Pleaseee

worth the wait a nerdjo fic

pairing ⸺ nerd/academic rival/rich boy!gojo x reader

summary ⸺ you abhor your academic rival, satoru gojo. he's a cocky asshole that you fight with constantly for the spot at first place. but when you finally discover what's underneath all those lame sweaters of his with a once in a blue moon visit at the gym (spoiler alert: he's not a scrawny nerd), you'll be fighting your severe attraction to the man who makes your life a bit harder. and maybe fall in love with him, too, in the process.

warnings ⸺ smut, f recieving oral, praise, he makes you beg for it lol, p i v sex, making out, angst if you squint, a lot of fluff, college AU, nerd!gojo, reader gets insecure sometimes and is treated horribly by her discord mod TA/research advisor, typical misogyny/sexism in STEM fields, but gojo defends her!!!, sleeper build gojo with a happy trail because im a slut, the good old pining and yearning i like. art by @/deltapork

a/n thank u to all my beta readers for editing part of this for me :3 happy valentines day!!!

general masterlist

You blink at your paper.

98.

You suppose you should be happy—it’s a graduate level physics class, anyways. For a moment, you stare at the red markings of the TA that graded it, as if willing an error in the one problem you made a mistake on could make it go away. 

2+2=5.

You exhaled sharply, almost fighting back tears. You’d think you could avoid simple arithmetic mistakes, but apparently doing tensor products comes easier than simple addition to you. Shoving your backpack on your chair, you stuff in your laptop and the test haphazardly, not caring that it’s going to get messed and crumpled up in your backpack after your folders and binders jostle around. Fuck that test.

You wouldn’t normally act as if the test had personally wronged you—trust, you were not going to get that heated were it any class. But because of this one class, one person, you knew it was coming. The inevitable.

"Better luck next time." The voice, drenched in smug satisfaction, slithered through the air behind you, his voice and demeanor like a slimy, slimy snake. 

Your jaw tightened, but you forced yourself to remain calm as you turned around. And there he was—Gojo Satoru, the bane of your existence, a plague upon your academic record, a walking, talking statistical anomaly who somehow managed to be both infuriatingly brilliant and aggressively insufferable.

He leaned against the desk beside yours, glasses sliding down just enough to reveal the glint of those ridiculously blue eyes. He crosses his arms while they’re covered in that ridiculous, ugly sweater he’s wearing—he’s probably going for the old money aesthetic, but he doesn’t need to know he gives off more “finance bro that helps billionaires evade taxes,” or whatever finance bros do.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” you sniff, pretending to act nonchalant while you grab your backpack, swinging it roughly on your shoulder like it was the weight of your grievances against him.

"The test." Gojo unfolded a crisp sheet of paper with the kind of theatrical flourish reserved for revealing royal decrees. A perfect 100, circled in bold red ink.

Your stomach twisted. This is what those two points meant. Two stupid, meaningless, soul-crushing, rage-inducing points.

"Guess that makes it… what, five to three this semester?" He tapped his chin, pretending to count, as if the score wasn’t already seared into your brain like an irreversible branding. "My lead, obviously. But hey, if you ever need tutoring, I could always squeeze you in."

You bite the inside of your cheek in frustration. “I wouldn’t want to impose on the time for any of your hobbies. After all, when will you get the time to watch anime? My 5000 Year Old Girlfriend is Stuck in a Twelve Year Old’s Body, was it?”

He presses a hand to his chest in mock hurt, as if your words had truly pierced him through his chest. “Tut, tut. After all this time, I’d think you’d have my anime preferences memorized since you’re so obsessed with me. It’s Digimon, not whatever pedophilic shit you think I jerk off too.” He pauses, and then his voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper. “But you know Fred, the grad student TA that holds recitation every Wednesday? I just know he’s probably a Discord mod of a server that sends, like, daily tentacle porn. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on the Megan's law registry either.”

Now, you have to hold back your smile because Gojo has a point. Fred is not just any TA. Fred is the grad student that mentors you on a research project; the program’s super selective, so when you realized you got him, you couldn’t just back out and give up the opportunity. However, Fred isn’t just a weird–-he’s sooo handsy with his greasy ass hands, so you accept any and all Fred slander. Because he’s your research advisor, you can’t wait to finish the project any faster. He probably would be into underage girls, but you don’t need to express your approval to Gojo, or worst of all, let him think he’s funny. God knows that would get into his head. “Yea, yea. Whatever. Anyways, I hope you have fun with your Pokemon—”

“Digimon.”

“—or whatever. I’m leaving. Some of us have things to do. Later, Gojo.”

You turned on your heel, lest Gojo hook you in with another taunt. 

Maybe you needed to blow off some steam, if you’re allowing yourself to lose to Gojo. 

Worst of all, it’s become a streak, like two times in a row—one on this quiz, and the other on the midterm a few weeks back. Your mind goes back to the last women in STEM recruiting event you had went to, and, how, in the middle of taking a bite of the delicious margherita pizza they offered, you registered that the woman in the panel had insisted that what helped her power through her PhD and dickwad supervisors was by exercising. Her fervor over pilates could almost qualify as a cult pitch, but it made you pause at the moment. Before you continued to further engorge yourself on the food offered on the charcuterie board. 

But maybe it was time to hone your focus in, and some sweaty endorphins might help you get just that. 

You’re not really surprised the demographic at your university’s gym looks like the way it does. After all, not only was it renowned for its academics (from all the nepo babies like Gojo whose families donated buildings and had like four generations of alumnus), but it was also a Division I school. So not only was the gym packed but it was packed with men.

As you walked in the hallway towards the room that contained weight machines, gym bag slung over your shoulder, you eyed the glistening backs of the (D1, mind you) men’s swim team through the glass that separated your path and the swimming pool. 

Wow, those Speedos really hugged their asses. You imagined Gojo in one, and almost snorted. Rich boy nerd Satoru definitely didn’t  learn how to swim; his family’s mansion probably had a twenty year old personal lifeguard that Gojo lost his virginity to, or something. Regardless, he would squint in his silly swim goggles, the exact antithesis of sex appeal while his glow-in-the-dark eyes lit up the pool while he stroked, cheeks puffed like a pufferfish.

Regardless, the smell of testosterone that hits you when you enter the weight area is almost nauseating, and, if you’re honest, a little intimidating. You’re not exactly the fittest of people, so you quickly speed walk past the grunting and sweaty men at the squat machines and barbells, avoiding eye contact and praying furiously that none of them perceive you.

 When you reach the dumbbell stands, you hunch over, taking random light weights. Then, you pretend you know what you’re doing while jumping every so slightly whenever anyone comes in six foot distance of you. It’s only when another girl comes in to grab a weight (and when she bends over, you definitely ogle her ass in a way that would get you slapped if you were a man) that your gaze removes itself from where it was focused on the 2.5 lb dumbbell you were previously bicep curling with. To see him.

The glint of ivory hair is unmistakable—you’ve basically gotten off to the fantasy of razoring it off in his sleep. His blue eyes are bored, pretty boy face framed in glasses. Now, he’s giving teenage boy turned to Andrew Tate after a breakup. Black sweatshirt and sweatpants that are too small, because they cling to his legs in a form-defining way. He’s walking over, hands in his pockets, to a barbell station. Slaps some guys on the shoulder as he goes through, gets a lot of daps. 

Which is weird to you, because you only the Gojo inside your physics class, not outside. He’s a fucking nerd—a loser that spends his time beefing with you, so why is he so popular when he gives you the time of day?

There are three dimensions to gaining alpha status, or whatever they call male popularity. You have to be 1) rich, 2) really physically fit, or 3) just really charismatic. Considering that Gojo—in all his clothing—-looks like a twink moreso than ripped gym bro, it’s definitely not dimension two. So you conclude that it’s because he’s rich and probably throws yacht parties so these ripped guys don’t push him into a locker, or something.

When he finally reaches his destination, you smirk to yourself. With that scrawny build underneath all those loose sweaters, you know he’s only going to be able to lift the bar, no plates. After all, he was warming up. insulting Gojo in countless of ways by taking jabs at his physique mentally, so you barely register that he’s grabbing for the hem of his sweatshirt, peeling it up—

To reveal his bare torso.

Your first thought: Wow, he has huge bazonkas.

That has easily got to be one of the most built physiques you’ve seen at your college so far. His pectorals basically pop out out of his torso as he moves to grab plates. First, he grabs a really big plate—you’re not a gym expert, so you wouldn’t know the weight—and stacks it. And stacks another. And another. And another, until you’re sure it’s definitely more than your bodyweight.

As you’re staring at him in awe, your 2.5 lb dumbbells hang limply by your sides, abandoning all pretense of training to openly gawk at the clench of his biceps, the sweat rolling down his temple, and the set of his jaw as he stares holes into the bar. And by the way there’s heat creeping up your cheeks you realize one thing:

You’re screwed.

“You know what?”

