If you’re the art, I’ll be the brush.—G.S.
Paring: Gojo Satoru x Zenin!Reader. ~.~ Word count-9,389.
Synopsis: Long after the fall of Geto and the shattering of their youth, she kept her silence—sharp, tall, strategic—a predator in plain sight. A special grade sorcerer who never needed to shine, because even Gojo Satoru watched her in the shadows. Once her crush faded into ash, but watching him now—softening for the first-years, laughing like the past hadn’t ruined him—rekindles something she thought she buried.
A/N- one part series of a slow-burning reconnection between two monsters of the battlefield—both too powerful, too stubborn, and now… too vulnerable to look away.
Inspired by the song “Bad Liar” by Selena Gomez.
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The late afternoon sun poured through the wide windows of the Jujutsu Tech training ground, casting long shadows across the smooth, polished floor. The air was humid with the heat of summer and the sparring of sweat-drenched first-years. Echoes of punches, grunts, and Gojo’s voice floated through the space like a well-rehearsed opera of chaos and care. It was loud. It was messy. And somehow, it was beautiful. Like him. Like her. Like every disaster worth watching in slow motion.
She leaned against the wall again. Like she always did. Her left shoulder pressed to the cool concrete, arms crossed, one boot up against the surface. The scar on her left—once green eye is slowly fading into obscurity of grey color—she would think so since she got the wind of Suguru’s curse scratch down her retina five years ago, she was too slow to use reverse cursed technique to heal herself since her limbs were on the verge of breaking.
The scar caught the sunlight in a thin glimmer, slicing down her cheekbone like a mark of prophecy. Her silence wasn’t threatening—it was calculating. Always watching. Always still. The predator among sheep. Maybe among tigers. Looking at Gojo. She tutted correcting herself in her head, maybe a cat.
"Yuji! Chin up when you punch, you’re not swatting flies!" Gojo’s voice rang clear amidst the chaos of fighting.
Nobara just hit the air with her hammer behind Gojo’s back—thinking she’ll take advantage of the distraction but fell to the ground, hitting her ribs
"NO INFINITY, YOU PROMISED" she howled, cradling her side, she glared up at the sky—as if the concept of Infinity itself had double-crossed her. Gojo turned, his blindfold twitching slightly as he blinked innocently. Infinity was on. Of course it was. This man lies like he breathes—with a twinkle and an agenda.
"She’s right what’s the point of us training if you use limitless—AHHHHH SENSEIIIII" Gojo snatched Yuji’s ankle off the ground, turning off the Mugen, throwing him up and away like a rock across the training ground, Yuji soared through the air screaming and hitting the ground noisily. "There no infinity. Come at me, babies" Gojo said smiling like a saint and a sinner rolled into one.
She tilted her head just slightly to the side. Watching him. Again. For the third time that week, and the fifteenth time this month.
Her jaw tightened imperceptibly acknowledging herself.
She hadn’t meant to linger. She never lingered.
But something about seeing Gojo with Yuji lately, his careless teasing, the way his hand would ruffle the boy’s hair, the softness that slipped into his voice when he thought no one was listening—was unspooling threads she had long buried beneath blood, duty, and silence.
That kind of affection…She’d only ever seen it from him with Suguru.
“She was walking down the street the other day, trying to distract herself…”
It had started there. A casual walk through the market district. Pretending to study curses leaking through the alleys. Pretending to look at ingredients for miso soup. But really, distracting herself.
Silver hair. Tall figure. A saunter no one could mimic.
“Then I see his face oh wait that’s someone else…”
She’d turned, startled, pulse skipping like a skipped record—only to face someone else.
Only to realize it was just some other student with silver dye and too much attitude.
"Tch," she murmured under her breath, turning her head as if disgusted.
But really, it was to hide the bitter curve of a smirk.
“Trying to play it coy, trying to make it disappear but just like the battle of Troy there’s nothing subtle here…”
She is trying to play it coy, tryin’ to make it disappear but that feeling. She’d buried it. Years ago. When the world crumbled under the weight of Suguru’s descent. When everything light turned brittle. When even Gojo began to blur beneath the weight of grief and duty.
