monsters of the battlefield—both too powerful, too stubborn, and now… too vulnerable to look away.

Inspired by the song “Bad Liar” by Selena Gomez.

*******************************************************

The late afternoon sun poured through the wide windows of the Jujutsu Tech training ground, casting long shadows across the smooth, polished floor. The air was humid with the heat of summer and the sparring of sweat-drenched first-years. Echoes of punches, grunts, and Gojo’s voice floated through the space like a well-rehearsed opera of chaos and care. It was loud. It was messy. And somehow, it was beautiful. Like him. Like her. Like every disaster worth watching in slow motion.

She leaned against the wall again. Like she always did. Her left shoulder pressed to the cool concrete, arms crossed, one boot up against the surface. The scar on her left—once green eye is slowly fading into obscurity of grey color—she would think so since she got the wind of Suguru’s curse scratch down her retina five years ago, she was too slow to use reverse cursed technique to heal herself since her limbs were on the verge of breaking.

The scar caught the sunlight in a thin glimmer, slicing down her cheekbone like a mark of prophecy. Her silence wasn’t threatening—it was calculating. Always watching. Always still. The predator among sheep. Maybe among tigers. Looking at Gojo. She tutted correcting herself in her head, maybe a cat.

"Yuji! Chin up when you punch, you’re not swatting flies!" Gojo’s voice rang clear amidst the chaos of fighting.

Nobara just hit the air with her hammer behind Gojo’s back—thinking she’ll take advantage of the distraction but fell to the ground, hitting her ribs

"NO INFINITY, YOU PROMISED" she howled, cradling her side, she glared up at the sky—as if the concept of Infinity itself had double-crossed her. Gojo turned, his blindfold twitching slightly as he blinked innocently. Infinity was on. Of course it was. This man lies like he breathes—with a twinkle and an agenda.

"She’s right what’s the point of us training if you use limitless—AHHHHH SENSEIIIII" Gojo snatched Yuji’s ankle off the ground, turning off the Mugen, throwing him up and away like a rock across the training ground, Yuji soared through the air screaming and hitting the ground noisily. "There no infinity. Come at me, babies" Gojo said smiling like a saint and a sinner rolled into one.

She tilted her head just slightly to the side. Watching him. Again. For the third time that week, and the fifteenth time this month.

Her jaw tightened imperceptibly acknowledging herself.

She hadn’t meant to linger. She never lingered.

But something about seeing Gojo with Yuji lately, his careless teasing, the way his hand would ruffle the boy’s hair, the softness that slipped into his voice when he thought no one was listening—was unspooling threads she had long buried beneath blood, duty, and silence.

That kind of affection…She’d only ever seen it from him with Suguru.

“She was walking down the street the other day, trying to distract herself…”

It had started there. A casual walk through the market district. Pretending to study curses leaking through the alleys. Pretending to look at ingredients for miso soup. But really, distracting herself.

Until she saw him.

Or—thought she saw him.

Silver hair. Tall figure. A saunter no one could mimic.

“Then I see his face oh wait that’s someone else…”

She’d turned, startled, pulse skipping like a skipped record—only to face someone else.

Only to realize it was just some other student with silver dye and too much attitude.

"Tch," she murmured under her breath, turning her head as if disgusted.

But really, it was to hide the bitter curve of a smirk.

So much for distraction.

“Trying to play it coy, trying to make it disappear but just like the battle of Troy there’s nothing subtle here…”

She is trying to play it coy, tryin’ to make it disappear but that feeling. She’d buried it. Years ago. When the world crumbled under the weight of Suguru’s descent. When everything light turned brittle. When even Gojo began to blur beneath the weight of grief and duty.

She’d buried her crush alongside their golden youth.

But now watching Gojo tease Megumi, trying to kick above Yuji’s pink hair with ease, play-fight with Nobara, and drop his usual cocky mask for a sliver of something softer—something hurt again.

Something bloomed.

And it wasn’t subtle.

Like the battle of fucking Troy.

Gojo turned toward her with that trademark smile. The blindfold couldn’t hide the fact that he was staring.

