Chapter Text
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There are days when the world seems at its most beautiful. Instead of ringing alarms, birds sing gently as dappled sunlight warms you into wakefulness. There are no obligations, nothing to rush toward, just the simple luxury of your love nestled against your back, his weight draped over you soothingly. You wake with a stretch and feel a delicious ache in your muscles, a gentle fluttering within your core, a heaviness settling upon your limbs that begs you to stay in bed.
Today, the world’s beauty feels assured, unyielding, constant.
“Good morning,” a teasing voice rasps by your ear.
When you turn your neck toward the sound, Gojo’s cerulean eyes — heavy-lidded with sleep and satisfaction — gaze back at you. He’s smirking, his elbow digging into his pillow to keep his head up as it rests on his hand.
“Morning,” you mumble, yawning through a smile before turning away from him to lie back down comfortably.
His smirk stretches into a face-splitting grin before he flops back down to pull your back tightly against his bare chest. Nose nuzzling against your neck, you feel the warm puffs of his contented sighs ghosting over your skin.
“Sleep well?” he asks, voice muffled by your shoulder.
“Mmm, for the short hours I did sleep,” you groan, stretching again before rolling in his arms to face him. You rub your nose against his once. “Since someone kept me up most of the night.”
“Guilty.”
“Remorseless.”
“Also guilty.”
You shake your head at him fondly, surrendering to the gentle kiss he presses to your forehead.
He sighs again, content. “I want to wake up like this every day.”
Your eyes widen almost comically. “We are not going at it like that every day.”
“Never say never, bug,” he teases. “But get your mind out of the gutter. I just meant I want to always wake up with you in my arms.”
“Cheesy.”
“Guilty.”
Too easily, his smile draws your lips to his, a soft and gentle kiss warmed by the sunlight filtering through the window curtains. The silence that settles is comfortable, a blanket covering your tangled bodies.
“What happens next? After everything, there’s still so much left to do,” you ask suddenly.
He takes only a moment to think, as though he’d been making plans for much longer than you knew.
“Handle the higher-ups. Accelerate training. Kill Sukuna,” he answers, like it all could be so simple. As if sensing your doubt, he presses his forehead against yours and adds with finality, “We can do it.”
“And when it’s all over, maybe you’ll get a promotion,” he murmurs, pausing as he ponders thoughtfully, his lower lip jutting out exaggeratedly. “Then, maybe a sorcerer who just got promoted will want to marry me, go on an extended honeymoon,” he whispers with a teasing nip at your ear when you release a flustered scoff at the suggestion. “That’s what happens next.”
He expects you to argue, you know he does. Part of you — the part that holds too tightly onto logic, the part that always anticipates the worst-case scenario, the part that wears the distinct marks of innumerable loss — wants to insist it can’t be that easy, may even be impossible. But when Gojo smiles at you with his soft white hair falling over his eyes, a flush tinting his cheeks, and the rapid beat of his heart thundering beneath his chest — alive — you don’t dare destroy his fantasy. Perhaps you could even convince yourself that, with him by your side, it wouldn’t just be a momentary daydream.
So, instead, you kiss him and let him fuse the shape of his confidence against your lips, molding your smile into a perfect match.
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2020
Some things never change: like how the birds sing and the trees bend in the wind high in the mountains at Tokyo Jujutsu High. Even after renovations, the school looks the same as the first time you stepped foot on its sacred ground over ten years ago.
On a day like this, the start of a new school year, you can’t help but remember those three rules you’d made for yourself on your first day as a student:
- Stay alive.
- Save who you can.
- Don’t let anyone leave a permanent mark.
With a wistful smile, you recall how those rules had transformed by the time of your graduation, impacted by the friendships you’d built and the people you’d lost during those short years:
- Become stronger.
- Help whoever you can.
- Do anything to hold onto your friends.
As you walk through the hallowed halls of your old high school, you feel a sense of satisfaction and completion — all the while, looking forward to the journeys that will unfold ahead.