She’d buried her crush alongside their golden youth.
But now watching Gojo tease Megumi, trying to kick above Yuji’s pink hair with ease, play-fight with Nobara, and drop his usual cocky mask for a sliver of something softer—something hurt again.
Like the battle of fucking Troy.
Gojo turned toward her with that trademark smile. The blindfold couldn’t hide the fact that he was staring.
"Y’know," he called across the space. "If you keep leaning against walls like that, you’re gonna leave an imprint."
She said nothing. Just lifted a brow, her other green eye sharp like a blade honed on silence.
There it was again—that pulse in his throat. That awareness. He didn’t know if it was new or old. But something about the way her gaze lingered lately, the way her hands twitched slightly during training, the way she never quite met his eyes like she used to—made him curious.
She walked away without a glance—neither toward him, nor the students, nor the yawning sky that stretched above the courtyard. No flinch. No final look. Just the calm, predatory ease of someone who had already made her mark.
Gojo watched her go, grin faltering just slightly as the sound of her footsteps faded.
Megumi’s deadpan voice sliced the silence:
"Nice going, sensei. I was only showing off because she was watching."
"I want her to train me," Megumi continued, tone flat, unimpressed. "You ruined it."
Gojo clutched his chest dramatically. "Ouch, Luke, I thought I was your FATHER!"
"You’re not Darth Vader. Stop."
Yuji snorted behind them. Nobara rolled her eyes so hard it was audible.
But Gojo? He just stared at the space she had left behind, hand still over his heart.
"She didn’t even look back…" he muttered.
Megumi narrowed his eyes. "Yeah. Because you keep opening your mouth."
"She trained Todo," Megumi went on, each word flat and pointed like a damn shuriken. "He’s in his third year. Already on the verge of becoming a grade one sorcerer—"
But Gojo wasn’t listening.
His eyes were still on the far wall. The one she’d leaned against. The concrete still looked cooler somehow. Like it remembered her better than he did.
"—and she didn’t even want to train him at first," Megumi added, almost like an afterthought. "He begged. For weeks."
Gojo tilted his head, a slow grin crawling across his face like he’d just heard a dirty secret.
"Begged, like on his knees begged?"
"Oh my god, that’s hilarious. I bet he tried to show her his abs."
Gojo gasped. Dramatically.
Yuji, from the side, muffled a laugh. "I thought you were already in love with yourself to even care about others."
Nobara crossed her arms. "He’s spiraling."
Gojo finally blinked—once, twice—and pushed his blindfold up just enough to rub the bridge of his nose.
"Alright. Alright. Focus," he muttered. "I’m the strongest. I’m also extremely hot. I don’t get ignored."
Yuji leaned in toward Megumi. "He’s going through the five stages of rejection, isn’t he?"
"We’re on stage three," Megumi said. "Delusion."
Gojo dropped his blindfold back down, straightened, and clapped once like he hadn’t just had a minor crisis.
"Let’s spar!" he declared brightly, bouncing on his heels. "And this time—no mercy."
"Someone’s compensating," Nobara muttered. But lifted her hammer up, charging toward him— not knowing Gojo has switched on his infinity.
—*—*—*—*—* —*—*—*—*—* —*—*—*—*—* —*—*
Shoko’s voice broke the silence like a scalpel through gauze.
She didn’t wait for an answer—just tossed the cold can of coffee into her best mate’s hand the way she always had. For ten years. Maybe more. Muscle memory now.
She caught it without looking. "No."
Shoko scoffed. "You’re lying."
The kind that only existed between two people who’d walked through war zones together. Literal and emotional.
"You’re thinking about Satoru," Shoko said, casually brutal.
Her jaw ticked—barely—but it said more than words could.
With her feelings on cursed fire, she really was a bad liar.
Shoko didn’t press. She never did. She just took a drag from her cigarette, the cherry end glowing like a truth she’d already accepted.
