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Ah, Christmas in the jujutsu world – where the most magical thing you were likely to find in your stocking was a cursed finger and the only carols you heard were the wails of the recently possessed. Ho, ho, oh dear god no.
In this delightful little corner of reality, holiday cheer came pre-packaged with a hefty side of existential fear. After all, in your line of work, curses crashed more festive get-togethers than that one uncle who’d had a little too much sherry, and exorcisms were just another item on the holiday to-do list, wedged somewhere between “buy gifts for whoever survived this year” and “ward the damn Christmas tree against those nasty yuletide spirits.”
Despite the questionable nature of this profession, you and Gojo had somehow cobbled together a… thing. A tradition as warm and fuzzy as it was completely bonkers.
Every year, without fail, Gojo would haul you out to see the Christmas lights. It was his roundabout way of saying “I love you” without actually having to form those words.
(That was a whole other issue requiring a 300k-word deep dive to unpack. So, you know, let’s just shelve that emotional baggage for now).
It all started when you were still a twitchy little 15-year-old bundle of nerves that Gojo had freshly plucked out of a psych ward (again, long story, link down below). The walking catastrophe that was Gojo Satoru decided you needed a proper dose of holiday spirit.
What could possibly go wrong? Everything, probably, but that was precisely where the magic lived – in that chaotic space between Gojo’s single-celled brainwaves and your perpetual state of “what the actual fuck is happening?”
Back then, the world beyond the relative (and occasionally exploding) safety of Gojo’s apartment had seemed so vast and terrifying. But Gojo got it into his head that you absolutely needed to see the Christmas lights. Nothing says “mental health treatment” quite like sensory overload and potential public panic attacks.
“Come on,” he’d chirped, grinning like a loon. “Time to spice up your life!”
(He’d been making that godawful pun since day one, and you’d pretended to hate it for just as long.)
You’d hesitated at the door, your hand trembling as you reached for your coat. Gojo had noticed – of course he had – and with a gentleness that seemed impossible for someone so larger-than-life, he’d helped you slip into it. His hands, capable of unleashing unholy amounts of destruction, were surprisingly tender as they adjusted your collar.
“Trust me,” he’d whispered, and despite every survival instinct screaming otherwise, you did.
You always did. Damn him.
He’d taken you to see the Christmas lights, but not the bustling, crowded areas that most people flocked to. Instead, he’d found quiet corners of Tokyo, secluded spots where the lights twinkled just for an audience of two.
You remembered the first stop. A tiny park, the kind tourists walked right past without a second glance while muttering something about the lack of vending machines. The trees were all dolled up in fairy lights, looking like they’d had a drunken encounter with a glitter factory and woken up with a serious sparkle hangover.
Your jaw dropped so fast you were surprised it didn’t dislocate. Gojo, never one to miss a chance to be smug, squeezed your hand.
“See? Told ya it’d be worth it,” he preened. “And look – no people. Just us and approximately one million tiny lightbulbs. VIP treatment, all the way.”
You’d nodded, trying to look cool and collected while internally freaking out about the beauty of it all. It was as though someone had taken all the stars in the sky and decided to gift-wrap them for you. The lights danced in Gojo’s eyes, turning them into kaleidoscopes of blue, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe. You forgot a lot of things, actually.
As you wandered through the park, Gojo kept up a running commentary that was part professional tour guide, part sleep-deprived comedian desperately trying to remember his material at an open mic night.
“And if you look to your left, you’ll see a tree that’s clearly compensating for something with all those lights. I mean, come on, we get it, you’re festive. No need to blind half of Tokyo.”
You snorted. Encouraged by your reaction, Gojo ramped up his routine.
“And over there? That’s where I once saw a raccoon have an existential crisis at 3 AM. True story. The little guy was just sitting there, staring at his reflection in a puddle. Like, deeply staring. I’ve never seen anything so relatable in my life.”
His voice, even spouting utter nonsense, kept you grounded when the unfamiliarity of everything threatened to send you into a tailspin. Plus, it was hard to panic when you were trying not to snort-laugh at tales of soul-searching raccoons contemplating their place in the universe.
When a cluster of teenagers passed by, laughing and being generally teenager-y (i.e. loud and oblivious to all things not directly in front of them), Gojo smoothly maneuvered himself between you and them. He’d done it so casually, you almost hadn’t noticed – but you had. And that small gesture made your heart swell with… something. Something warm and pleasant and undefined. You weren’t sure what it was at that point.
