#gojo geto reader

You offered her a small, grateful smile as you smoothed down the fabric of your customized Tokyo Jujutsu College uniform. You had fought your traditionalist clan tooth and nail for those modifications, altering the jacket and adjusting the uniform to give yourself a shred of personal identity. To your family , the custom cut was entirely too modern, a rebellious departure from the rigid, stifling modesty they demanded. Nobara, of course, had fully validated your stubbornness, loudly insisting that they had zero taste.

"Thanks, Nobara," you murmured, adjusting the hem. "It took a lot of arguing with my clan to keep it."

Nobara snorted, rolling her eyes dramatically, but her gaze softened as she stepped into your room, closing the door behind her to keep the conversation private.

She walked right up to you, gesturing to your reflection in the mirror.

"God forbid a girl actually wants to show off that she has a nice body and a nice figure," Nobara insisted, her tone leaving absolutely zero room for argument. She nudged your shoulder playfully. "Seriously, you look gorgeous in this. The fit hugs your figure perfectly without losing that sharp look. Why are they suddenly breathing down your neck so hard anyway? I thought you were supposed to be the low-key, quiet daughter who stays out of trouble."

A cold, heavy knot twisted tight in your stomach.

You couldn't tell her. You couldn't. Your family had forbidden you from speaking a single word of the arrangement to anyone outside the clan, but it was more than that. Admitting to Nobara that the ink was practically drying on a marriage contract to a misogynistic idiot like Naoya Zenin felt like admitting defeat. It felt like admitting that the precious, everyday time you shared with your friends had an expiration date.

You knew exactly what would happen once you were married. Naoya would never tolerate you keeping ties with Tokyo Tech. He wouldn't allow you to stay friends with Yuji, completely unable to see past the fact that he was Sukuna’s vessel. And he certainly wouldn't let you associate with Megumi—who was a Zenin by birth, but being raised under Satoru Gojo's wing brought an entirely different layer of clan politics into the conversation. If you told Nobara, it would make the end of your freedom real. And you weren't ready for it to be real.

So, you kept the truth locked tight behind your teeth, offering a half-truth instead.

"They're breathing down my neck because they're obsessed with control," you murmured, keeping your gaze fixed on your reflection as you picked up a hairpin. "My family’s political standing in Kyoto is crumbling, and my father and brothers are terrified I'll do something to overshadow them or embarrass the clan."

Your voice dropped a fraction, the deeper secret burning beneath your tongue. And if they realize I have a large pool of cursed energy to draw from, they'll probably try and marry me off even sooner.

Nobara’s eyes flashed with a sudden, fierce anger on your behalf. She walked over, grabbing your shoulders and forcing you to square up against the glass.

"It’s pathetic," she said, her voice ringing with absolute certainty. "They’re breathing down your neck because they’re weak, and they're terrified of anything they can't lock in a box. Don't let them break your confidence, okay? Look at yourself. You have a great figure, you fought them on the uniform, and you won. You are not their pawn."

The raw, unwavering confidence in her voice acted like a temporary shield against the crushing weight of your reality. For a second, looking at her fierce expression, you actually believed her.

"Thanks, Nobara," you said softly, a genuine smile breaking through your anxiety. "I really needed to hear that."

Good. Let one of those old fossils try something. See how fast I introduce them to my hammer." she smirked, checking her phone with a groan. "Anyway, I gotta go grab Yuji before he eats something off the floor. Change quick and get out to the grounds. Let's go blow off some of that family stress!"

The moment her footsteps faded down the hall, the warm atmosphere evaporated. You turned back to the mirror, the heavy, suffocating reality of your life settling right back onto your shoulders. Reaching into your vanity drawer, you pulled out the traditional Tsushima hairpins.

One by one, you gathered your loose, curly hair and pinned it back ruthlessly against your scalp. You did it tightly, so tightly that the pins left a dull, throbbing ache at your temples. It gave you no joy styling your hair this way, but loose curls invited immediate criticism from your family.

Too unruly. Too distracting. Too different.

The restriction of the pins felt entirely worse today. In the Kyoto estate, the ink was practically drying on the arranged marriage contract to Naoya Zenin. Your family was ready to hand you over like prize breeding stock to secure a crumbling political line, and keeping the truth from Nobara left a bitter taste on your tongue. Whenever his name drifted through your thoughts, a cold, oily wave of nausea bottomed out in your stomach, your throat tightening until it felt dry as ash. You had to stay low-key. If you stood out now, the cage would lock forever.

Because of that, deception was your only shield. While you were focused on a Grade 1 promotion to ensure you could defend yourself and use it as leverage to gain a semblance of control over your own life, your entire existence was a lie. You kept a tight, suffocating grip on your massive cursed energy reserves, forcing them down until you registered as a standard, predictable Grade 2. The true capacity of your cursed energy and technique had to stay buried until you were able to get promoted. If the elders ever realized what you were truly capable of, you wouldn't be a student—you would have been given away a long time ago.