She exhaled, slow. Smoke and irony, threaded together.
"You still think you buried it," she murmured, flicking ash into the wind like it was poetry. "But it was never dead. Just dormant."
The breeze carried the silence between them, thick with old blood and new ache.
Somewhere far off, a train passed. The clang of rails and momentum. Unstoppable.
Just like what was coming.
—*—*—*—*—* —*—*—*—*—* —*—*—*—*—* —*—*
"In her room, there’s a king-size space, bigger than it used to be…"
Her room felt larger lately.
She’d rearranged the furniture. Tried to distract herself. But no matter what she did, there was an ache in the center of the mattress—like something was missing. Or like someone could be there.
Her fingers twitched over the pillow beside her as she stared up at the ceiling, The untouched one. The guest that never arrived.
"If he want, he can rent this place, call her an amenity…"
A scoff escaped her throat before she could swallow it.
She rolled onto her stomach, face buried in the soft white pillow. Groaning like the weight might press the thoughts out of her skull.
Because no matter how strong she was—how deadly, how silent, how invincible in combat—she couldn’t fight what bloomed when she looked at him now.
And it was worse than a curse.
—*—*—*—*—* —*—*—*—*—* —*—*—*—*—* —*—*
Training again. Same ground. Same sweat. Same cocky Gojo voice.
"C’mon, Megumi. You hit like a toddler with unresolved trust issues—"
"Gojo," her voice cut through the air—cool, flat, deliberate.
She stepped past him without a glance, eyes locked on Megumi as she adjusted the boy’s stance with a firm grip on his elbow. "Let him breathe."
Gojo’s grin twitched beneath the blindfold.
Megumi, surprised but clearly pleased, looked up at her. "Sensei—"
"Still not training you."
Gojo’s smile faltered for half a second.
Because she never touched anyone during training.
Not even Todo—who practically begged for it.
She coached from a distance. Precision sharp as glass. Corrections snapped like commands. Power radiating without contact.
But today—she reached out.
Fingers around Megumi’s elbow. Steady. Firm. Calm like pressure on a bleeding wound.
And Gojo noticed the flicker in Megumi’s face too—surprise, pride… maybe even reverence.
Gojo chuckled low, smooth, masking whatever that was twisting in his gut.
"Didn’t know I needed your permission to teach now," he drawled.
"You don’t," she replied evenly. "But Megumi’s hair’s officially worse than yours."
Then turned, watching her walk away—long black hair swaying like a dark flag of indifference.
Megumi tilted his head, patting his hair down in mild panic. "Really?"
—*—*—*—*—* —*—*—*—*—* —*—*—*—*—* —*—*
Later that day, they stood alone beneath the red slant of twilight.
Everyone else had gone inside.
Just the two of them again.
She was leaning, again—back against the wall, arms crossed, her shadow curse energy curling around her like smoke made sentient.
He stood across from her, hands in his pockets. Swaying back and forth on his heels
"I saw you watching me," Gojo said, voice casual. But it wasn’t. She didn’t blink.
"Damn," he laughed under his breath, trying to slice through the tension. "Should I be flattered or terrified?"
"I’m a little of both," he offered with a grin.
His grin faltered. Barely—but enough.
"You were always the quiet one," he said after a beat. "The one who made me nervous when we were first years, thought you ought to kill me or Sugu—" an abrupt clearing of throat, followed with "You never tried to shine like I did. But somehow… everyone noticed when you walked in."
She moved. Pushed off the wall. Took a single step forward—measured, like always.
"You didn’t used to care who noticed," she murmured. "But now you do."
"You’re gentler than you used to be."
Gojo laughed—too loud, too fast. "Are you saying I’m going soft?"
"No," she said, steady at first. But then her voice wavered like something fragile held too long. "I’m saying…"
She turned away, eyes fixed on the horizon where twilight bled into the earth.
"…I think I’m falling for the same version of you twice."
Gojo’s grin cracked, then vanished entirely.