That night had set the precedent for all the Christmases to come, a tradition as immutable as Gojo’s terrible fashion sense and your collective inability to stay out of trouble. As the years rolled by, you grew stronger, more confident in yourself and your place in the world. But still, every Christmas, Gojo would take you on these private tours of Tokyo’s hidden light displays.
You remembered the Christmas when you were 18, three years into your life around Gojo. That year had been a special kind of hell. Between the smoking ruins of Shibuya, the hostile takeover of the High Council (near-apocalyptic events were perfect opportunities for political power plays), and the absolute shitshow that followed, Christmas had slipped your mind. Not Gojo’s. Never Gojo’s. The man could forget his own birthday, but the gods themselves forbid he miss anything remotely related to you.
After an entire day of dealing with the Elders’ bullshit (particularly Gakuganji, that cursed fossil could fuck right off to whatever dusty museum he’d crawled out of), you’d been ready to collapse face-plant into your bed and not emerge until the next century. Or at least until someone invented a way to exorcise bureaucracy. Preferably with fire.
Gojo wouldn’t relent. He’d whisked you off to… a botanical garden. A botanical garden that had more lights than plants. There were floating lanterns on a pond, so numerous and artfully arranged, that you briefly wondered if the garden had hired a colony of overachieving fireflies with art degrees.
As you walked, Gojo snagged your hand and shoved it into his pocket.
“What?” he’d asked, all innocence and feigned confusion, when you shot him a questioning look. “Can’t have my favorite spice getting frostbite. Plus, it’s either this or I start telling dad jokes to warm you up. Did you hear about the guy who got hit in the head with a can of soda? He was lucky it was a soft drink.”
You valiantly resisted the urge to remind him that you had perfect control of cursed energy and could easily reinforce yourself against the cold if necessary. You also resisted the urge to smack him for that truly terrible joke. Because... Well, the feeling of his fingers laced through yours like that... It was nice. More than nice. The kind of nice that made your insides go all squishy. The kind that you wanted to bottle up and keep forever.
And just like that, hand-in-pocket became part of the tradition.
When you hit 20, Gojo really outdid himself. He found a spot in a small shrine that looked like the stars had decided to take a vacation closer to Earth. It was located in a quiet corner of Tokyo, so hidden that you half-expected to find a “Here Be Dragons” sign at the entrance, or possibly just a grumpy tanuki selling overpriced omamori. It was the kind of place that whispered secrets to the wind and made you think you’d accidentally stumbled into some sort of fae realm. Knowing Gojo, that was entirely possible. He probably knew the local fox spirit personally.
Then, like some kind of Christmas magician (or a very festive drug dealer), he pulled out a thermos of hot chocolate and a box of pastries from... somewhere. You’d given up trying to figure out where he stored things. For all you knew, he had a pocket dimension full of snacks tucked away, all powered by his Limitless.
“Merry Christmas, Spices,” he’d said, looking mighty pleased with himself. “I come bearing gifts of sugar and caffeine. You’re welcome.”
You’d sat there for hours, talking and laughing, your breath creating little clouds in the frosty air. Some time into the night – perhaps it was after your third cup of hot chocolate, or maybe during one of his rambling stories about clan gathering mishaps that sounded more like a sitcom than actual events – the space between you became too much. Gojo shifted, and the next thing you knew, his arms were around you.
Without hesitation (when had you ever hesitated with him?), you turned and climbed into his lap, settling into your spot – your spot, because after all these years, this space had become yours. A perfectly Gojo-shaped indent had formed in the fabric of the universe, and you just happened to fit into it perfectly.
His Infinity flowed over you like liquid starlight, separating you from the rest of the world. It was a sensation that never got old. You felt connected to him on some fundamental level, as if you were a vital part of him, and he was the extension of your soul. In this bubble, the winter air lost its bite. The Christmas lights outside seemed to blur and soften.
His chin came to rest atop your head, fitting there as perfectly as it always did. His fingers ran lazily along your arms, like he was writing something into your skin – perhaps promises, perhaps secrets, perhaps just the simple truth he couldn’t say out loud.
Each Christmas brought new memories, new lights, and new opportunities for Gojo to inflict terrible puns upon the unsuspecting world. But some things stayed the same – his hand in yours, that insufferable grin that made your heart skip despite yourself, and his uncanny ability to know exactly what you needed, even before you knew it yourself.