By afternoon, the lecture hall at Tokyo Jujutsu College was unusually quiet.

You sat in the third row, the metal casing of your pen biting hard into your fingers. You kept your back straight, your shoulders squared against the back of your seat. It was an exhausting performance, but appearances were the only shield you had left.

At the front of the room stood Suguru Geto, his dark hair tied back loosely, writing across the board.

Political structures. Clan influence. The balance of power.

Somehow, Suguru Geto made the dry, political dust of the jujutsu world breathe. His smooth baritone carried easily through the room, striking a rhythm that felt entirely too intimate for a lecture hall. Every time his dark eyes swept across your row, a sudden, tight warmth bloomed at the base of your throat, making you lower your gaze to your notes. A lecturer first and a special-grade sorcerer second.

Or so you thought.

Sitting on the edge of a desk nearby was Satoru Gojo, looking as though he had absolutely no interest in the curriculum. One leg swung lazily. An arm draped over his knee. His black blindfold concealed the Six Eyes, but nobody in the room was foolish enough to think he was blind to the space. Gojo was your active instructor, and his blatant, shameless favoritism was a constant source of agony for your shy disposition. Every few minutes he would cut across Geto’s lecture with a sharp, teasing comment, his blindfold tilting directly toward your row. He didn't care about the lesson. It was like he was waiting for the tiny hitch in your breathing—waiting to watch you deliberately look away as the skin across your cheekbones prickled with a sudden, localized heat.

The routine was familiar. Comfortably so. Which was why the creeping sensation beneath your skin bothered you so deeply.

Your gaze lifted briefly. Geto had turned toward the class, his cold, analytical gaze sweeping across the room until it locked directly onto you. The sheer, heavy weight of his focus made your pulse stumble, a hard knot settling in your stomach before he smoothly looked away. You looked back down, the frantic scratching of your pen filling the quiet. When you glanced up again, Gojo had leaned forward, his face aimed squarely at you.

Your heart struck hard against your ribs. He wasn't moving. He was just existing in your direction. But the unyielding attention of Satoru Gojo never felt casual. It felt like a gravity that wanted to pull you right out of the seat your family had assigned you.

A few rows ahead, someone shifted in their chair. The windows rattled softly from a passing breeze. Geto continued speaking. Normal. Everything was supposed to be normal.

Then—

"Satoru." Geto didn't even look away from the board, his voice a low, vibrating warning.

Gojo clicked his tongue dramatically, leaning back. "You're no fun, Suguru."

A few students laughed. Geto ignored them. You ducked your head, a tiny, helpless pull at the corner of your lips fighting against your deep unease. They had always been like this. Effortlessly familiar. Two Special-Grades who understood each other so completely that entire conversations happened in the spaces between their breaths, leaving the rest of the world locked outside.

And God, you wanted to know what it felt like to be understood like that. To have someone look straight through your walls and accept the storm inside you. Just once.

When the bell finally rang, its shrill tone sliced through the suffocating silence. You shoved your notebook into your bag, eager to put as much distance as possible between yourself and the lecture hall.

"Hold on."

The voice stopped the blood in your veins.

You didn't look up immediately. Instead, you kept your hands occupied, deliberately focusing on the smooth slide of your notebook entering your bag, trying to project a nonchalance you didn't feel. Gojo had moved with that terrifying, instantaneous absence of space. Sometime during the dismissal, he had slipped off the desk and rewritten the distance between you. Now, he stood directly at the edge of your desk, blocking the aisle entirely—a wall of black fabric and radiating heat.

Your stomach twisted into a tight, nervous coil. Keeping your eyes on the strap of your bag, you smoothly zipped it shut. "Gojo?" you asked, aiming for a casual, detached pitch. The syllable still came out a fraction softer than you intended, the deep, defensive shyness of your childhood trying to betray you.

"I wanted to talk to you about yesterday," Gojo said. His voice was casual, almost breezy, but there was an underlying weight to it that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You adjusted the bag's strap over your shoulder, finally lifting your chin to meet his direction, forcing your expression into something blank and innocent. "What about yesterday?"

"Your little sparring match out on the training grounds," he replied, leaning forward slightly, bringing his face closer to yours. Up close, he simply eclipsed the room. He loomed over you, completely invading your space until you could feel the serene, terrifying pressure of his presence. The blindfold concealed his eyes, yet you felt entirely exposed beneath it. "You've definitely improved in the short amount of time you've been here at the college. Your kinetic reading is sharp. Fast, agile, perfect balance. You beat that upperclassman without even trying."