"Y’know," he called across the space. "If you keep leaning against walls like that, you’re gonna leave an imprint."

She said nothing. Just lifted a brow, her other green eye sharp like a blade honed on silence.

Gojo grinned wider.

There it was again—that pulse in his throat. That awareness. He didn’t know if it was new or old. But something about the way her gaze lingered lately, the way her hands twitched slightly during training, the way she never quite met his eyes like she used to—made him curious.

Unsettled. Intrigued.

She walked away without a glance—neither toward him, nor the students, nor the yawning sky that stretched above the courtyard. No flinch. No final look. Just the calm, predatory ease of someone who had already made her mark.

Gojo watched her go, grin faltering just slightly as the sound of her footsteps faded.

And then—

Megumi’s deadpan voice sliced the silence:

"Nice going, sensei. I was only showing off because she was watching."

Gojo blinked. "Huh?"

"I want her to train me," Megumi continued, tone flat, unimpressed. "You ruined it."

Gojo clutched his chest dramatically. "Ouch, Luke, I thought I was your FATHER!"

"You’re not Darth Vader. Stop."

Yuji snorted behind them. Nobara rolled her eyes so hard it was audible.

But Gojo? He just stared at the space she had left behind, hand still over his heart.

"She didn’t even look back…" he muttered.

Megumi narrowed his eyes. "Yeah. Because you keep opening your mouth."

Gojo blinked.

"She trained Todo," Megumi went on, each word flat and pointed like a damn shuriken. "He’s in his third year. Already on the verge of becoming a grade one sorcerer—"

But Gojo wasn’t listening.

Not really.

His eyes were still on the far wall. The one she’d leaned against. The concrete still looked cooler somehow. Like it remembered her better than he did.

"—and she didn’t even want to train him at first," Megumi added, almost like an afterthought. "He begged. For weeks."

Gojo tilted his head, a slow grin crawling across his face like he’d just heard a dirty secret.

"Wait… Todo begged?"

"Sensei."

"Begged, like on his knees begged?"

"Sensei."

"Oh my god, that’s hilarious. I bet he tried to show her his abs."

"He did."

Gojo gasped. Dramatically.

Yuji, from the side, muffled a laugh. "I thought you were already in love with yourself to even care about others."

"Shut up, Yuji."

Nobara crossed her arms. "He’s spiraling."

Gojo finally blinked—once, twice—and pushed his blindfold up just enough to rub the bridge of his nose.

"Alright. Alright. Focus," he muttered. "I’m the strongest. I’m also extremely hot. I don’t get ignored."

Yuji leaned in toward Megumi. "He’s going through the five stages of rejection, isn’t he?"

"We’re on stage three," Megumi said. "Delusion."

Gojo dropped his blindfold back down, straightened, and clapped once like he hadn’t just had a minor crisis.

"Let’s spar!" he declared brightly, bouncing on his heels. "And this time—no mercy."

"Someone’s compensating," Nobara muttered. But lifted her hammer up, charging toward him— not knowing Gojo has switched on his infinity.

—*—*—*—*—* —*—*—*—*—* —*—*—*—*—* —*—*

"You spacing out again?"

Shoko’s voice broke the silence like a scalpel through gauze.

She didn’t wait for an answer—just tossed the cold can of coffee into her best mate’s hand the way she always had. For ten years. Maybe more. Muscle memory now.

She caught it without looking. "No."

Shoko scoffed. "You’re lying."

"I’m not."

"You are."

Silence.

The kind that only existed between two people who’d walked through war zones together. Literal and emotional.

"You’re thinking about Satoru," Shoko said, casually brutal.

Her jaw ticked—barely—but it said more than words could.

"I’m not."

A pause.

With her feelings on cursed fire, she really was a bad liar.

Shoko didn’t press. She never did. She just took a drag from her cigarette, the cherry end glowing like a truth she’d already accepted.

She exhaled, slow. Smoke and irony, threaded together.

"You still think you buried it," she murmured, flicking ash into the wind like it was poetry. "But it was never dead. Just dormant."