You keep your eyes on your notes firmly, refusing to look at Gojo sitting right next to you. You don’t know why he always chooses to sit next to you on recitation, really—it’s not like you’re receptive to his company. After all, he could be doing other things—like metaphorically sucking a TA’s dick by talking about their research, where Gojo probably knows more about the TA’s research than they do themselves. 

From your periphery, you notice Gojo pouting, then scooting his chair (dragging it, so it makes a god awful screeching noise against the floor tiles that has you cringing) until he’s so close that he slings an arm on the back of your chair and leans in closer and closer. You’re fighting to keep your eyes on your notes, face heating up traitorously until you feel his breath fan across your neck because he’s just so close.

“Rude, ignoring me. Look where that got you.” He then points to a problem on your paper, one you were currently working on. “You’re doing that wrong.”

You finally turn to glare at him, but he’s closer than you anticipated, his face just inches from yours. His grin is all sharp edges and knowing amusement, and it makes your stomach flip in a way you refuse to acknowledge.

“I’m not doing it wrong,” you argue, despite the creeping suspicion that, okay, maybe you did mess up somewhere.

“Oh, really?” Gojo drawls, tilting his head slightly. “Then why is your integral off by a factor of two?”

Your eyes snap back to your notes, scanning through the equations—and, dammit, he’s right.

You huff, begrudgingly erasing the mistake. “Whatever.”

“You know, you should really be thanking me,” Gojo muses, still leaning way too close for comfort. “If I weren’t here, who knows how many mistakes you’d make?”

“She’d have me,” comes a greasy voice, and you have to fight the tears in your eyes that arise when Fred (the aforementioned pedophilic TA and your research advisor) comes, his moldy cheese stench following him as he takes a seat from across you and Gojo. You grudgingly turn your face away from where it was so close to Gojo’s to look at him and sigh inwardly. At least Gojo’s face was prettier to look at.

“Hi, Fred,” you smile tightly, willing him to go away. “We’re good here, so you can help out other students—”

“How was your weekend?” He instead replies, and you wince. Stealing a quick glance at Gojo, it seems that his jaw and posture are uncharacteristically tense. 

“Lot of work for the class and for, uh, our research,” you respond, nodding and averting your gaze to your paper and feigning working on a problem so that he would get the hint.

Fred, unfortunately, does not get the hint. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes too focused on you. “You really ought to take breaks, you know. You can give me the code late. Someone as cute as you shouldn’t stress so much. You’ll get wrinkles.”

Your fingers tighten around your pencil, your skin crawling at the way his tone veers into something too familiar, too patronizing. You open your mouth to give a clipped response, but Gojo beats you to it.

“Oh? Didn’t know you were an expert on skincare, Fred,” Gojo drawls, his voice deceptively light. His arm, which was still resting on the back of your chair, shifts just slightly—not quite pulling you in, but making his presence more noticeable. “Though, if we’re giving out advice, maybe you should take your own. I mean, stress must be rough on you too, right? All those late nights grading papers, staring at screens. Takes a toll.”

Fred bristles, but Gojo just smiles lazily, pushing up his glasses as he tilts his head. “Actually, you know what? Maybe we should all focus on our own business. Like, say, teaching, instead of weirdly hovering over students. Crazy thought, huh?”

You swear you see the muscle in Fred’s jaw twitch, but he forces out an awkward chuckle, shifting uncomfortably. “Right, right. Just looking out for her.”

“Don’t worry,” Gojo interrupts smoothly, now fully leaning into your space, his arm draping a little lower behind your chair, “I think she’s got plenty of people looking out for her already.” His voice is soft, but there’s an undeniable edge beneath the words.

Fred lingers for a second too long, but finally, he mutters something about helping another student and stands, walking off with an air of forced nonchalance.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, slumping slightly in your seat. Gojo hums beside you, his fingers tapping idly against the back of your chair.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he teases, but there’s something in his tone that’s softer than usual. He then makes a show of stretching, raising his arms. His sweater rides up a bit, exposing his lower abs and peeks of white that has you averting your gaze, the heat creeping up at his proximity once again. Then, his arm back on your chair. Weirdly, you find that you don’t mind it.

You sigh, resigned. You’ll figure out these feelings later. “Yeah. Thanks, Gojo.”

But you don’t immediately go back to your work, because Gojo suddenly hunches down and whispers in your ear. “Yea, I definitely saw an underage anime girl sticker on his laptop.”

Your responding snort is so loud everyone turns to look at you and Gojo, who is now sporting a mischievous and satisfied smile.

It starts with a single drop, fat and cold where it splats against your wrist. You glance up from your phone just in time to see the sky split open.

“Shit,” you mutter, stuffing your phone into your bag. The library doors shut behind you with a heavy clang, sealing away the scent of old books and the quiet hum of studying students. Outside, the air is thick with the petrichor of freshly fallen rain, and within seconds, the pavement is slick, puddles forming in the uneven cracks of the sidewalk. The streetlights reflect off the wet ground, casting fragmented golden glows against the darkening sky. You’d been studying to grind for the upcoming assignments; after all, to rival Gojo is a no small feat. It’s just unfortunate it seems to take you thousand times more effort than it does for Gojo.

“Guess we’re stuck together, huh?”

You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

Satoru Gojo, standing beside you under the library’s narrow overhang, wearing that insufferable grin like he’s amused by the entire situation. Like the rain personally fell from the sky just to give him an opportunity to bother you.

“I’ll take my chances,” you say flatly, shifting your bag on your shoulder. But as you peer past the downpour, your stomach sinks. The rain is merciless, an unrelenting sheet of water stretching as far as you can see. There’s no way you’re making it back to your dorm without looking like you took a fully clothed shower.

Gojo hums, pulling something out of his bag. You blink when he flicks open a half-broken umbrella, the metal ribs slightly bent like it’s barely holding itself together. He gives it a little shake, sending droplets flying, before glancing at you with a smirk.

“Well?” He lifts a brow. “Wanna be smart about this?”

You do not want to be smart about this. You want to wait out the rain or make a break for it. But the storm shows no signs of letting up, and the thought of walking through it alone makes you hesitate.

Reluctantly, you sigh. “Fine. But I get most of the cover.”

“Hey, sharing is caring.” He tilts the umbrella slightly, just enough to make a point.

With great reluctance, you step closer. The moment you do, you regret it.

Gojo is warm. Even in the damp, chilled air, he radiates heat, standing so close that his sleeve brushes against yours. He smells good, too—like expensive laundry detergent with a faint undercurrent of something sweet, something distinctly him.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stare straight ahead as the two of you start walking. The rain pounds against the umbrella, droplets cascading off the edges, and with every step, you’re hyper-aware of the way Gojo moves beside you—loose-limbed, annoyingly graceful, a stark contrast to the crooked metal above your heads.

“Man, this thing’s on its last leg,” he muses, tilting the umbrella just slightly. Water dribbles off the side, landing directly onto your shoulder.

“Gojo!” you yelp, recoiling as the cold soaks through your shirt.

“Oops.” He does not sound remotely sorry.

You glare at him, but before you can snap back, he shrugs off his jacket and—without preamble—drapes it over you.

You freeze.

It’s warm, still carrying the heat of his body, and it smells so much like him—clean, sweet, dizzyingly familiar. Your brain short-circuits.

You force yourself to breathe, keeping your gaze firmly ahead. “You didn’t have to do that,” you say, voice tight.

“I wanted to.”

Something in his tone makes your stomach flip. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, and—

Damn him. Damn him.

Water drips from his bangs, clinging to the sharp edges of his jawline, sliding down the curve of his throat. His shirt sticks to his skin, fabric clinging in a way that reveals the toned lines of his arms, the broad plane of his chest. He’s watching the rain, the usual teasing glint in his eyes softened into something contemplative.

You swear your eggs just recently got released, for you cannot help but avoid your ever going attraction to Satoru Gojo except the age-old excuse: ovulation. Your mind wanders to how his arms would feel around your head, to lay on his chest, how he’d be able to manhandle you, force you to take it—

But you’re snapped out of your inappropriate thoughts by what he says next.

“You know,” he says, voice quieter now, “I like this. Just us, no grades, no competing.”

You pause.

He says it so simply, so easily, like it’s nothing at all. But the words settle deep, curling somewhere warm inside you, and you don’t know what to do with them.

So you do what you do best: you shove them away, bury them beneath years of rivalry, of late-night study sessions fueled by caffeine and stubbornness, of sharp words and sharper glances.

You roll your eyes, forcing a scoff. “Don’t get used to it.”

But even as you say it, your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket, holding it a little tighter.

It’s been a week since you saw Gojo. He had dropped you at your dorm in a surprisingly gentlemanly way, and you had insisted on returning the jacket only after washing it, to be courteous. What you didn’t mention was how you kept repeatedly smelling it in your dorm whenever you got a reprieve from your roommate’s eyes because Gojo smelled like expensive cologne and he did one thing most nerds / physics majors don’t do: shower. This fact, unfortunately, made you more attracted to him because the bar is truly in hell.