Students and faculty greet you on your way to your new office, now the largest one on campus. The door slides heavily as you open it and cross the threshold, only to find the familiar figure of Gojo Satoru lying back in your desk chair, blindfold covering his eyes and a gentle smile on his lips. You step toward him quietly, admiring his serenity. You’re struck all at once with how much you’ve missed him. He’d been gone for almost a week on a mission with his students; he’d hardly even had spare moments to call. But no matter how busy the missions had kept him or how perilous the risks had been, he’d always carved out the time to at least text you a “good morning” or “sweet dreams.”
Your finger traces the sharp line of his jaw, watching his smile slowly stretch wider at the sensation — a sleepy, contented half-curve.
Bending down to kiss him once, you leave a barely there touch. You can’t help it. You’re drawn to his smile. And he’s drawn to your lips, chasing after your taste with his eyes still covered and his body still lazily slumped on your chair. You laugh silently, examining his craned neck, the ridge of his raised brows beneath his blindfold, and puckered lips. He stays there patiently for almost a minute, enough time for you to commit the image to memory.
“More,” he whines playfully when you don’t kiss him again, lips still pinched together in an exaggerated pout. You arch one eyebrow at him, hand on your hip.
“I thought you were sleeping.” You grin.
“I was,” he insists, though you see his smile turning into a smirk. He bends his head back over the edge of the chair’s headrest, his neck stretching as his thumb hooks under his blindfold to reveal one beautiful blue eye. He blinks slowly. “Maybe I still am. This is a dream, right? Or are you really here, really kissing me, really my wife?”
You shake your head at him fondly, fighting back your laughter at his antics. He smiles wider.
“Yes,” you answer, holding the side of his face with a warm hand. “Yes,” you whisper again, this time against the corner of his lips. “And yes,” you respond one last time, raising your left hand to show him the ring he’d placed on your finger just under a year ago.
He grins, a huge, goofy look on his face as he pulls the blindfold fully off and yanks you forward until you’re seated on his waiting lap.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d be home today?” you ask, now cradling both sides of his face in your hands.
“I wanted to surprise you on your first day,” he explains, his thumbs tracing mirrored circles over your hips. “I brought you some sweets and souvenirs to celebrate. Congratulations, Principal Bug.”
“You better not call me that in front of the students,” you warn him, narrowing your eyes at his relentless smirk.
“I’ll consider it,” he teases, closing his eyes as if in thought. Then he peeks at you through one eye, meeting your expectant stare, and bites his lower lip to smother his smile. “For the reasonable price of more kisses.”
His hands rest on your waist, gently pulling you further into him. More, he says with the squeeze of his fingers. Your hands comb through his hair, finding their resting place at the nape of his neck. You sigh, feigning exasperation. But you want more too.
So, you brush your lips softly against his. You’re gentle, soft, patient. But he’s the opposite.
He holds you tightly, making your body fuse with his as much as it possibly can. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, earning a gasp which he quickly devours. He hums into your mouth.
You can hardly catch a breath, heart racing as he steals your oxygen. You manage to pull away and he latches onto the skin of your neck, eliciting a soft sound from your mouth that he’s desperate to hear again.
“Missed you,” he whispers breathily against the sensitive area below your ear.
“Kocho-sensei!” The sudden declaration of your new title behind the door nearly drowns out Gojo’s confession, punctuated by a pounding bang, then another, then another.
You giggle as Gojo sighs, releasing you from his iron grip and letting you straighten out your uniform before you cross the office and slide open the door.
“Yuji-kun,” you greet the pink-haired boy, now almost as tall as Gojo himself. “If you knock on the door like that, it’ll break again.”
“Sorry,” he grins sheepishly, scratching the back of his head, then yelping when a hand comes forward to smack it.
“I keep telling him that,” Megumi deadpans. Seeing the pained pout on Yuji’s face as he holds his head, Megumi sighs and tenderly rubs the place he hit. You smile at the two of them, eyes almost watering at how much they’ve grown — both independently and together.