The breeze carried the silence between them, thick with old blood and new ache.

Somewhere far off, a train passed. The clang of rails and momentum. Unstoppable.

Just like what was coming.

—*—*—*—*—* —*—*—*—*—* —*—*—*—*—* —*—*

"In her room, there’s a king-size space, bigger than it used to be…"

Her room felt larger lately.

Colder.

She’d rearranged the furniture. Tried to distract herself. But no matter what she did, there was an ache in the center of the mattress—like something was missing. Or like someone could be there.

Her fingers twitched over the pillow beside her as she stared up at the ceiling, The untouched one. The guest that never arrived.

"If he want, he can rent this place, call her an amenity…"

A scoff escaped her throat before she could swallow it.

God.

How pathetic.

How human.

She rolled onto her stomach, face buried in the soft white pillow. Groaning like the weight might press the thoughts out of her skull.

But it didn’t.

They stayed.

Because no matter how strong she was—how deadly, how silent, how invincible in combat—she couldn’t fight what bloomed when she looked at him now.

And it was worse than a curse.

It was a maybe.

—*—*—*—*—* —*—*—*—*—* —*—*—*—*—* —*—*

Training again. Same ground. Same sweat. Same cocky Gojo voice.

"C’mon, Megumi. You hit like a toddler with unresolved trust issues—"

"Guess what, I DO—"

"OHHH SHIT—"

"Gojo," her voice cut through the air—cool, flat, deliberate.

She stepped past him without a glance, eyes locked on Megumi as she adjusted the boy’s stance with a firm grip on his elbow. "Let him breathe."

Gojo’s grin twitched beneath the blindfold.

Megumi, surprised but clearly pleased, looked up at her. "Sensei—"

"Still not training you."

"Oh, come on—"

Gojo’s smile faltered for half a second.

Because she never touched anyone during training.

Not even Todo—who practically begged for it.

She coached from a distance. Precision sharp as glass. Corrections snapped like commands. Power radiating without contact.

But today—she reached out.

Fingers around Megumi’s elbow. Steady. Firm. Calm like pressure on a bleeding wound.

And Gojo noticed the flicker in Megumi’s face too—surprise, pride… maybe even reverence.

Gojo chuckled low, smooth, masking whatever that was twisting in his gut.

"Didn’t know I needed your permission to teach now," he drawled.

"You don’t," she replied evenly. "But Megumi’s hair’s officially worse than yours."

He blinked.

Then turned, watching her walk away—long black hair swaying like a dark flag of indifference.

Megumi tilted his head, patting his hair down in mild panic. "Really?"

—*—*—*—*—* —*—*—*—*—* —*—*—*—*—* —*—*

Later that day, they stood alone beneath the red slant of twilight.

Everyone else had gone inside.

Just the two of them again.

Like it used to be.

She was leaning, again—back against the wall, arms crossed, her shadow curse energy curling around her like smoke made sentient.

He stood across from her, hands in his pockets. Swaying back and forth on his heels

"I saw you watching me," Gojo said, voice casual. But it wasn’t. She didn’t blink.

"I always watch you."

That made him pause.

Just for a moment.

"Damn," he laughed under his breath, trying to slice through the tension. "Should I be flattered or terrified?"

"Neither."

"I’m a little of both," he offered with a grin.

But she didn’t smile.

Not this time.

His grin faltered. Barely—but enough.

"You were always the quiet one," he said after a beat. "The one who made me nervous when we were first years, thought you ought to kill me or Sugu—" an abrupt clearing of throat, followed with "You never tried to shine like I did. But somehow… everyone noticed when you walked in."

She moved. Pushed off the wall. Took a single step forward—measured, like always.

"You didn’t used to care who noticed," she murmured. "But now you do."

He blinked. "The kids?"

She nodded.

"You’re gentler than you used to be."

Gojo laughed—too loud, too fast. "Are you saying I’m going soft?"

"No," she said, steady at first. But then her voice wavered like something fragile held too long. "I’m saying…"

She turned away, eyes fixed on the horizon where twilight bled into the earth.

"…I think I’m falling for the same version of you twice."