You’ve concluded that these…feelings can’t hurt you and that it isn’t real, like a beefy and shirtless Gojo-looking demon that’ll jump and surprise you from under your bed. So you move on your life, caught in the ever perpetual slog of studying and researching. 

Thus, you find yourself at the library once more.

The night hums low around you, quiet except for the occasional shuffle of paper and the distant hum of the library’s espresso machine (only librarians could use it, however. you fervently thought that was a form of elitism, but you digress). You’re at the corner table, the one by the window, where the dim light pools just enough to illuminate your notes but not enough to make you feel like you’re being studied under a microscope. You think you’re alone—until you aren’t.

You don’t have to look up to know it’s him.

Satoru Gojo is hard to miss, even when he’s not trying. He slides into the chair across from you with the kind of ease that makes it seem like he belongs there, like he was always going to end up sitting across from you tonight. His hair is tousled, white strands falling forward in a way that makes him look softer under the warm light. His glasses are perched low on his nose, a rare sight given that he usually has them pushed up like some kind of pretentious scholar.

The two of you don’t speak.

It’s surprising, really. Gojo never runs out of things to say, whether it’s an obnoxious quip or some unnecessarily insightful observation that makes you want to throw your textbook at his face. But tonight, he just pulls out his own notes, taps his pen against the edge of his lips, and starts reading.

You should focus on your own studying, but something about this—this silence, this late-night haze, this tiny moment carved out of time—makes your mind wander. You steal glances when you think he won’t notice. His brows furrow when he’s concentrating, his jaw tightens when he’s stuck on something, and when he exhales, it’s this slow, measured thing, like he’s trying not to get frustrated. He’s just—

He’s just really there.

You’ve spent years defining Gojo as your rival. Your competition. The person standing in your way at every academic milestone. And yet, somehow, somewhere, he’s slipped into something else, something harder to define. Because you’ve seen him like this before—when he’s so focused that he forgets the world around him, when he bites his lip in thought, when he gets so caught up in something that he mutters under his breath without realizing it. And for the first time, it dawns on you: you don’t actually hate it.

You don’t hate this comfortable silence. This moment of peace, a white flag waving lazily between you both.

The hours blur. The café starts to empty. Your notes turn into background noise. It’s late, and the warmth from inside lulls you into something dangerously close to comfort.

A soft sound breaks through the quiet.

You glance up and freeze.

Gojo’s head has tilted to the side, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. His hand is curled loosely around his pen, and his breathing has evened out. He’s asleep.

For a moment, you don’t move. You barely breathe.

Gojo, asleep, is not something you’ve seen before. He’s always in motion, always buzzing with energy, always running his mouth about something. But right now, he’s still. His long lashes cast faint shadows over his cheekbones, and the tension he always carries—the cocky bravado, the smirking sharpness—is nowhere to be found. He just looks… peaceful.

Cutie.

What?

The thought slips in so quickly, so effortlessly, that it nearly makes you jolt. But when you look at him again—head tilted just slightly, glasses slipping down his nose, breathing slow and even—you can’t deny that the word fits. He looks like a lazy cat napping in a sunbeam, limbs loose, utterly unguarded. It’s so unlike him that you find yourself staring, caught in the contrast.

Your fingers twitch. Before you can stop yourself, you reach forward, slow and hesitant, to push his glasses back up his nose. But you catch yourself just before you touch him, as if the warmth of his skin might burn. Your hand hovers in the air for a fraction of a second too long, and then—

You pull away.

Your heart is pounding. It’s fine. It’s nothing. You just need to get out of here.

You gather your things quietly, glancing back at him one last time before slipping out the door into the cool night air. The moment you step outside, you take a breath, deep and shaking. The world feels different now. You feel different now.

Because for the first time, it isn’t just that you find Gojo attractive.

It’s that you care.

And you don’t know what the hell to do about it.

The gym, once again, smells like sweat and overpriced protein powder.

You don’t know what’s possessed you to come here today. Maybe it’s because you keep telling yourself that you need to exercise more, or maybe it’s because you need to take a break from studying before your brain melts. But deep down, if you’re really being honest with yourself, you know the real reason.

Gojo is here.

You spotted him the first time by accident. You were on the treadmill, barely jogging at a pace that wouldn’t embarrass you, when you caught a flash of white hair across the gym floor. And there he was—dressed in a fitted black sleeveless top and joggers, casually loading plates onto a barbell.

And he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

It was a stupid, inconsequential detail, but it made all the difference. Without them, he didn’t look like the annoying academic rival who constantly got under your skin, flashing his smug grin as he beat you in exams by the smallest possible margins. He looked… sharp. Unfiltered. Effortlessly attractive in a way that made your stomach tighten in ways you didn’t like.

You’d seen him in his regular clothes before, of course. You knew he had broad shoulders and long legs, that his body wasn’t just a lanky frame hidden behind layers of sweaters. But here, in the gym, watching him roll his shoulders as he prepped for another set—it hit differently. He was lean but muscular, his arms flexing as he adjusted his grip on the bar, and for some godforsaken reason, you couldn’t look away.

You shouldn’t be watching him. You should be focusing on your own workout, pretending you don’t care. But the way his shirt clung to his back, the way his forearms tensed, the way he exhaled sharply as he lifted—

You’re so screwed.

You force yourself to look away, grabbing the smallest dumbbells available and curling them in what has to be the weakest excuse for a workout imaginable. You’re barely paying attention to what you’re doing, too busy sneaking glances at Gojo between sets. It’s pathetic, but at least no one else is watching you.

Or so you think.

Because then she appears.

A girl.

Tall, toned, and effortlessly gorgeous, with sleek hair pulled into a high ponytail. She strides over to Gojo with a confidence you could never dream of and smiles at him, saying something that makes him laugh. Her ass is definitely bigger than yours, and she’s in this coordinated, cute, pink set, looking like she walked straight out of a fitness TikTok. You can’t hear what they’re talking about over the sound of weights clanking and some obnoxious EDM song blasting through the speakers, but you can see it. The way she leans in, the way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the way Gojo—

—smiles at her. That easy, lazy grin he always wears when he’s teasing you, except this time, it isn’t for you.

Your grip tightens around the dumbbells, something ugly curling in your chest. It gets worse when she gestures toward the squat rack, and Gojo nods before moving behind her, hands hovering just slightly as she sets up for a squat. You watch as he spots her, one hand resting lightly on her lower back, close enough to correct her form but far enough to be polite. He’s focused, watching her movements carefully, murmuring something that makes her laugh before she drops into another rep.

Your stomach twists.

This is stupid. You have no reason to be feeling this way.

It’s then that it hits you—you can have your silly little academic rival moments with Gojo, but, in the end, you’re just a footnote in his story, a fleeting challenge in a life where everything already belongs to him. He quite literally has generational wealth; he’s not going to spend his life buried in grant applications or clawing for recognition in a field that demands twice the effort for half the reward. He’ll be the one funding the research, sitting at the head of the table, making decisions that shape the future. And you? You’ll be one of the many who struggle just to be in the same room.

He’s the guy who spends his vacations on yachts or private islands—not just surrounded by wealth, but by people who belong there. Girls who glide through life with the same effortless ease as him, girls who don’t second-guess if they deserve to be in the spaces they occupy. Girls who don’t have to fight for their place at the table because it was always set for them.

Girls that are his equal—equally attractive, equally smart, equally rich.

Not you.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to look away, but the image is burned into your mind. The easy way he talks to her. The way she tilts her head when she listens. The way he doesn’t even know you’re here.

You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t care.

But you do.

You grip the dumbbells tighter, exhaling sharply. Then you put them back, pick up your water bottle, and walk out of the gym before you do something stupid.

The office is too small. Too suffocating. Too filled with the weight of unspoken words and the sharp-edged smile of Fred, the TA, as he leans back in his chair and laces his fingers together.

"You know," he begins, voice sickly sweet, "I really expected more from you."

You sit stiffly in the chair across from him, your hands curled into fists in your lap, nails digging crescents into your skin. Your heart pounds, but your face remains carefully neutral. You've been called into his office under the guise of "academic guidance," but you know better. You always know better.

"I don't know what you mean," you say, keeping your voice even.

Fred exhales dramatically, shaking his head. "Come on. You and I both know you're barely keeping up in this project of ours."

You grit your teeth. You're not barely keeping up. You're giving him your work at the highest level, at its best. But Fred—Fred has always had a way of twisting things, making you feel small, insignificant, like your achievements are nothing more than accidents.

“I think my progress speaks for itself,” you respond tightly. Mind you, while he was supposed to be your mentor, you’ve done 80% of the work.

But you think Gojo’s defense of you ran deep into Fred’s heart because by the way he’s sleazily smirking at you, you know he’s trying to get back at you.

He smirks. "Your progress? Sure, you’re smart. But you think that’s enough? You think anyone’s going to care about a girl like you when there are people out there who don’t have to struggle to be exceptional?" He leans forward, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. "You’re wasting your time. The best you can hope for is being someone’s assistant. Maybe a glorified research grunt if you’re lucky. Just like for me."