The scars beneath Yuji’s eyes and across his face always remind you of how much these students have been through, how much you and Gojo have been through. But it couldn’t have been any easier, you remind yourself, forcing a bit of grace in to ease your mind. Revolutions are never easy and the aftermath lingers indefinitely. The blood of the higher-ups still stains Gojo’s hands, while his near-death still haunts your nightmares. The ghost of Sukuna still casts a shadow over Yuji’s head — even after the King of Curses’ demise. The loss of Tsumiki still weighs heavily on Megumi’s shoulders. So much more could have been lost, things more precious than anything that could have been won.
If you could gather their pain and spin it all within your chrysalis, you’d let them decide to either watch it disintegrate or transform into something so stunning it erases any fluttering memory of suffering.
“Where’s Nobara-chan?” you ask, peering out into the hallway.
“Here!” she calls, barreling into your office, panting from exhaustion. She stumbles toward you, her arms outstretched as if asking you to catch her. You chuckle in surprise as she latches on and squeezes your shoulders. “Sensei! Please don’t make me go on another mission with your husband ever again.”
“What did you do?” you accuse, pointing your scrutinizing stare at Gojo.
At the same time he lets out a defensive protest, “What did I do?”
Nobara simply glares at him, eyes saying you know what you did before looking back at you. “I prefer Nanami. You’re too good for him.”
Megumi mutters his agreement, Yuji emphatically disagrees, Nobara doubles down, and an argument breaks out. Not that you’d expect anything less with the three of them on the touchy topic of Gojo.
“Alright,” you declare above their overlapping voices, stepping deliberately between Nobara and Yuji before fists get a chance to collide. “If you expect to ever graduate, you need to get to class. Now.”
The kids have the decency to look sheepish as they nod obediently and dismiss themselves from your office.
“You are, you know,” Gojo suddenly chimes after his students leave, his body sliding up behind where you stand with your hands on your hips, fondly watching your favorite kids walking side by side down the hall before shutting the door.
“Hm?” you wonder, too focused on the warmth of his cheek pressed against yours, his hands pulling you deeper into your office.
“Too good for me,” he clarifies, laying a sweet kiss to your temple.
”Don’t start another argument in my office after I just diffused one.” Your face turns, eyes catching his soft, smiling gaze.
“We’ll just have to continue this at home then,” he murmurs, voice dripping with innuendo.
“Don’t you have some students to teach?”
He pouts. “They know everything already.”
You raise a brow at him and he sighs.
“Can’t even get a proper homecoming around here,” he grumbles, petulantly kicking his feet as he shuffles toward your desk to pick up his discarded blindfold.
Gojo’s trek toward the exit is nothing short of dramatic, loud sighs with every heavy-footed step, shoulders slumped so low, he might as well be crawling on all fours. He mutters under his breath with a pout on his glossy lips, hands twisting and wringing the fabric of his blindfold before stuffing the wrinkled fabric into his pocket. You let him perform his little show, leaning against the edge of your desk with an amused smirk on your face. Just as his steps — if you could even call the millimeter movements “steps” — shrink even tinier as he approaches the door, you finally relent with a light chuckle.
“Get over here, snowflake.”
He perks up immediately at the old nickname, shedding his kicked-puppy act and bounding right to your side. “Coming, bug!”
“Two kisses. Then you go and do your job,” you bargain, wearing a tender smile as your hands come up to rest behind his neck.
“Ten,” he counters.
You raise an incredulous brow. “Three.”
“Deal.” He grins widely, swooping down to capture your lips.
Despite how many times you’ve felt the warmth of his mouth, tasted the sweetness that always lingers on his tongue, flutters still erupt in your stomach as he kisses you. It’s gentle and tender, his large hand cupping your jaw to angle your face up for better access. The curve of his smile is so wide, you can feel it against your cheeks. When he pulls back, your foreheads stay pressed together as half-lidded eyes gaze softly into yours.
“One,” he whispers, the syllable landing hot on your skin.