The air stopped.

Gojo’s grin cracked, then vanished entirely.

"You’re joking," he said. Too quickly. Too defensively. Like the sound of her truth had knocked the wind out of him.

"I’m not."

She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t teasing.

There was no mask.

Her right eye caught the last ember of sunlight—green, burning, scarred. That scar—so vivid in this light—looked like it still hurt.

And maybe it did.

Gojo didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He was standing there, brilliant and wordless, like a man watching a wave swell too fast to run from.

Then—she stepped back.

Once.

Enough to leave space. Enough to not make him choose.

Her shadow followed her like a secret she refused to explain.

"I don’t expect you to feel the same," she murmured, her voice low, fragile, but clear. "I thought I outgrew it. I really did. But now… every time I watch you serpentine around them like you were born to protect instead of destroy—I forget how to breathe."

Gojo’s breath caught in his throat.

Something flickered behind his blindfold. Not the usual mischief. Not amusement. Something deeper. Older. A memory he thought he’d buried.

He looked shaken.

And he hated it.

Because Satoru Gojo didn’t get caught off guard.

He was the spectacle. The one the world either worshipped or feared. The storm that cracked the sky. The invincible.

But right now—

She wasn’t noise.

She wasn’t fury.

She wasn’t demand.

She was the silence that swallowed him whole.

The kind of silence that demanded honesty. That asked nothing… and somehow took everything.

He opened his mouth.

Then closed it again.

Because for the first time in forever—he didn’t know if he had the right words. Not for her.

Not when the truth tasted like guilt and longing in equal measure.

And not when the quiet between them said more than he ever had.

—*—*—*—*—* —*—*—*—*—* —*—*—*—*—* —*—*

Later, in his room—alone—Gojo lay flat on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, the blindfold crumpled in his fist. The ceiling stared back blankly, and for the first time in weeks, the stillness in his room wasn’t comforting. It was echoing.

Too quiet.

Too big.

Too empty.

The space beside him on the mattress—usually unbothered by its vacancy—felt like a gaping void now.

She could rent this place if she wanted.

Hell, she could own it. And he’d call her an amenity.

He’d even throw in a skylight, silk sheets, and whatever sarcasm she could tolerate.

His fingers tapped lightly against his chest, following no rhythm.

Or maybe… counting.

One beat for every echo of her heels when she walked away.

Two for every clipped word she left him with.

Three for the thunder she never let anyone hear in her footsteps—but he felt it.

In his ribs.

In his fucking soul.

That damn look in her eyes, lingered longer than it should’ve. Not just in his memory. In his nerves.

"Even if it’s in his dreams… he see her taking up a fraction of his mind…"

He let out a breathless chuckle. Bit down lightly on his knuckle as if mocking himself.

"A fraction, huh?"

What a lie.

She wasn’t a corner of his mind.

She was the blueprint.

The foundation.

The goddamn architect of his inner chaos.

She was the voice he trained beside, the laugh he rarely got to hear but always craved, the shadow that kept him sharp without trying.

He turned onto his side, staring at the wall as if her silhouette would still be there—arms crossed, eyes watchful, unreadable expression carved from stone and history.

"Serpentine, eh?" he muttered. A grin ghosted his lips.

"She’s got a hell of a nerve saying I serpentine."

He closed his eyes, smirk deepening.

"No one slithers in battle like her. Silent. Lethal. Like a whisper with a blade." He could still remember the first time he watched her move—realized she was choosing not to be flashy. Not because she couldn’t. Because she didn’t need to.

She moved like water around her opponents.

But Gojo knew better.

She was the poison in it.

And yet… she never tried to outshine him.

Never challenged him.

She didn’t have to.

He always found himself gravitating toward her anyway.

Suguru used to tease him about it. Shoko would smirk and pass him a cigarette he never smoked, just so he’d have something to fidget with whenever she was around.

And now—

Now he was alone. With the feeling that he missed a beat. Or ten.

He rolled onto his back again, stretching a hand across the cool part of the mattress beside him.

Still empty.

Still echoing.