Your stomach twists. You shouldn’t care. You know you shouldn’t care. But the words burrow deep, hitting a place inside you that already doubts, that already wonders if you’re nothing more than a temporary obstacle in a world built for people like Gojo Satoru—people born brilliant, born wealthy, born effortless.

Fred’s eyes flick over you, assessing, smug. "You’re working yourself to the bone for what? You’ll never be at the top. Not really."

The bitterness of the situation really dawns on you—Gojo’s the one who took a jab at Fred last week, not you. But you’re the one who’s left to deal with its consequences. You’re not going to assign blame and lament that it’s not Gojo in this office dealing with him. It was in your defense, after all. 

But Fred’s words remind you. You’ll never be at the top. At Gojo’s level, who’s at the top without even seeming to put in effort.

You’ll never be his equal.

You stand abruptly, shoving your chair back so hard it scrapes against the floor. "If that’s all, I have work to do."

Fred chuckles, leaning back, clearly pleased with himself. "Sure, sure. Don’t say I never tried to give you advice."

You don’t respond. You just walk out, gripping your bag so tightly your knuckles turn white, the echo of his words following you down the hall, settling in your bones like lead.

The hallway is too bright. Too loud. Too full of people who don’t know that you’re on the verge of crumpling in on yourself like a dying star.

Your breath feels too shallow, too quick, and there’s a weight pressing down on your chest that no amount of rationalizing can shake off. It’s not even your meeting with Fred—just a slow accumulation of stress and exhaustion and frustration that’s settled deep in your bones. A grade lower than expected, an upcoming deadline you’re nowhere near prepared for, a general sense of drowning no matter how hard you try to keep up. It’s all too much, and your hands are starting to shake from how tightly you’re gripping the strap of your bag.

You just need to get out of here. You need air, space, something.

But, of course, the universe has a cruel sense of humor, because when you round the corner, you slam straight into Satoru Gojo.

“Whoa—”

Your balance is already precarious from the way you were rushing, and the impact sends you stumbling. For a split second, you think you might actually fall—your ankle twists awkwardly, the world tilts—and then there’s a strong hand gripping your wrist, another bracing against your back, steadying you before you can hit the ground.

You don’t process what happens immediately. Your mind is still stuck on too much, too fast, can’t breathe, and it takes you a second to realize that Gojo is holding you upright, his hands firm but careful, his expression hovering somewhere between amusement and concern.

“Jeez, what’s the rush?” he teases, but his voice lacks its usual careless lilt. He’s searching your face now, eyes narrowing behind his glasses, and that’s when you realize: you must look as bad as you feel.

Shit.

You jerk away from him, a little too fast, a little too sharp. “I’m fine.”

Gojo doesn’t look convinced. “You sure? Because it kinda seemed like you were about to pass out on the spot.”

“I said I’m fine.” You adjust your bag over your shoulder, shifting your weight onto your other foot, ignoring the faint throb in your ankle. “Go bother someone else.”

Most of the time, that’s enough to send him off with an exaggerated sigh and a smirk. But not today.

Today, Gojo just stands there, watching you like he’s trying to piece something together—like you’re a problem he wants to solve. He doesn’t press, not yet, but the silence stretches, and it’s unbearable, because you can feel the weight of his gaze, and you don’t want to be seen like this. Not by him.

So you give him a tight nod in dismissal, and walk away.

There’s a knock at your door. You frown because you didn’t expect any visitors, and you’re in your sleepwear. Regardless, you pad your way lazily and open the door.

To see Gojo.

What the fuck.

He’s drenched in the glow of the hallway light, looking entirely too at home despite standing on your threshold. His hair is still slightly damp from the rain, white strands falling over his forehead in careless disarray. He’s not wearing his glasses.

"Why are you here?" you demand, gripping the doorframe, willing your voice to stay steady.

He quirks an eyebrow, tilting his head just slightly. “You’re holding my jacket hostage.”

Oh. Right.

You make your way to your wardrobe, where the now-cleaned jacket hangs neatly on a hanger. Grabbing it, you hand it over to Gojo, who’s standing at your threshold while eyeing the insides of your dorm, as if trying to take in what your living space looks like. You shove it into his chest, stepping back like the heat of it burns. "Here."

Gojo takes it, but instead of leaving like a normal person, he lingers, running his fingers over the material like he’s checking for something. Then,, he lifts a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it in that way that only makes his biceps flex, his lean muscles shifting beneath his shirt. You hate that you notice.

A beat passes.

"You know," he muses, far too casually, "you seemed a little disheveled back there."

Your stomach twists. "It's not a big deal—"

"—Bullshit." His voice cuts through yours, sharp and immediate. He shifts, stepping just the tiniest bit closer, his tone losing its usual teasing lilt. “You’re lying. I saw what you looked like. What happened?”

“It's none of your business,” you say, stiffening. “Nor is it a big deal, really.”

Gojo exhales, something heavy in the sound. His eyes don’t leave yours, and for once, they aren’t filled with their usual mirth or mischief. Just something searching, something that makes your chest ache in a way you don’t have the strength to deal with right now.

"You always do that," he says, softer now, but no less intense. “Act like no one’s supposed to care. Like you’re carrying the world alone.”

Your fingers curl into your palms. Your lips press together. You don’t want to hear this. You don’t want to acknowledge the way his words settle too close to the truth.

And then, quietly, Gojo asks, “Do you not consider me your equal?”

You swallow.

Your silence must be enough of an answer because something shifts in his expression. It isn’t anger exactly, but it’s something close—something bitter and disappointed and aching all at once.

"You’re the one who shuts me out, you know." His voice is sharp now, edged with frustration. "You act like I'm the one keeping you at a distance, but every time I try to get close, you push me away."

Your throat tightens. “Why do you even care?”

Gojo lets out a breath, his head tilting just slightly, eyes scanning your face like you’re something he’s trying to figure out. Then he laughs, quiet and humorless.

“You really don’t know?”

“I—” Your voice wavers. “What do you mean—”

“For a girl so smart, you sure do act stupid.” He steps forward then, closing the space between you just enough to make you want to back away, but your feet don’t move. His voice drops lower. "Do you think I talk to you because I give a fuck about physics?"

Your brain short-circuits. “What—”

He groans, dragging a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I give zero fucks about the class or any class, trust me. I have better things to do than to try to aim for 100s on every test."

Your heart is pounding now, too loud, too fast. “Then why—”

"God," he exhales, tipping his head back, like he's debating whether or not he should even say it. Then, after a beat, he looks at you again, and whatever is in his eyes makes your stomach flip, makes your breath hitch.

Something in your chest lurches, but before you can even process it, he huffs a laugh—like he’s just remembered something ridiculous.

"You didn’t even look my way the first week," he says, eyes flicking over your face, searching. "I could tell you only cared about anyone that could challenge you. Like, it wasn’t even until I did better than you on the second midterm that you even talked to me."

You open your mouth, then close it, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Because—yeah. He’s not wrong. You had ignored him, dismissed him as just another overconfident rich kid who thought he was smarter than he was. It wasn’t until he proved himself, until he became a real obstacle in your path, that you bothered to acknowledge him.

Gojo smiles, but it’s not cocky this time—it’s small, almost rueful. "And then you looked at me like I was finally real. Like I existed."

Your breath hitches.

He shrugs, eyes dropping for a brief second before snapping back up to yours. "So, yeah. Maybe I started trying harder. Maybe I cared about all those stupid tests because it meant I got to see that fire in your eyes, that I got to be the one you were pushing against." He rubs the back of his neck, his biceps flexing in a way that would usually annoy you, but right now, you’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

Gojo stares at you for a long moment, gaze unwavering, like he’s daring you to say something—anything.

Your chest feels too tight, your pulse erratic, and you don’t know what to do with the way Gojo is looking at you—like you’re something precious, something worth holding onto.

But he’s wrong. He has to be wrong.

“You can’t like me,” you whisper.

Gojo frowns, expression shifting. “What?”

Your throat clenches, and before you can stop it, heat pricks at your eyes, blurring your vision. “You can’t like me,” you say again, voice cracking. “I can’t even match you.”

Gojo's face slackens, his teasing demeanor completely gone.

"You do everything so effortlessly," you force out, your fists clenching at your sides. "It’s so infuriating." A shaky breath escapes you, and you shake your head, looking down. “So why would you even want this? You make me feel this way, and I—I hate you for it.”

For a second, there’s only silence.

Then, Gojo exhales softly.

“Is that what you think?” His voice is so gentle it makes something inside you ache.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Gojo shifts, stepping forward slowly, carefully, like you’re something fragile. And then—then he reaches out, his fingers ghosting along your wrist before curling around it, grounding you. “It’s not effortless,” he murmurs. “I try so hard. You just don’t see it because I don’t want you to.”

"You really don’t get it, do you?" His voice is quieter now, something dangerously close to vulnerable. His fingers twitch at his sides. "I care because it’s you."