There was the Christmas when you were 23, and Gojo somehow got access to a rooftop garden. (Spoiler alert: Money. It was always money. Gojo had enough to drown a small country, let alone bribe his way onto a fancy rooftop.)
“How did you even find this place?” you’d asked, spinning around beneath strings of twinkling lights like a discount ballerina.
Gojo, naturally, grinned. “I have my ways. Also, I may or may not owe a favor to a guy who knows a guy who has a cousin who works in real estate. But hey, only the best for my Spices, right?”
You’d rolled your eyes so hard you thought you might have glimpsed the inside of your own skull, but you couldn’t hide the smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth. After all this time, he still had the ability to make you feel special. And slightly exasperated. But mostly special.
“Thank you,” you’d said softly. “For this. For everything. And for not drop-kicking me off the roof when I crammed six back-to-back Council meetings into your schedule on Christmas Eve.”
Gojo had pressed a kiss to the top of your head, gentle as a snowflake. “Always, Spices,” he murmured. Then that familiar mischievous glint returned to his eyes. “Although, if you pull that stunt again for New Year’s, I might have to reconsider my no-drop-kicking policy.”
You remembered the Christmas when you were 25. For the first time, you suggested a location. Gojo’s face lit up like you’d just told him Christmas was coming twice that year, complete with double the presents and a lifetime supply of mochi.
“Would you look at that,” he crowed, ruffling your hair with an almost painful enthusiasm. “All grown up and making executive decisions! I might cry. Someone fetch me a handkerchief. Or a mop. I feel a flood of proud tears coming on.”
You’d swatted his hand away, laughing. “Get a grip, you drama queen.”
The location you had picked wasn’t anything fancy. Just a random neighborhood you’d seen on your way back from your last mission a few days prior. But there, standing proud and crooked in someone’s front yard, was quite possibly the most cursed Santa statue you’d ever laid eyes on.
This wasn’t your garden variety mall Santa with rosy cheeks and a belly like jelly. Oh hell no. This was the kind of Santa that haunted your nightmares. The kind that looked like it had seen things. Terrible, unspeakable things. Things that would make even the most hardened jujutsu sorcerer wake up screaming and clutching their stuffed Sukuna plushie for dear life.
Its eyes, misaligned and possibly harvested from some unfortunate antique doll (or maybe the souls of the damned), seemed to follow you no matter where you stood. Its beard looked less like facial hair and more like it had tried to eat a sheep and given up halfway through the digestive process. And its suit... Oh, that suit. Whoever designed that monstrosity clearly possessed a tenuous grasp on both color theory and basic human anatomy.
You’d thought Gojo would appreciate its cursed aesthetic. And boy, were you ever right.
He did, in fact, spend a solid 15 minutes laughing so hard, his unhinged cackles echoing through the quiet neighborhood, disturbing the peaceful slumber of elderly shiba inus and waking babies from their sugar plum dreams. You swore you saw a few curtains twitch in nearby houses, their occupants must have been wondering if they should call animal control or maybe just the Winchesters.
“Oh my god,” Gojo wheezed, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “It’s… it’s beautiful. Majestic, even. I think I’m in love. Do you think they’d notice if we took it? I want to put it in Gakuganji’s office. For science.”
You were about to remind Gojo that he was now the Head of the High Council, and that theft, even of horrifically ugly lawn ornaments, was still technically a crime when the irate homeowner burst through his front door. His bathrobe – a faded tribute to better days – flapped open just enough to reveal flannel pajamas adorned with tiny prancing reindeer, somewhat undermining his attempt at righteous fury.
“Oi!” he bellowed, his voice cracking with indignation. “What do you two think you’re doing? This ain’t a bloody art gallery, you cotton-headed ninny muggins—”
As the poor old man reached for the nearest garden gnome, you were off, sprinting through the lamp-lit street like a pair of rowdy teenagers who’d just been caught smooching in the church nativity scene, profoundly scandalizing the plastic baby Jesus and his entire ceramic menagerie.
“Now that,” Gojo chortled, still breathless from laughter, as you tore down the street, his hand gripping yours, “was worth every second of that guy’s creative cursing. Did you hear what he called us? ‘Cotton-headed ninny muggins.’ I’m definitely taking notes for future Council meetings.”
Gojo was ridiculous. You were ridiculous. The entire thing was ridiculous.