"She thinks I’m softer now," he whispered, as if admitting it to the dark.

Maybe he was.

But maybe that softness was shaped by her.

By the way she never begged for light but held it when no one else could.

By the way she watched—not like a spectator, but like someone who would walk into hell with you… if she deemed you worth the burn.

His chest rose slowly.

"She’s the whole damn space." The words spilled out like a confession no one asked for.

But if she came back—

If she ever walked into his room, heels clicking like war drums on a marble floor—

He wouldn’t pretend anymore.

He’d say it.

Every thought.

Every what-if.

Every moment she took up in his head like a serpent curling around a crown.

Because the truth was—She never moved on him.

But damn it, she moved in him.

And that made all the difference.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Scene: Midday Tension (Unaware reader, silently unhinged jealous Nanami, dark dirty thoughts) 18+

Nanami’s POV:

The courtyard buzzed lazily under the sun—students training, birds chirping, cursed energy humming low through the air like a second sky. You stood in the middle of it all, laughing gently, hands animated as you spoke with one of the special grade sorcerer who’d dropped by for a “friendly visit.”

Kento Nanami watched from a distance.

He was leaned against a tree, arms folded, his usual glasses on but they did nothing to hide the rigid line of his jaw or the low simmer in his aura. His eyes were fixed on you, sharp and unblinking as the other man leaned in slightly closer than necessary, smiling, nodding at you like you were something to win, not know.

You, of course, were oblivious. Thought the guy was just talking strategy, maybe offering advice for helping the first years train better. You even lit up when the man mentioned that you being on the verge of becoming special grade sorcerer, just like Tsukumo.

Your voice was sweet, smile softer.

Nanami wanted to shatter a wall.

In his mind, the thoughts weren’t kind.

They weren’t reasonable.

They weren’t safe.

That smug bastard thinks he can touch you—talk to you like he’s earned your trust. No. No. You’re too soft. Too kind. He’s going to mistake that for permission, and when he does, when his hand brushes your back again like it just did—I’ll break every fucking bone in his body and make it look like a curse attack.

He could see the way you tilted her head when you were confused. The way your fingers fidgeted near your thigh when you were trying not to seem rude. You didn’t know you were being flirted with. That sweet little tilt of your head was just you, being careful not to hurt anyone’s feelings.

You doesn’t see it, Nanami thought darkly, eyes narrowing.

But I do. And if he keeps pushing—if he so much as thinks about touching you outside battle—

His mind flicked, unforgivingly, sinfully, to the image of you pinned to his office wall, your soft thighs wrapped around his waist, mouth parted from crying out his name. His tie around your wrists. Your voice sweet, wrecked, whispering “Kento…please”

Obedient. Marked. His.

A voice broke the fantasy.

“Well, well, well,” Gojo’s teasing voice rang out from beside him, “if it isn’t our resident salaryman looking like he’s ten seconds away from committing third-degree murder.”

Nanami didn’t even glance at him. “Go away, Gojou-san”

Gojo peered past the sunglasses, catching the exact moment the other sorcerer laughed and placed a hand on your elbow. Nanami’s jaw clenched so hard it popped.

“Oooh,” Gojo grinned, placing his elbow on Kento’s shoulder causally “you’re so far gone. You gonna finally mark her, or should I warn that guy he’s about to get folded like laundry?”

“Gojo—”

“She doesn’t even know, does she?” Gojo’s tone softened for a split second, surprising. “She thinks you’re just… stoic. Not that you’ve been in love with her since she helped you re-bandage your cursed wound like it was nothing.”

Nanami didn’t speak. His silence was louder than any confession.

“Of course she doesn’t know! I don’t even know how you feel about me! Tell me—NANAMI TELL ME THAT YOU LOVE ME. EVERYBODY DOES, YOU ARE PLAYING HARD TO GET” Gojo screeched, started to fake cry, slamming his forehead on Kento’s rigid shoulder repeatedly—causing him to groan in annoyance and push Gojo’s head away.