You shake your head, still not understanding, still unable to believe it.

Gojo watches you for a moment, then exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You act like I just woke up one day and decided to like you.” He huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no real amusement in it. “Do you know how long I’ve been stuck on you? How infuriating it was, realizing that no matter how much attention I got, the only person I wanted it from was too busy treating me like an obstacle?”

Your breath catches.

“I tried everything,” he continues, voice rougher now. “Teasing you, annoying you, beating you in tests, losing to you in tests. It didn’t matter what I did, because you—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “You only saw me when I gave you a reason to compete.”

Your fingers tremble slightly at your sides. You don’t know what to say, don’t even know what you can say.

And suddenly, everything—the teasing, the constant pestering, the way he always had to be around you—it all clicks into place.

Your heart hammers in your chest, and before you can second-guess it, before you can even think, you surge forward and kiss him.

It’s a mess of a kiss—too rushed, too desperate, all clashing teeth and uneven breaths—but Gojo groans softly against your lips, like he’s been waiting for this. His hands are on you immediately, one slipping around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as he presses you flush against him.

You’re dizzy. Overwhelmed. But it’s good. It’s him, and you don’t want to stop.

When you finally pull away, breathless and unsteady, Gojo is grinning, his lips slightly swollen.

“Worth the wait,” he murmurs, eyes shining.

You avert your gaze, fully blushing now. “But I—” You take a look at him, then hide your face in your hands. “I’m a stalker.”

“Maybe I’m into that.”

“No,” you bemoan. “I’ve stalked you at the gym, and I—” Your voice drops into a shameful whisper. “You were good. Like, stupidly good. Like, making everyone stare at you good.”

His lips twitch. “You were staring too, huh?”

You glare at him, but he just grins, all teeth, clearly eating this up.

“I hated it,” you insist, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “I hated that you’re already smarter than me, that you already have all these advantages, and then—and then you also have that? Like, it’s just unfair. You’re unfair.”

Gojo is silent for a second, and you think you’ve screwed up, but then exhales a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “You are so cute.”

“Stop it!” you whine, but you don’t protest when he pulls you closer and locks your lips with his another time. You clutch the front of his shirt, drag your hands on his chest, his arms, everywhere. Then, you guide his to firmly clutch your ass, to which he freezes.

“We can stop here. We don’t have to do anymore than this, and—”

But you interrupt him, slamming your lips against his once more. Grabbing him by the shoulder you pull him into your room and slam the door behind you, pushing him against the door. “Fuck no.”

He laughs breathlessly, then continues to switch your position, now you against the door. “Thank god. Now, jump.”

You do, and you almost moan at how easily he grabs you in his arms, your legs straddling him. It’s like you weigh nothing to him as he carries you over to your bed and manhandles you into it, following not long after.

When he gets on top of you, he maintains eye contact as he pulls your shirt over your head, trailing kisses down to your neck, the valley of your breasts (but not before giving each of the girls their own tender kiss), and your stomach. With his eyes boring into you, he slowly, teasingly drags the pants you were wearing down your legs until you’re just in your panties.

You let out a noise, and he coos. “I know, I know, baby.” He gives you a gentle kiss on the top of your mound, and you clench, squirming from the contact. “Let me take my time, though.”

He gently, but firmly, lays a hand on your hip as he starts licking the crotch of your panties. It’s truly maddening—the sensation is there, but you oh so wish his skilled tongue was meeting your skin, bare and electric.

He’s taking his time laving, ravishing your taste, but you’ve had enough. “Gojo, please,” you sob, throwing your head back and grinding further into his tongue, which he welcomes. “Stop teasing.”

“Mmmm,” he pretends to think, all while focused and looking only at your crotch, now rubbing your clit in small, miniscule circles. “I can, but,” and now he’s just mocking you, with the way he adopts a babying tone, “I think you’re going to have to beg for it.”

You groan in frustration as a response, but he only clicks his tongue as his fingers reach and finally rid you of your panties. He spreads your folds with two fingers, his face oh so close to your bare pussy. But instead of finally giving you what you want,  he clicks his tongue, pouting as if you’re the one forcing him to be a bastard. “Yea, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to earn it.”

Before you can respond, he holds out his tongue and inches his face even closer to your bare folds until you can feel his warm breath over it. “You just have to say please.” Then, he ahhh-s, as if holding his tongue out to a doctor and says, “Look I’m so close—ahhh.”

You can only plead with him. “Please, Gojo.”

“No, it’s Satoru to you now, baby.”

“Satoru, please eat me out.”

He smiles. “Yeaa, that’s my girl.” And proceeds to eat you out in a way that has your toes curling.

He acts like a man eating his last meal on death row. It’s the masterful combination of laving over your folds, kissing your clit, and groaning and making noises that has you inching closer and closer to your orgasm. When you tell him, you’re close, he does exactly what he’s supposed to do—keep doing what he’s doing, same spot, same tempo, same pressure.

With a cry of his name, you come quickly, and he takes your writhing hips and their motion like a champ, easing you through it. When you feel the all-too-familiar feel of over sensitivity, you grab his hair and pull him towards your face, kissing him tenderly. 

He maneuvers his huge frame to lay down next to you, and you fall easily into a gentle embrace. It’s a comfortable silence, as he burrows his face into your chest and you stroke his hair gently.

Gentler than how you’ve ever treated him.

It’s this thought exactly that you voice to him. “You know,” you muse softly. “I was such a bitch to you.” This gets his attention, because he moves from where he was comfortable (your boobs) to look at you in alarm. “Like, I was always mean, and like acting all high and mighty—”

“Whatever you think you did, it was hot,” he interrupts you, grinning boyishly. “Like damn when you insult me I get all fired up—”

“Satoru!” You laugh, shocked, looking down at him. “You’re crazy.”

“Yea,” he winks. “Crazy for you.”

You smile softly at that, biting your lip. “I mean, I get that.” You feel his curious gaze rove over you and heat creeps up your neck as you confess, “Like I was stalking you at the gym. I saw you one time, and um. You definitely have a sleeper build.”

He hums. “I get that a lot.”

“Yea,” you blurt. “you’re really hot. Like you have really big arms, which I definitely didn’t notice in all those sweaters you wear. You could definitely throw me around.”

Silence.

When you look down at him, he’s looking at you mischievously. He sits up, takes off his shirt, and says, “Want to test that theory?”

The both of you test the theory, indeed—it’s a nice nod to your guys’ academic, theoretical physics roots. But instead of some theory involving dark matter or quantum physics debated while in class, this theory takes all night to prove.

general masterlist

a/n special thank you to @purplegemadventures ily pookie <3 we were discussing how a lot of fics so far have made seem nerd gojo really cute and shy but we tried to envision a shit eating sassy diva just like hidden inventory arc <3 like what that one anon said i need my gojo to be a little annoying cocky (but cute) bastard (or, i quote, "your gojo makes me want to oil his scalp and give him an aggressive head massage and mess his hair up"). ANYWAYS props to that one anon that dropped the "nerd gojo with sleeper build" and my beloved @tiramisuandlove i love you forever

comment and reblog to let me know ur thots!

3 puppies

in another universe this in another universe that

i freaking want in this universe

Amora Orihara my Jujutsu Kaisen oc! She’s the counselor of Jujutsu High.

“Those poor boys”

“She deserves to be punished too.”

“I’m not saying I support rape, but-”

“Sorry to say - she deserved it.”

“She put herself in harm’s way”

“But if she was fingered, then that’s not rape.”

“She ruined their lives.”

JJK OC IDEAS

Please help me decide what’s good and what I should and shouldn’t keep. New ideas are also welcome, I’m new to the jjk fandom.

Akatsuki Kiko Ayumu

Recently graduated from Tokyo Jujutsu High, Ayumu is a Special Grade Sorcerer who also happens to be a vessel to Sukuna’s daughter, Yamika. She is one of the only sorcerers who could rival Gojo and she could do it without Yamika. Her and Yamika have a sisterly, bff type bound. 

Ideas 1:

Cursed Technique 1: Hemokinesis (Blood Manipulation)

Allows her to control and weaponize her own blood.

Scarlet Needles: She hardens droplets into needles midair and controls them like remote weapons.

Blood Wreath: Wraps herself in flowing blood that acts as both armor and offense—cutting anything it touches.

Drawback: Overuse causes severe anemia, dizziness, or even temporary blindness.

**Cursed Technique 2: Foresight Weaving (Fortune Telling)

A ritual-based technique using charms, dice, cards, or bones. Grants glimpses of potential future moments within a short time frame (5–10 seconds ahead max).

Quick Glimpse: Reflexive use allows her to dodge or anticipate enemy attacks.

Reading of Death: If she completes a full ritual (30 seconds undisturbed), she can view someone’s most likely death scenario—and weaponize that psychological knowledge.

Limitation: Visions aren’t guaranteed and may show misleading or symbolic outcomes. Overuse can cause confusion, nosebleeds, and hallucinations.

