He was the strongest. The untouchable. The one who walked through battles like a storm in sunglasses, laughing.

And yet when it came to you—his student, his brightest and most reckless star—Satoru Gojo was utterly, terrifyingly human.

You were in your final year at Jujutsu High. Gifted, fierce, and full of fire. You wanted to be great, and he saw it. Saw the potential in every sharp movement, every stubborn glare. He should’ve kept his distance. He didn’t.

His hands lingered too long during training. His voice dropped too low. His eyes followed you when they shouldn’t.

“Gotta watch your form,” he’d say, brushing against your hip, voice low and amused. “Or is this your way of trying to get my attention?”

Or: “Careful, sweetheart. I might start thinking you like it rough.”

Or: “You moan like that again in a fight and someone’s gonna get the wrong idea, y’know?”

He told himself it was harmless. Just teasing. Just Gojo being Gojo. But then he caught himself watching you train when he should’ve been grading. Following your aura across the city during missions, even when he wasn’t supposed to be there. Because you didn’t know that he was always there. Watching. Protecting. He’d never let anything touch you. Not really.

You, of course, didn’t see it that way.

Every time you came back cut, bruised, barely breathing, you were furious. And every time, he deflected with that lazy, infuriating smile.

“You wanted to be the best, didn’t you?” “Can’t get stronger if you only fight baby curses.” “Relax. You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

But this time, he went too far. A high-level curse, civilians screaming, the air thick with death. You survived. You won.

And then you snapped.

You slammed the door open, storming into his office covered in blood, dirt, and fury. Your voice was shaking from rage.

“You arrogant, sadistic bastard. You think I’m some experiment to test limits on? You sent me in there to die!”

He didn’t even flinch. Just leaned back in his chair, smile playing on his lips. “You’re not dead.”

“I could’ve been, Gojo!”

“But you weren’t.” He tilted his head. “Come on, you want a special-grade recommendation, don’t you? Thought you’d jump at the chance to prove yourself.”

That was it. The final twist of the knife.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you spat, eyes burning. “Didn’t realize I needed to almost die to impress you. Or maybe you just like watching me crawl out bleeding—makes you feel needed.”

Something shifted in his expression. His voice lost its playfulness, cold steel now.

“You think this is for me? I’m the reason you’re still standing.”

You laughed, breathless and shaking. “Right. Because the great Satoru Gojo is always saving me. Even when I don’t see him.”

He stepped forward. “You don’t see a lot of things.”

You slapped him. Your hand struck his cheek, sharp and loud in the silence.

And just like that, the thread snapped.

His mouth crashed against yours, all fury and fire and months of restraint finally turned to ash. He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t need to. Because the second your fists curled in his shirt, he knew—he wasn’t the only one who’d been waiting.

You were fire in his hands. Angry, defiant, perfect.

He pushed you back against the desk, lips never leaving yours, his hands exploring without apology. His body crowded yours, hungry, unrepentant. And when he finally pulled back, breath ragged, eyes wild, he just stared at you—hair messy from his fingers, mouth kiss-bruised, chest rising and falling like a war drum.

This was wrong.

But he didn’t care.

He was Satoru Gojo. He could have anything.

And right now, he wanted you.