After a couple of beats of silence. Gojo ended his theatrics with a sniffle “one day. Gojo, be strong. I’m already the strongest, oh wait—”

“She sees good in everyone,” Kento muttered finally, eyes never leaving you, ignoring Gojo flatly. “I want her to see what I become when someone else touches what’s mine.”

Gojo exhaled slowly. “Dark. Obsessive. Dangerous.”

“She deserves all three.”

“Well, me too—”

Then your voice called out, bright and unaware, cutting Saturo off

“Kento! You coming to training or brooding in the shade forever?”

He turned his head—cool, composed, polite.

“Coming.” He grunted his goodbye to Gojo who took his place to lean against the tree, smirking

But as Kento walked toward you, your smile lighting up just for him—Nanami’s thoughts weren’t polite at all.

They were filthy. Possessive.

And they all ended with you gasping under him, your tits spilled heavy on his rough hands, him flicking his thumb on that pebbled nipple making you mewl, he inwardly started realizing far too late—

You were never anyone else’s to begin with.

~.~

Scene: Jujutsu High — First Year Dormitories, Training Grounds, Megumi’s (Soft yearning, silent protection, possessive tension) for the reader.

Megumi’s POV:

She was the kind of power wrapped in stillness—the kind that didn’t announce itself with noise, but with the hush that followed. The kind of girl who could slice a curse in half with her bare will, then sit beside a wounded bird and whisper apologies to the wind.

Megumi Fushiguro watched her.

He always did. Quietly. Sharply.

From the edge of classrooms, the top corner of the bleachers, the shadows of battlefields where he stepped into danger a breath too soon just so her skin wouldn’t carry another scar. She never noticed the way he anticipated her movements, how the exact cursed weapon she needed, would already be there on the edge of her desk before she asked. She thought it was coincidence when the katana she’d been eyeing in the armory went missing and showed up two days later in her locker, polished, wrapped in dark cloth.

Only she got that version of him.

The one that listened without being told.