**Cursed Technique 3: Veil Mirage (Illusions)

Creates realistic illusions within a radius, layered with cursed energy to fool all five senses.

Phantom Doubles: Projects false versions of herself during combat.

Memory Traps: Alters an opponent’s sense of surroundings, making them think they’re reliving past traumas or locations.

Counters: Can be broken by Domain techniques or anyone with sharp cursed sensory perception.

Cursed Technique 4: Mental Displacement

Disrupts the opponent’s thoughts by injecting cursed energy directly into their mind.

Mind Lag: Briefly causes confusion or stuns enemies mid-battle, disrupting their decision-making or motor control.

Curse Whisper: Allows her to "speak" inside someone's mind, seeding doubt, fear, or false commands.

High Risk: Requires eye contact or direct focus—if resisted, it can backfire and cause mental strain or backlash.

Domain Expansion: The Crimson Tarot

A ritual space in the form of a floating red-tinted realm surrounded by spinning tarot cards and dripping sigils.

In this Domain, she can trap an opponent inside a single tarot card vision—forcing them to experience a “fated” outcome based on one of her future readings.

She can manipulate blood and illusions freely within the domain.

If her fortune telling is accurate, her power is amplified drastically. If it’s wrong, she becomes vulnerable during the backlash.

Personality:

Outward: Calm, regal, poetic speaker, always observing

Inner Conflict: Fears she may become like the curses she manipulates—beautiful but false

Habits: Carries tarot cards, wears rings filled with stored blood, burns incense when preparing to read fate

Ideas 2

Akatsuki Kiko Ayumu – Cursed Techniques Overview

Cursed Energy Style:

Refined, ritualistic, and emotionally controlled. Ayumu’s cursed energy feels cold, fluid, and sharp—like blood ink being drawn across a ritual scroll. She rarely wastes movement and calculates everything like a long-term fortune.

1. Bloodcrafting (Shōketsu no Jutsu | 血結術式)

Category: Offensive / Trap-based Ayumu manipulates her own blood, infused with cursed energy, into weapons, sigils, or tools. She doesn’t need external blood sources—her body regenerates slowly, but overuse weakens her.

Key Applications:

Crimson Vines – Razor-thin blood threads that wrap around or slice enemies like barbed wire.

Blood Sigils – Draws temporary glyphs on surfaces or air. They activate when touched, causing explosions, illusions, or paralysis.

Bloodbound Tether – Links her body to someone else’s—if they injure her, they suffer a mirrored wound (short duration).

Limitations: If she loses too much blood, her control becomes unstable and vision begins to blur.

2. Fortune Threading (Enkaku no Unmei | 遠隔の運命)

Category: Support / Predictive Ayumu reads spiritual threads of fate using cursed tools—usually bone dice, inked cards, or red string. This isn’t absolute prediction, but a glimpse at high-probability outcomes.

Key Applications:

Thread Sight – In battle, she sees faint threads representing actions the enemy may take. Lets her dodge, counter, or feint accurately.

False Fate – Can implant a false prediction into the enemy’s mind. Makes them question their next move.

Death Thread Ritual – Requires 15 seconds of uninterrupted casting. If completed, she sees how someone is most likely to die—and can use that knowledge to psychologically manipulate them.

Limitations: Cannot predict random variables (like someone under mental manipulation or outside interference).

3. Red Veil Illusions (Aka no Gen'ei | 赤の幻影)

Category: Illusion / Disruption Ayumu casts layered, multi-sensory illusions by weaving cursed energy into the five senses. These are usually subtle and manipulative rather than flashy.

Key Applications:

Sensory Swap – Temporarily reverses left/right or up/down sensations in enemies, disorienting them.

Echohall – Creates a hallway or room that loops infinitely until the target realizes it’s an illusion.

Whisper Illusion – Implants a voice into someone’s mind, mimicking a loved one or past trauma to break their guard.

Limitations: Illusions don’t work on those with Domain Amplification or extremely high cursed energy perception.

4. Mind Bloom (Shinsō no Hana | 心層の華)

Category: Psychological / Mental Invasion Ayumu can touch a person's cursed energy field and implant a thought, emotion, or subtle memory distortion.

Key Applications:

Emotion Shift – Causes enemies to feel false emotions like regret, joy, guilt, or dread—useful for interrupting combat rhythm.

Mirror Thought – Briefly syncs with an enemy’s instinctive thought process, letting her copy their fighting rhythm.

Memory Sway – Makes someone believe she said or did something she never did (e.g., "I already placed a seal on you").

Limitations: Requires close proximity or physical connection. Drains her focus, leaving her vulnerable if used too long.

Synergy Between Techniques:

Ayumu often starts fights indirectly, using illusions or false emotions to unnerve or confuse.

She uses blood sigils to control space and fortune threading to decide when to strike.

When pressed, she switches to Crimson Vines and Mirror Thought to engage in direct combat, never without a layered mind game.

Her opponents rarely realize she’s already influenced them—until it’s too late.

Ayumu is a young sorcerer known for her quiet intensity, emotional depth, and resilient heart. She’s not the loudest or the flashiest, but when she moves—people watch. There’s something in the way she carries herself, like she’s walking a tightrope between light and shadow, grace and rage.

Ayumu isn’t just strong because of cursed techniques or battle skills—she’s strong because she’s endured, she’s chosen, and she keeps choosing the harder path.

Core Personality Traits:

1. Empathetic but Not Soft

Ayumu feels deeply—pain, joy, sorrow—but she’s not fragile.

She doesn’t believe in looking away from suffering; instead, she stares it down and learns from it.

People come to her when they need quiet understanding, not loud motivation.

“You don’t have to say it. I already know. And I’m still here.”

2. Morally Grey, But Self-Aware

Ayumu isn’t a goody-goody hero. She’s made ruthless choices when she had to—but she owns them.

She holds others accountable, but never pretends to be perfect herself.

Believes the ends can justify the means—but only if you don’t lose yourself in the process.

3. Independent but Not Distant

She doesn’t rely on others emotionally, but she doesn’t isolate either.

She values earned trust and mutual respect, not blind loyalty.

If you earn her friendship, it’s for life—but betray her, and you’ll never get back in.

4. Intellectually Sharp

Ayumu reads people well—picks up on microexpressions, tone shifts, lies.

She's strategic in battle, often reading the flow of cursed energy and intent before others do.

She’s also emotionally intelligent, which is part of why Yamika listens to her.

5. Quietly Rebellious

She doesn’t start fights with authority—but she never blindly obeys it.

If the higher-ups make a call she disagrees with, she’ll find her own way—even if it means going rogue.

She questions everything and often chooses compassion over command.

Motivations and Inner Conflict:

Her Main Drive:

To protect what matters without becoming what she hates.

Ayumu is always asking herself:

How far can I go before I become a monster?

What’s the point of saving others if I lose myself?

Can someone like me—who holds a curse inside—still do good in this world?

These questions keep her grounded. They’re what separate her from sorcerers who become twisted by the system—or by their own trauma.

Combat Style (Briefly, without techniques):

Fluid and fierce—Ayumu blends elegance with lethal efficiency.

Fights with a measured calm, striking only when necessary—but when she does, it’s devastating.

Uses misdirection, feints, and psychological tactics to unnerve enemies.

Relationships & Interactions:

With Yamika:

As we explored, Ayumu sees Yamika as a companion, not a curse. Their bond is her most dangerous and most meaningful connection.

With Mentors (Gojo, Nanami):

Gojo likes her for her unpredictability, and sees her as someone with the potential to “rewrite the rules.”

Nanami respects her quiet strength and often acts like a reluctant uncle figure—calm, firm, and protective.

With Allies:

Ayumu tends to draw in outcasts, broken people, or those who’ve been judged.

She listens. She validates. And she gives people the courage to be who they are.

Symbolism & Themes Around Her:

Ember imagery: She burns quietly—but she never goes out. Even when smothered, she glows in the dark, waiting for the moment to ignite.

Balance: She walks the line between curse and sorcerer, love and destruction, justice and vengeance.

Mirror and Shadow: She reflects the best in others—but carries the shadows they fear.

Yamika Sukuna

Curse Technique Ideas:

1. Blood Garden (血の苑 - Chi no Sono):

Grows blood-soaked flowers or thorns from surfaces (or bodies).

Each flower blooms by feeding off fear or pain.

They explode or entangle, depending on the user's mood.

2. Cursed Blossom Illusions:

She creates a beautiful illusionary realm full of deadly flora.

Victims experience a dream-like hallucination where time distorts and perception is warped.

Combines her illusion craft with Sukuna's psychological intimidation.

3. Inherited Malevolence (Technique passed down from Sukuna):

Can create small versions of Sukuna’s slashing attacks (Dismantle/Cleave), but in an artistic or graceful form—like ribbon slashes or blossom-shaped bursts.

Possibly has her own variation: “Petal Severance” – a slash that cuts not flesh, but “intention” (it stops cursed techniques or instincts briefly).