A brief recollection flashed through your mind. The heat of yesterdays sun, the sound of the boys cheering, and the quiet satisfaction of winning without using a single spark of your technique. You had thought you were perfectly under the radar.

"But you know what's really fascinating?" Gojo continued, his lips curving into a sharp, knowing smile as he tilted his blindfold down toward you. "The Six Eyes don't just look at footwork. Even when you're just sitting there, I can see the baseline of your pool. You're holding back a lot of cursed energy. "

Your heart struck hard against your ribs. Your fingers tightened imperceptibly against your bag.

Internally, panic flared. He had seen straight through the defense mechanism you had spent your entire life perfecting. It wasn't a temporary restraint; it was a constant, grueling act of suppression—maintaining a flawless, artificial baseline twenty-four seven so that jujutsu society would look right past you. It was an unyielding, passive instinct that required absolute, exhausting control.

"Hiding your energy like that... it's in constant effect with you," Gojo murmured, his tone shifting into a fascinated, dangerous curiosity. "Which leaves me with one really big question. Why go through all that trouble?"

He tilted his head, tapping a long finger against his chin thoughtfully. You stood frozen under the his gaze, terrified of how effortlessly he had just mapped the mechanics of your survival.

"Because then I hear this rumor floating around the clans," Gojo continued, the playful edge evaporating as he leaned down another fraction of an inch. "People are whispering that your family is finalizing a little arrangement. An arranged marriage contract to Naoya Zenin."

His tone dropped into a dangerously low, sharp register that vibrated straight through the floorboards, stripping away the eccentric instructor and leaving only the strongest sorcerer alive.

"Tell me they aren't actually that stupid," Gojo demanded softly, his focus pinning you to the floor. "Is that why you're playing dumb? You're shrinking yourself because of him?"

You swallowed hard, the tight knot of nerves in your throat threatening to choke you. You didn't dare look away from his blindfold, knowing that any micro-expression or sudden shift in your pulse would be dissected instantly.

“I’m not really supposed to talk about it,” you said softly. You kept your gaze fixed firmly on your lap, trying to use your family’s rigid rules as a shield to shut him out. “It’s supposed to be private.”

Gojo didn't budge. If anything, your quiet retreat only made his sharp smile curve a fraction wider. A low, amused rumble vibrated in his chest, a sound so warm and intimate it made the skin across your collarbones prickle with a localized heat. He loomed over your small frame like an eclipse, blocking out the rest of the classroom until his presence was the only thing left for you to breathe.

"Private," Gojo repeated, the word dripping with mock fondness. "Right. Because the old men in Kyoto love doing their dirty laundry in the dark." He straightened up slightly, though his presence still completely eclipsed your desk. "Hiding behind daddy's rules to avoid answering the question? That's a classic, but you're missing the point. I'm not asking what your family told you to say. I'm asking why you are making yourself small."

Must be nice, you thought bitterly, staring into the absolute black of his blindfold. Must be so incredibly easy to be Satoru Gojo. To stomp through the world so carelessly, entirely blind to the cages other people had to live in because your own strength afforded you absolute freedom.

Gojo’s sharp smile softened, his head tilting as if he were cataloging the exact frequency of your anger. The Six Eyes didn't miss the slip of your mask. He saw the flash of the storm inside you, and he looked entirely too fascinated by it.

Before you could pull your walls back up, Suguru Geto stepped forward, his shadow falling smoothly over the wood of your desk.

A cold, primitive instinct warned you to freeze. Geto didn't crowd you like Gojo did, but the air around him always carried a faint, sickening undertone—the heavy, weighted trace of the curses he commanded. The rumors whispered in the dorms came rushing back: a mission gone horribly wrong years ago, a slaughtered village, an execution order that Gojo had somehow managed to get stayed. Geto was only allowed in these halls under strict supervision, a lethal threat in the guise of an instructor.

"If you're using submission as a survival strategy, it's a poor one," Geto intervened, his smooth baritone carrying a weighted, clinical chill. He crossed his arms, his dark eyes fixed on your posture. "The Higher-Ups are already tracking your growth, regardless of what rank you try to project."

Geto tilted his head, his gaze narrowing. "We need a full breakdown of Severance. I'd like to know exactly how your touch unravels cursed energy at a fundamental level. We need to know your true limits."

Gojo’s dangerous, playful grin returned instantly, cutting across Geto’s academic tone. He leaned down again, his voice dropping into an intimate murmur that made your skin prickle with a localized heat.

"You know, you might possess the only technique in existence that can actually bypass my Infinity... you do know what I'm getting at, right?"

“I… I don’t think I’d ever be strong enough to do something like that,” you murmured, not quite disagreeing.

