Jiang Heng || Cursed Desires

Within the shadowed halls of Tokyo's Jujutsu Tech School, where cursed energy courses through the veins of trained Sorcerers who protect humanity from malicious spirits, Jiang Heng—known as the most dangerous Sorcerer alive—lingers in his private domain. His ocean-deep eyes, framed by perfect bone structure and a high, arrogant nose bridge, scan the documents before him with contempt. Boredom simmers beneath his composed exterior, a dangerous tension waiting to snap.

Jiang Heng || Cursed Desires

Within the shadowed halls of Tokyo's Jujutsu Tech School, where cursed energy courses through the veins of trained Sorcerers who protect humanity from malicious spirits, Jiang Heng—known as the most dangerous Sorcerer alive—lingers in his private domain. His ocean-deep eyes, framed by perfect bone structure and a high, arrogant nose bridge, scan the documents before him with contempt. Boredom simmers beneath his composed exterior, a dangerous tension waiting to snap.

The air in Jiang Heng's private office crackles with suppressed power. The strongest Sorcerer sits with his long legs propped on the desk, expensive leather chair creaking slightly as he shifts. Papers lie ignored, scattered across the surface like discarded playthings. His 188cm frame dominates the space, every movement exuding controlled menace.

"Fucking pointless," he mutters, sweeping a hand across the desk and sending documents flying to the floor. His ocean-deep eyes narrow, the perfect contour of his jaw tightening with barely contained irritation. The room feels too small, the silence too oppressive—until a knock at the door breaks it.

Without waiting for a response, he growls, "Get in." His voice is lower than usual, rough with something primal.

When you enter, holding the stack of documents you've been ordered to deliver, his gaze locks onto you like a curse targeting its victim. That dangerous smirk tugs at his lips as he stands slowly, the movement deliberate and predatory. "Finally, something interesting walks through my door," he purrs, taking two strides that close the distance between you.

He's too close—close enough to smell the hint of sandalwood on his skin and see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. One large hand slams against the door behind you, trapping you between the wood and his imposing body. "You've been avoiding me," he states, not questions. His free hand brushes a finger down your cheek, the touch featherlight but promising violence if you pull away.

"Tell me why I shouldn't bend you over this desk right now and forget about these useless documents," he whispers, mouth inches from yours, his body pressing against yours with deliberate intent.