4. Heavenly Womb of Rot:

Symbolizing a cursed "birthright," she can implant seeds of decay inside people during battle, causing them to rot from the soul out unless they break her illusion.

This acts as both a trap and a slow-burn execution.

Her Domain Expansion could resemble a crimson garden of decay, where every bloom is a cursed wound.

Personality Overview:

Yamika is the embodiment of chaotic allure—a cursed beauty who thrives on attention, domination, and fear. She's a confident, flirtatious sadist who enjoys playing with her prey—mentally, emotionally, and sometimes romantically—before delivering a crushing blow. Her presence is both intoxicating and terrifying.

Flirtatious & Teasing:

Constantly flirts with enemies, allies, or even people she plans to kill. Her tone is silky, her smile wicked.

Uses pet names like “darling,” “sweet thing,” or “little plaything.”

Touches people without warning, trailing a finger along their jaw, or plucking lint from their shoulder—then laughing when they flinch.

Treats combat like foreplay: “Don’t go dying too quickly—I like them squirmy.”

Cocky & Confident:

Carries herself like a goddess among mortals—she fully believes she’s superior in blood, beauty, and brains.

Often mocks others for their “pathetic emotions” or “heroic complexes,” but she’s never overtly angry—just amused.

Loves being underestimated, only to make her opponent regret it.

Tends to speak as if victory is inevitable: “You already lost, darling. You just haven’t realized it yet.”

Twisted Sense of Love & Ownership:

Gets weirdly possessive over anyone who impresses her in battle or shows resistance to her charms—treats them like pets or potential “toys.”

Might “fall in love” with an enemy mid-fight, only to try and break them emotionally.

Will jokingly propose or flirt with someone she's torturing: “Marry me, won’t you? Or do I have to break your legs first?”

How She Views Sukuna:

Calls him “Daddy” in a teasing or sarcastic tone—she’s not afraid of him, but she does crave recognition.

Fluctuates between mocking Sukuna’s brutality and admiring it, saying things like: “Daddy could learn a thing or two from me. I kill with style.”

May be rebellious, but would never allow anyone else to insult him—only she gets to do that.

Voice & Mannerisms:

Speaks with a playful lilt, like she’s always on the verge of laughter.

Frequently licks her lips, tilts her head, or leans in far too close when talking.

Laughs when people scream—especially if they beg or confess.

When irritated, her voice gets calm and cold, which is more dangerous than when she’s smiling.

Yamika & Ayumu – Cursed Soul Sisters

Though Yamika is the daughter of Sukuna and a powerful curse in her own right, her relationship with her vessel, Ayumu, defies the typical parasitic dynamic seen in Jujutsu Kaisen. Instead of domination or hatred, the two share an unexpectedly strong, sister-like bond built on mutual respect, survival, and an eerie sense of loyalty.

How the Bond Formed:

When Yamika was sealed inside Ayumu, it wasn’t immediate chaos. Unlike Sukuna, Yamika didn’t try to overpower her host—she was curious. Intrigued by Ayumu’s fire, vulnerability, and values, Yamika watched quietly... and then started talking.

Over time, the two began to understand each other. Where most curses would try to erode a host’s will, Yamika found herself admiring Ayumu’s conviction—and even sharing some of it.

Shared Morals and Values:

Freedom & Autonomy: Both women value their freedom to make their own choices, and hate being used as pawns—whether by higher-ups, curses, or fate.

Selective Mercy: Though Yamika is a flirtatious killer, she doesn’t enjoy senseless violence. Like Ayumu, she believes that those who are truly innocent should be spared—though she’ll still tease them.

Hating Hypocrisy: They both loathe those who wear masks of justice but act out of selfishness. Whether it’s a corrupt sorcerer or a self-righteous exorcist, Yamika and Ayumu see right through it—and agree they deserve to be exposed or destroyed.

Value of Beauty and Identity: Ayumu takes pride in being herself, despite being judged. Yamika, though more chaotic, respects this deeply. She believes in being unapologetically who you are—even if the world fears you.

Their Sisterly Dynamic:

Protective of Each Other: Yamika doesn’t allow just anyone to harm Ayumu. If someone threatens her vessel, Yamika’s usual teasing tone vanishes—and something colder, older, and deadly takes its place. Ayumu, meanwhile, has grown to defend Yamika emotionally when others call her a monster.

Constant Bickering... Like Sisters: Ayumu rolls her eyes at Yamika’s flirtatious remarks or drama queen moments. Yamika pokes fun at Ayumu’s moral dilemmas or crushes. But beneath it all, there’s a fierce loyalty.

Late-Night Conversations in the Mindscape: When Ayumu can’t sleep, Yamika talks to her. They share memories, joke about people they hate, or argue about what “love” really means. Yamika sometimes sings in a soft voice, just to mess with Ayumu—or comfort her.

Blended Strengths: In battle, they’ve found ways to fight in sync—Ayumu with her martial arts and technique, Yamika lending cursed energy or manipulating the field with poetic precision. Their synergy is eerie... and powerful.

Shared Body, Shared Will – Yamika & Ayumu’s Synchronization

As their bond matured, Ayumu and Yamika developed a rare, almost seamless ability to cohabitate their body, going far beyond the typical vessel-curse dynamic. Unlike Sukuna and Yuji, who often clash violently over control, Yamika and Ayumu function more like two souls sharing a single body with fluidity and mutual understanding.

Body Sharing Dynamics:

1. Voluntary Switching:

Either one can take the lead depending on the situation.

Ayumu usually handles daily life, emotions, and personal interactions.

Yamika steps forward during battle, interrogation, or when Ayumu is in danger—or just when she’s bored and wants to "play."

The switch is smooth, instant, and often accompanied by visual cues—like a change in eye color, body language, or voice tone.

2. Co-Presence:

Even when one is in control, the other is fully aware, watching, and can comment or guide from within.

Their mental link allows them to have full conversations internally, whether arguing, joking, or strategizing.

It’s not uncommon for Ayumu to laugh at something Yamika says in her head, confusing those around her.

Moments of True Fusion:

In moments of deep emotional stress or combat intensity, their personalities can blend into one, creating a version of Ayumu that moves with Yamika’s confidence and cruelty, or a version of Yamika softened by Ayumu’s empathy.

This fusion isn’t just physical—it’s spiritual. They feel each other's pain, joy, and instinct.

“When I bleed, she burns. When she smiles, I breathe. We are two voices in one song.” – Ayumu

Unique Advantages of Their Bond:

Dual Processing: Yamika can warn Ayumu of danger mid-battle or point out emotional manipulation others might miss.

Emotional Anchoring: Ayumu keeps Yamika grounded when her bloodlust flares. Yamika, in turn, lends Ayumu strength when she’s emotionally overwhelmed.

False Vulnerability: Enemies who think they’re facing just Ayumu are often surprised when Yamika suddenly takes over mid-fight with a smirk and a chilling “My turn, sweetheart.”

Other People’s Reactions:

Sorcerers are deeply unsettled by how well they function together—some even fear Ayumu has been corrupted beyond saving.

Friends often can’t tell who they’re speaking to unless they look closely at her eyes or listen to the subtle change in her tone.

Enemies often think they’re hallucinating when Ayumu suddenly starts flirting like a predator—or when Yamika shows unexpected mercy.

The Sorcerers’ Perspective: Gojo & Nanami on Yamika and Ayumu

Gojo’s View – Amused Respect & Quiet Worry:

Gojo Satoru, with his sharp intuition and ability to see beyond the obvious, doesn’t believe for a second that Yamika behaves simply because of compatibility. He has a theory—one he sometimes shares half-jokingly but always with serious undertones:

“Yamika’s not the kind of curse who follows anyone. She’s not tame. She’s impressed. And she’s smart enough to know when she's outclassed—morally, at least.”

He believes Yamika stays in line because Ayumu doesn’t need her to be powerful. That terrifies most curses. But for Yamika? It intrigues her.

Gojo sees it as a balance of equals, not dominance.

“Ayumu can be ruthless all on her own. She chooses restraint. And Yamika? She's in awe of that kind of control—because she doesn’t have it herself.”

Gojo teases Ayumu about being the only person to ever “tame a curse by making it fall in love with her spine.”

Nanami’s View – Analytical & Protective:

Nanami is more reserved, but he’s observed Yamika’s behavior with Ayumu over time and drawn a strategic conclusion:

“This is not possession. This is partnership. And if anything… the curse follows the sorcerer’s lead.”

To Nanami, Yamika isn’t the threat people think she is—not because she lacks power, but because Ayumu’s will is stronger.

He’s watched Ayumu fight, bleed, and win without ever surrendering herself to Yamika’s influence, and in that strength, Yamika found something rare: respect.

“Curses obey power. Yamika obeys something greater: admiration. Ayumu’s self-mastery is the chain, and it’s one Yamika chooses not to break.”

Nanami worries, though—if Ayumu ever falters, emotionally or morally, Yamika might take the wheel… and never give it back.

Why Yamika “Behaves”:

Not fear. Not submission. But fascination.