It was a technical truth. Cursed energy output and raw precision were areas where you genuinely lacked, even if your massive inner reserves made up for the deficit. But that wasn't how Severance worked anyway. Simply possessing an immense pool of energy meant absolutely nothing if you couldn't control the technique with surgical precision—and that kind of fine-tuned mastery was something you were still desperately trying to learn. The mere idea of wielding a volatile, unrefined defensive technique against someone like Satoru Gojo right now was laughable.

The truth was, Severance had never been the limitation. You were. Your cursed energy reserves were vast, but without the experience or control to wield them properly, much of that power slipped through your fingers before it ever reached your technique.

But Severance didn't reward brute force. It rewarded control. Every thread had to be manipulated with painstaking precision, and your technique was still far too unrefined. No matter how much cursed energy you possessed, challenging someone like Satoru Gojo now would have been laughably naïve.

Heat spread across your face despite every effort to keep your expression neutral. You straightened your shoulders instead of looking away.

Gojo sighed loud enough for half the lecture hall to hear. "You're selling yourself short." He tilted his head, studying you with a smile that was just shy of teasing. "You really have no idea how interesting you are, do you?"

His grin returned, sharp, testing, and entirely too bright for the tight space between you. He leaned down another fraction of an inch, his voice dropping into a testing register that made your skin tingle with a sudden, furious friction.

"Want to try it?"

You blinked, completely stunned, your defensive shyness betraying you. "Right now?!"

"No better time than the present," Gojo chuckled, stepping a fraction closer until he completely eclipsed the light from the tall windows. He slowly extended his hand toward you, palm open, hovering just inches away. "Go on. Touch me."

Terrified of what would happen if your technique actually connected—or worse, if it failed entirely—you looked past Gojo’s broad shoulder, silently begging Geto for some kind of intervention. But Geto merely gave a smooth shrug, entirely willing to watch the experiment play out.

Slowly, hesitantly, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your chest, you began to lift your hand. Your fingers trembled slightly as you extended them toward him. The space between your skin and his palm shrank down to millimeters. You could feel the absolute, static hum of his Infinity radiating against your fingertips, a microscopic wall of endless space waiting to be undone—

Then the lecture hall doors violently burst open.

The sharp bang echoed off the walls. An auxiliary manager stood in the doorway, chest heaving, his face completely drained of color.

"Gojo-san. Geto-san." The sheer panic in his voice shifted the room's atmospheric pressure instantly. Both special-grades straightened, their casual postures vanishing into rigid, lethal alertness. "The Higher-Ups have called an emergency assembly."

"The primary chamber?" Geto’s question was smooth, but cold.

The auxiliary manager nodded frantically. "They're requesting your immediate presence. It's... it's Principal Yaga. He's ordering all staff to the core."

A flash of genuine, dark irritation crossed Gojo's face. It was gone in an instant, replaced by a unreadable mask, but the sudden spikes in his cursed energy sent a primitive shiver down your spine. Your eyes moved between him and Geto. Neither looked surprised. Neither asked why.

Gojo exhaled slowly, then looked back down at you. The dark storm in his aura vanished, replaced by a sudden, quiet softness that felt far more dangerous than his anger.

"We'll finish this conversation later," he murmured.

You opened your mouth, a dozen defiant questions surging to your teeth. About your family. About Naoya. Why they cared about the limits of your technique.

But before you could utter a single syllable, Gojo reached out. His long, pale finger tapped lightly against your forehead.

The gesture was brief, almost careless, but the raw weight of his Infinity brushing against your skin felt entirely deliberate. It was a localized winter pressing against your skull. Your breath trapped itself in your chest, a sudden, prickly wave of heat surging up the column of your neck until your skin felt tight and entirely too small for you. You froze—utterly pinned beneath the casual geometry of his hand, your tongue turning to lead against the roof of your mouth.

"Go handle your assignment," his tone softened, though it carried the weight of an unalterable decree. "You'll be fine."

By the time your brain scrambled to find its wiring, your lips could only form a muted, compliant murmur. "Yes, Sensei."

Behind him, Geto was already gathering his things, his dark eyes lingering on your face for one final, heavy second before he turned away. The two special-grades exchanged a brief, unreadable look, and then they were gone, leaving the classroom door swinging in their wake.

The moment the soles of their shoes faded down the hall, a wave of intense, burning frustration crashed over you.

Yes, Sensei? Really?

You mentally kicked yourself, wanting to scream at your own reflection in the window glass. You had a devastating innate technique, you were nineteen years old, and you had let him completely shut you down with a single tap to your forehead like a child. You should have demanded to know how they found out about the Zenin contract. Instead, you had stood there with your blood roaring in your ears, giving them exactly the meek, obedient response your clan had spent years drilling into you.