To everyone else, he was cold, blunt, a wall of disdain wrapped in uniform. But with her, he was something else.

~~~.~~~

We were training in the fading light, our uniforms slightly scuffed, breath light but steady from the mock battle we’d just finished. I wiped the sweat from my brow with the edge of my sleeve, laughing under my breath as i looked at him and his even more messy head.

"You could’ve let me take the final hit," I teased.

Megumi’s voice was low, his tone flat. "I didn’t want it touching you."

I raised a brow. "You’ve never minded me taking risks before."

"I do. I just hide it better." Again blunt, flat but there was something darker in his tone, something unspoken, long-held.

I stepped a little closer, brushing a leaf from his wrist. "You’re not that hard to read, Fushiguro."

His jaw ticked. His eyes flicked to mine—sharp, as usual, unreadable. Then, softer, lower, he murmured "You think I’d let anything get near you if I could help it? I’d paint this whole damn school red before I let something lay a hand on you."

I stilled, breath catching just a little, hand frozen in place hovering over his arm.

He turned his head away, pretending to scan the woods beyond the training ground, but the tension didn’t leave his jaw. Nor the darkness in his voice.

"They don’t get it," he muttered. "Everyone keeps saying you’re ‘so gifted’… ‘so pure-hearted’… like they’re just waiting to see what breaks you first."

I looked down, the words hitting places I kept hidden, knowing the underlying reason behind his words. Even our headmaster had pushed me to deal with a special grade curse despite me being just first year. "I don’t want to break."

"You won’t."

He faced me now. “Not while I’m here."

There was a beat of silence. I started to smile at his protective behavior, finding it adorable—but my expression got diminished as soon as he started to speak in a voice that I didn’t recognize. Until now.

"You have no idea what you do to me."

I blinked. "What?"

"You don’t even notice." His voice was rougher now, shadows clinging to the words. "The way you smile after a fight… the way you look when you’re healing someone who doesn’t deserve it. It drives me insane."

My breath hitched when he stepped closer. Not touching. Just close enough that I could feel the heat roll off him in waves.

"I think about it all the time," he murmured, dark and unrepentant. "How soft your skin must be under your uniform. How you’d sound if you stopped being so gentle… and started needing me."

My lips parted, but no words came.

"I want you," he said. "But not like a classmate wants someone. I want to keep you. I want to put you behind me during every fight, tie your hands when they tremble, learn every way you can fall apart so I can stop it before it starts."

I didn’t step back. I didn’t even dare to speak. I just looked up at him, eyes wide—not afraid, but seen. Completely.

He finally reached up, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear with the faintest brush of his knuckles.

"Go in first," he said quietly. "If I stay here any longer… I won’t be able to pretend I’m just your teammate."

And then like the shadows he’d summoned all afternoon, he turned and walked into the fading dusk, leaving my heart thundering in the silence behind him.

~.~ ~.~

Scene: FLUFF~.~ Nanami Kento Loses His Mind Over Grocery Receipts

The apartment is soft with late-afternoon light, the kind that kisses countertops and makes hardwood floors look golden. The bags are half-unpacked on the kitchen island—new towels, scented candles, a fresh stack of books, that stupidly expensive chocolate peanut butter I love, and some home repair tools I swore I might need. I think I have gone overboard with my shoppings but it’s so therapeutic to even try to acknowledge it

I hum quietly as I fold away a set of cream dishcloths, barefoot, hair messy, sleeves rolled up, I was wearing Kento’s blue Lacoste shirt—every time he looks for ‘em he turns his head to find me sleeping in it. He just sighs sweetly and grabs another pair. I was glowing in that quiet, self-sufficient way—content to do things on my own, for myself.

Then—

The door unlocks. Opens. Shuts.

A pair of heavy, fast footsteps.

I barely turn my head when I hear him.

"Kento?"

His tie is loosened. His jaw is tight. There’s a furrow between his brows that doesn’t belong to traffic or cursed spirits.

He storms into the kitchen, eyes sharp and locked on me like I’m the only thing in existence. "Why the hell," he says, voice low and dangerously calm, "is my card untouched for the third week in a row?"

I blink in confusion. "…What?"

"My alerts. I checked. Not a single charge from you. Nothing. You bought all this?" His gaze darts to the bags, to the fresh groceries, the tiny pastel lamp I insisted would make the hallway feel ‘happier.’

I turn, casually leaning back on the counter, my hand brushing a strand of hair from my cheek. "It’s not a crime to spend my own money, you know."

He walks up slowly, towering. Not with anger. No. With disbelief—as if I just told him I’d rather sleep on the floor than share his bed.

"You think I work overtime for me?" he says, voice rough, palm coming up to cup my jaw with a surprising softness that contradicts the heat in his eyes. "You think I don’t check the damn account hoping to see your name? Every swipe from you is proof you need me."

I can’t help it—I laugh. A soft, airy thing that slips past my lips as I tilted my face up to him, hand finding his chest. "You’re unbelievable."

"And you’re mine," he growls under his breath, leaning in, forehead almost touching mine. "So stop acting like I don’t want to be used. Spoiling you isn’t a chore, it’s a fix—I get high off taking care of you."