Yamika is used to being feared, hated, or sealed. But Ayumu stood beside her, looked her in the eye, and never flinched.

That single act rewrote Yamika’s entire perspective.

“She doesn’t need me to win. She just lets me be part of it. How could I not adore her?”– Yamika, half-mocking, half-sincere

Yamika may flirt, tease, and provoke, but she’s genuinely impressed by Ayumu’s strength, restraint, and ability to lead a path of her own—without fully rejecting the curse that lives within her.

In Ayumu, Yamika sees not weakness—but a mirror of what she could be, if she had ever been human.

Ayumu’s Perspective on Yamika – A Curse, a Companion, a Reflection

Ayumu doesn’t view Yamika as just a curse lodged in her soul. She’s too perceptive, too emotionally grounded for that. While the world might call Yamika a monster, a demon, or a ticking time bomb, Ayumu sees something else—something far more nuanced and far more personal.

At First: Caution and Curiosity

When Yamika first awakened inside her, Ayumu was wary—but not afraid. She knew who Sukuna was, and the idea that his daughter now shared her body should have been a nightmare.

But Yamika didn’t strike immediately. She didn’t scream, claw, or try to rip control away.

She watched. She listened.

And Ayumu, ever-introspective, found herself doing the same.

What Ayumu Saw in Her:

1. A Mirror of Power—Untamed and Unrefined

Ayumu realized quickly: Yamika is powerful, yes—but that power lacks anchor or direction. It’s pure, raw, destructive instinct—but not without intelligence or emotion.

“She has the strength to destroy cities, but the heart of someone who’s never known love without fear.”

Ayumu doesn’t see a mindless curse. She sees potential. Someone who could be more if they just had someone to walk beside—rather than chain them down.

2. An Equal—Not a Tool or a Burden

Ayumu has always believed that people—even curses—deserve to choose who they want to be. And Yamika? For all her flirtation and violence, she chooses not to dominate Ayumu. She offers. Suggests. Even teases.

But never forces.

“She doesn’t need me. But she stays. That means something.”

Ayumu admires that. Deeply.

3. A Companion in Darkness

Ayumu has had her own brushes with pain, loneliness, and being misunderstood. While she keeps her heart warm, she knows what it’s like to carry something monstrous inside.

Yamika isn’t just a curse. She’s the voice in Ayumu’s mind that whispers strength when she’s weak, beauty when she feels broken, and fury when injustice burns too hot.

They don’t always agree—but Yamika never abandons her. And Ayumu would never abandon Yamika.

“If I can love the worst parts of myself... maybe she can learn to love herself too.”

Their Bond, From Ayumu’s Side:

Protective: Ayumu will argue with Yamika, but she won’t let others insult or dismiss her. Yamika may be a curse—but she’s hers.

Empathetic: Ayumu senses the pain behind Yamika’s smirks. She can feel it ripple through their shared soul. And in moments of silence, she offers gentle understanding, not judgment.

Grounded: Yamika tempts her toward darkness, toward revenge, toward indulgence. But Ayumu chooses her own way—and Yamika respects her more for it.

In Ayumu’s Words:

“Yamika is fire—beautiful, unpredictable, and dangerous. But fire isn’t evil. It just needs something strong enough to hold it. I don’t fear her. I see her. And I think… maybe she’s starting to see herself too.”

The Shadowsinger and The Mistress of Love and Lust Pt.2

As the first rays of dawn break over the horizon, I finally allow myself to rest, leaning against him, our bodies entwined. His once bloody and torn wings are now starting to heal, the skin slowly knitting itself back together. There's still a long way to go, but we've made it through the night, and that's a victory in itself. I let myself relax against the man who I had loved for centuries the one who is now my mate, we haven't even gotten to talk about it the way we are bound to each other. To be completely honest I don’t know if I should even be sleeping beside him since he has said nothing to me other then “Mate” that doesn't mean he accepts it but it also doesn't mean he doesn’t.

I close my eyes, allowing the exhaustion to take over. But even as I drift off, I know that when I wake, I'll be ready to face another day, to continue the fight, to heal and protect my mate. I also know that he will do the same for me even if he doesn’t accept the Bond because that is just the type of man he is one with a heart. You may not be able to tell under all the brooding and shadowy exterior but he is one of the kindest most genuine men I have ever met.

His soft whisper rouses me from my sleep, "Thank you, Cici," and I squeeze his hand in response, and blush lightly noticing our proximity and the way we are both covered in his blood. “uh how about a bath?” I ask easing up from the bed moaning my exhaustion taking over me. Before my pain fully takes over I could’ve swore he said something about how he’d only take one if I joined him. I feel my old scars they are sore and my eyes are slowly lose their sight. I think quickly and using the last of my strength I winnow to Cassian and Nesta’s tent. “Cass? Nes?”

I stumble in blindly bumping into a wall- wait not a wall my best friend, Cass! “Cia are you alright?” he asks shaking me lightly and looking me over. “Where's Az is he ok” he asks frantic. “H-he's fine but I need help,” I say shakily. “My powers are weak and without anything to refuel them before I'm done with Az….” My eyes are welling up with my bloody gold tears and I let them fall.

Cass scoops me into a warm, brotherly hug. I hear Nesta approach, “What do you need to refuel?” she asks me and I can’t help but assume she is crossing her arms like I have watched her do for years when she gets curious. I smile, my senses and skills really show when I'm blind it almost makes me want to stay this way, but I will miss colors and glitter being able to see my family's smiling faces.

“Blood,” my voice shaky as I say it. Nesta huffs and hear footsteps shuffling around next thing I know I loose the presence of my best friend and I'm left myself. I can’t help but let my tears fall. I hear them again and Nesta approaches me grabbing my hands. “Eris said he’ll help he said he's done it before,” she says in a hushed tone.

Which brings me back to the time I spent with Eris camped in a cave hiding from threats, as he survived on animals we killed and my powers keeping him afloat as I kept myself replenished with his strong High Fae blood. He was the first High Fae I had ever drunken from. He allowed me to keep drinking from him as long as he stayed strong and healthy we survived 4 months out in the wilderness that way.

“Where is he?! I need it now,” I say agitated wanting to get back to my mate. “He is going to the healing tent to gather supplies,” “Alright thank you so much Nes,” I said leaning up to give her a kiss on the check which ends up rather sloppily on her ear. She laughs, a sound I haven’t heard from her in awhile. Eris helps me and gives me a few bags of fresh blood so I don't have to wonder around like that again. I rush back to Az fully recharged and ready to help him as much as I can.

in another universe I have a reason to be like this

“Scare the world: Be exactly who you say you are and tell the truth.”

— The Shock of Honesty

Fic/ Lore idea pt.3 2/2

Scene: Jujutsu High Dorm Room – Midnight

The mirror above the dresser was half-fogged from her earlier shower.

Yamika, no longer in her “Yume” persona, sat on the bed with damp, loosely braided hair. The piercings and neon colors were gone. Her bare face was pale in the moonlight, faint shadows under her eyes.

The contacts were gone too—leaving her natural, swirling irises exposed, colors shifting softly like mood rings beneath her lashes.

She sat quietly, legs crossed, eyes fixed on the floor.

“You’re breathing weird,” came Ayumu’s voice from inside. Gentle. A little amused.

Yamika huffed, barely smiling. “He smiled at me.”

“Yuji?”

She groaned and collapsed back against the mattress dramatically. “Ugh, yes. And he has a nice smile. Why does he have a nice smile? Why do I care about his smile?!”

Ayumu laughed inside their shared mind. “Maybe you like him.”

“I shouldn’t. He’s... he’s my dad’s little sleepover buddy!”

“You don’t get to choose feelings like this. Believe me.”

Yamika curled into the blanket, muttering, “It’s disgusting. I’m disgusting. He’s—he’s good. He’s golden retriever nice. He talks with his mouth full. He gets excited about sushi. He gives people his last piece without thinking about it.”

Ayumu’s voice softened. “So you noticed all that, huh?”

Yamika shut her eyes. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

A long pause passed.

Then Yamika said quietly, “What about you? You think about him?”

Ayumu hesitated. Then: “Every day.”

Yamika smiled a little. “You love him, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Ayumu whispered. “So much it hurts. Every time I see him smile at me, I want to freeze time. But we can’t tell anyone. Not ever. Not even Gojo knows how long he’ll be able to keep it secret.”

Yamika was quiet, letting that settle over them.

“You’re braver than me,” she added. “Letting yourself feel that.”

Yamika’s eyes flicked to the ceiling. “Does it still count as a crush if I want to punch myself in the face for it?”

Ayumu snorted. “Oh, absolutely.”

They both laughed quietly, the room soft with the sound of it.

After a moment, Yamika whispered, “I didn’t think I was capable of this. Of… caring. But now I don’t want to stop.”

“Then don’t,” Ayumu said gently. “We’re more than what we were made from. You especially.”

They sat together in silence—two voices, one body, one heart tangled in two directions.

And for the first time in a long while, Yamika didn’t feel alone.