"You’re joking," he said. Too quickly. Too defensively. Like the sound of her truth had knocked the wind out of him.
She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t teasing.
Her right eye caught the last ember of sunlight—green, burning, scarred. That scar—so vivid in this light—looked like it still hurt.
He was standing there, brilliant and wordless, like a man watching a wave swell too fast to run from.
Enough to leave space. Enough to not make him choose.
Her shadow followed her like a secret she refused to explain.
"I don’t expect you to feel the same," she murmured, her voice low, fragile, but clear. "I thought I outgrew it. I really did. But now… every time I watch you serpentine around them like you were born to protect instead of destroy—I forget how to breathe."
Gojo’s breath caught in his throat.
Something flickered behind his blindfold. Not the usual mischief. Not amusement. Something deeper. Older. A memory he thought he’d buried.
Because Satoru Gojo didn’t get caught off guard.
He was the spectacle. The one the world either worshipped or feared. The storm that cracked the sky. The invincible.
She was the silence that swallowed him whole.
The kind of silence that demanded honesty. That asked nothing… and somehow took everything.
Because for the first time in forever—he didn’t know if he had the right words. Not for her.
Not when the truth tasted like guilt and longing in equal measure.
And not when the quiet between them said more than he ever had.
—*—*—*—*—* —*—*—*—*—* —*—*—*—*—* —*—*
Later, in his room—alone—Gojo lay flat on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, the blindfold crumpled in his fist. The ceiling stared back blankly, and for the first time in weeks, the stillness in his room wasn’t comforting. It was echoing.
The space beside him on the mattress—usually unbothered by its vacancy—felt like a gaping void now.
She could rent this place if she wanted.
Hell, she could own it. And he’d call her an amenity.
He’d even throw in a skylight, silk sheets, and whatever sarcasm she could tolerate.
His fingers tapped lightly against his chest, following no rhythm.
One beat for every echo of her heels when she walked away.
Two for every clipped word she left him with.
Three for the thunder she never let anyone hear in her footsteps—but he felt it.
That damn look in her eyes, lingered longer than it should’ve. Not just in his memory. In his nerves.
"Even if it’s in his dreams… he see her taking up a fraction of his mind…"
He let out a breathless chuckle. Bit down lightly on his knuckle as if mocking himself.
She wasn’t a corner of his mind.
The goddamn architect of his inner chaos.
She was the voice he trained beside, the laugh he rarely got to hear but always craved, the shadow that kept him sharp without trying.
He turned onto his side, staring at the wall as if her silhouette would still be there—arms crossed, eyes watchful, unreadable expression carved from stone and history.
"Serpentine, eh?" he muttered. A grin ghosted his lips.
"She’s got a hell of a nerve saying I serpentine."
He closed his eyes, smirk deepening.
"No one slithers in battle like her. Silent. Lethal. Like a whisper with a blade." He could still remember the first time he watched her move—realized she was choosing not to be flashy. Not because she couldn’t. Because she didn’t need to.
She moved like water around her opponents.
She was the poison in it.
And yet… she never tried to outshine him.
He always found himself gravitating toward her anyway.
Suguru used to tease him about it. Shoko would smirk and pass him a cigarette he never smoked, just so he’d have something to fidget with whenever she was around.
Now he was alone. With the feeling that he missed a beat. Or ten.
He rolled onto his back again, stretching a hand across the cool part of the mattress beside him.
"She thinks I’m softer now," he whispered, as if admitting it to the dark.
But maybe that softness was shaped by her.
By the way she never begged for light but held it when no one else could.
By the way she watched—not like a spectator, but like someone who would walk into hell with you… if she deemed you worth the burn.
"She’s the whole damn space." The words spilled out like a confession no one asked for.
If she ever walked into his room, heels clicking like war drums on a marble floor—
He wouldn’t pretend anymore.
Every moment she took up in his head like a serpent curling around a crown.
Because the truth was—She never moved on him.
But damn it, she moved in him.
And that made all the difference.
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Plagiarism not authorized