The hand not holding your jaw slides slowly down your side, over your hip, and behind your thigh. With a firm tug upward, he heaves you into a seated position on your desk, stepping between your legs as he tilts your head back farther. His thumb brushes beneath the curve of your lip, a reverent caress as his blue eyes rove over your face. Gently, he pulls down your lip and slots his mouth against yours, easily slipping his tongue inside. This kiss is still slow but it’s hungrier, fervent as he licks languid circles around your tongue. The hand still holding your thigh squeezes harshly before he pulls your hips closer to the edge of the desk until you can feel his firm heat scorching the front of your body. A satisfied groan rumbles in his throat, reverberating into your open mouth more than inside your ears.
Time seems to pass slowly before he finally steps away from you, leaving you panting and slumped against your desk.
“Two,” he says, smirking as he eyes your disheveled state.
He plucks his blindfold out of his pocket, flicking the fabric to release some of the wrinkles before covering his teasing eyes.
“What about three?” you murmur breathlessly, brows furrowing as you watch him take backward steps toward the door.
“Gotta give my wife a reason to come home to me.” He shrugs, that insufferable smirk still plastered on his kiss-swollen lips. “Ooh, I wonder if the principal would ring the dismissal bell early on the first day of school.”
“Gojo Satoru,” you warn, though it comes out sounding more amused than it does threatening. “You’re in trouble when we get home.”
“Counting on it,” he chirps happily, blowing you a kiss before skipping out the door. “See you at home, bug!”
There’s no use fighting the smile tugging at your lips as you watch him bounce away. The echo of “home” resonates in your mind, only pulling the smile wider. You hop off your desk, straighten out your clothes, and fix your hair before walking around to your seat, where Gojo’s warmth still lingers. Sinking into the cushion, you sigh happily as you glance around your new office. So much has changed, you reminisce. From a dormitory, to a teacher’s lounge, to a principal’s office — the walls surrounding you had constantly shifted over the years. Even the walls around your heart had taken on new shapes, towering heights crumbling to barely-standing pillars, bulldozed by people who had silently vowed to protect it better than any castle bricks ever could.
Swiveling in your chair, you turn to face the wall behind your desk and smile fondly at the collection of photos keeping you company. Your wedding portrait hangs proudly in the center, a candid capture of you and Gojo seated at your banquet table, smiling and lost in the other’s gaze. Surrounding it are pictures of old friends — familiar smiles from childhood keeping watch over you — and photos your students had gifted you after successful missions. Nostalgia begins to make your eyes water until they land on a picture you don’t remember displaying in your gallery, an unframed Polaroid taped onto the wall amid the others.
It’s a familiar one, your favorite one: a photograph that had traveled from your student dorm, to your faculty quarters, to Gojo’s office, and back to yours — now aged with faded colors, worn slightly at the corners as if it had been held closely more often than it had hung solemnly on a wall. In it, the youthful faces of your best friends grin widely at you. In muted hues, you huddle happily with Gojo, Geto, Shoko, Nanami, and Haibara in a cramped booth at a fast food restaurant that’s long closed now. Your hamburgered smiles squish against french-fry-crumbed cheeks, arms holding tightly to each other — not knowing, one day, some would have to let go.
A single tear trickles down your face, running over the curve of your wistful smile. You taste salt but don’t feel the instinct to spit it out, instead, letting the bittersweet flavor linger.
People enter your life and then they leave.
It’s still true — the mantra you had always recited to yourself to protect your heart, to keep others from burrowing in too deep and leaving their mark. In an unpredictable world, this used to be the only thing in life you knew stayed the same.
But even as the world kept turning and shifting, you’d somehow found fragments of it that never changed, stayed steadfast and faithful even in the face of danger and death. Their color is an unwavering, infinite blue — endless as the sky and sparkling like the ocean. Without even knowing, you had let him leave his handprint on your soul, deeply engraved, indelible and eternal. It had only opened the doors wider for others to tally up your heart as well. But now, instead of calling the marks wounds — scars that pull achingly at your lungs and tighten inside your chest — you wear those traces proudly as proof of the beautiful lives you've encountered, the people who will never leave you, even when they leave the world. While you had once thought nothing stayed the same, you now believe in a few things you can hold close to your heart, things that never change.
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