In that moment, as you ran hand-in-hand through the quiet streets, his laughter filling your heart and the crisp winter air biting at your cheeks, everything felt completely, wonderfully, absurdly right.
Ten years had passed since the day Gojo took your hand and walked you out of that psych ward and into his life, into his heart. It felt like both an eternity and the blink of an eye, as if time itself couldn’t quite decide how to measure the span of your strange, beautiful, and frequently baffling relationship.
Here you both were, a decade later. The two most powerful people in the jujutsu world – the Sorcerer King and his Kingmaker – definitely old enough to know better, yet still up to the same bullshit as always. Some things, you supposed, were just too damn fun to outgrow. Like poking bears with sticks. Or, you know, annoying the elders.
As you slowed to a stroll down a different, even more aggressively decorated street, Gojo tugged at your hand, pulling you closer to his side.
“Hey, Spices,” he said, his voice warm and full of mischief. “Let’s make this our thing. Every year, same bat-time, same bat-channel.”
You snorted, shaking your head fondly. “What, poking at angry old men? I thought that was already our thing.”
“Nah, that’s our Council thing. This,” he declared, grinning and waggling his eyebrows with theatrical flair, “this is our Christmas thing. Come on, say you’ll do it. Next year, and the year after that, and the year after that…”
“Alright, alright,” you laughed, holding up your free hand in mock surrender. “I promise to engage in holiday shenanigans with you for the rest of my years.”
Gojo’s face morphed into an exaggerated pout. “Hey, that won’t do! You’ve got more years left in the tank than I do, Spices.”
The man definitely had a PhD in theatrics from the University of Overreaction, with a minor in Melodrama. You suspected he was the valedictorian.
“Oh please,” you scoffed. “You’re the strongest sorcerer alive. Pretty sure you’ll outlive me by, like, a century, you magnificent bastard.”
“Nah,” Gojo said, his voice suddenly serious. The playful facade dropped away. He squeezed your hand. “I won’t live in a world without you. That’s just… not an option.”
Your steps faltered. The lightness of the moment evaporated.
“Hey, that’s not funny,” you muttered, glaring up at him, more than a little indignant. And something else. Something tight and twisty in your chest that made it hard to breathe.
He grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. This time, the theatrics felt brittle, like a thin layer of ice over a deep, dark pool. “Alright, how about this? Starting now, we’ll live the same amount of years. Down to the second. Deal?”
“That’s not how it works,” you sighed, even as a small, hopeful part of you wished it did.
“We’ll make it work,” he insisted, with the unshakable certainty that only Gojo Satoru could possess.
His free hand came to cup your cheek. His eyes glowed – more beautiful than all the Christmas lights in existence. More breathtaking than any winter wonderland.
“Hey,” he said softly, his thumb gently stroking your cheekbone, “remember what I told you back then? Wherever I go, you go. That hasn’t changed.”
Something warm bloomed in your chest, a feeling you’d long since identified but never quite got used to. Love. So big, so bright, it felt as boundless as the star-dusted winter sky spreading out above you.
You nodded. “Alright. Wherever we go, we go together.”
Gojo smiled then, a real smile, not a performance. One that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look younger, less burdened by the weight of the world he carried on his broad shoulders. He leaned down, pressing a light, almost hesitant kiss to the corner of your mouth. He lingered there for a long moment, his breath warm against your skin, his thumb continuing to trace lazy circles on your cheekbone.
There was no mistletoe over your head, no romantic music swelling in the background, no dramatic slow-motion camera pan. Just the two of you, standing in the middle of a garishly decorated street. This would do. It was more than enough.
You turned your head so that his lips met yours fully. He let out a soft sigh against your mouth, a sound that could have been a smile, a contented murmur of happiness. And then he kissed you, properly this time.
It wasn’t a passionate, movie-style kiss. It was better. It was real. It was Gojo’s slightly chapped lips against yours, the lingering taste of the peppermint candy he’d swiped from someone’s lawn decoration earlier (you knew it), the warmth of his hand on your cheek. It was ten years of shared history, of joyful madness, political storms, and more assassination attempts than you cared to count, woven together with inside jokes, quiet moments, and a thousand tiny memories just like this one.
As far as you were concerned, it was perfect. The true spirit of Christmas that you wouldn’t find on greeting cards or in cheesy holiday specials.
This. This was your holiday miracle. Found right here, in the arms of the biggest idiot you’d ever loved.
Happy holidays, indeed.