My smile lingers, slow and fond, but my thumb grazes his sternum just to ground him.

"I like using your card," I said gently, like a secret. "But sometimes, I like reminding myself I had a life before you too. One I built."

His eyes darken—not with annoyance, but obsession. Worship. That dangerous mix he only ever directs at me.

"I don’t care who you were before," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple, then my cheek, "but I’ll make sure you never have to lift a finger again unless it’s to call my name."

I just sigh into his suit, smiling against his chest now, arms wrapping around him.

"…Then carry the bags inside, Mr. Possessive. I left my other books in the car."

He grumbles something sinful under his breath but he’s already halfway out the door.

I squinted my eyes at his back, I swear he walks straighter when it’s my bags he’s carrying.

~^^~

Scene—beautiful fluff ~^^~ City Afterglow, Arms Full of Ease

The city hums around you, sun just beginning to dip, casting long gold shadows on the pavement. You’re walking beside him, both of your steps in casual sync, shopping bags brushing his legs with each swing. He’s all broad shoulders and easy power, 6’7 of quiet, muscled strength. You, at 6’1, with heels strides beside him without ever needing to keep up. Maybe sometimes.

You doesn’t say a word.

Just casually, like a reflex, like second nature—you brushed your hand around his back to his shoulder which wasn’t facing you— smiling, happy and peaceful. That simple touch says I’m here. I’m home to yourself.

He glances at you with a flick of his eyes, a slow-burning smirk already forming. And then, in one smooth motion that makes the city blur—

He bends slightly, slides an arm under your knees, and without breaking pace, lifts you into a bridal carry. Effortless. One arm under you, the other still holding your shopping bags like he does this daily. Like you weighs no more than a thought.

You gasps out a laugh, the kind that bubbles up from your chest before you can catch it. Your arms instinctively wrap around his neck, that smile slipping onto your face as naturally as your hand had slipped onto his shoulder.

“You’re insane,” you murmurs against his collarbone.

He glances down, eyes amused. “You started it.”

Then he spoke, voice low and smooth, like velvet laid over something dangerous. Sounding like how King of Curses would.

“Do you even know what you do to me when you touch me like that?”

A pause.

“One second your hand’s on my shoulder, the next—I’m rewriting the laws of gravity, woman.” he grumbled

You laughed quietly against him, but his grip on you tightened just a little “I expect no else from a man who have lived a thousand years, love”

“Hmm, I could carry you through every lifetime and never get tired,” he murmured, dark warmth threading through his words. “Let the world watch. Let them wonder why a curse like me walks so gently with you in my arms.”

Your heart stuttered.

He glanced down at you, eyes molten. “You’re the only weight I’ll ever want to bear.”

“Kuna…” you went quiet then after that whisper. Not because you didn’t know what to say but because sometimes, the only answer to being worshipped like that… is to hold on tighter.

And so you did.

And just like that, he kept walking. Him, carrying you like gravity doesn’t apply, you, heart soft and spine loose, resting against someone who makes you feel lighter than air even with the weight of shopping bags between.

“Can’t believe I’m dating a man who’s over a thousand years”

“You like bad boys, woman. You hunted me down.”

“…true”

~.~

Genre—Kento being secretly obsessed with the reader >~< dirty thoughts ~.~ smutty

a man who’s just a friend. Kento Nanami was a friend. The one you texts when you’re drunk. The one you jokes with, vents to, touches without thinking. And he pretends to be fine. But underneath?

He’s not.

His thoughts are dark, filthy, consumed by you. Every smile, every soft stretch of skin you show, he memorizes it. Replays it.

He’s never touched you.

But he’s imagined it all.

You laugh again, on a lazy Thursday evening, head tilted back, fingers grazing his arm like it means nothing. But it does.

To him.

His jaw clenches. His drink stays untouched. His thoughts do not.

You were wearing that soft little hoodie again, the one that clings just enough to make him want to tear it off with his teeth. Shorts barely visible. No idea what it does to him when you folds one leg under you, tits shifting beneath the fabric, skin glowing from the lamp beside the sofa.

He’s hard.

Right there.

On your fucking couch.

And you have no idea.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you teased, bumping his knee with yours.

If only you knew.

If only you could see what was happening inside his skull.

That he’s not thinking about the movie.

He’s thinking about how easily he could grab your hips right now—pull you onto his lap, slide that hoodie up, no bra underneath, your tits heavy in his hands. He’s thought about it a thousand times.

You’d gasp.

Pretend to resist—just for the thrill of it.

And he’d growl in your ear, “You didn’t wear anything under this, sweetheart. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

He’s imagined you moaning, legs shaking, whimpering his name “Kent-kento” while he eats you out on this very couch, one hand around your throat, the other gripping your ass, finally getting to use his mouth for what it was made for.

Instead… he sits. Respectfully. Stoically.

Smiles like he’s fine.

Sips his drink.

But the filth behind his eyes would ruin you.

And part of him hopes, prays—that one day you’ll turn and whisper

“I know what you think about when I leave.”

Because he does.

And if you gives him a reason…any reason—he’s going to prove that he’s not just a friend.

He laughed low, mean.