Work Text:
You arrived at Jujutsu High like a dropped bookmark in the wrong novel. A foreign accent, a borrowed staff badge, no cursed energy to speak of and yet she could see everything. The curses, the residue, the way the air bent when power passed through it. You were introduced as the new English teacher, and three days into your new job, you had already learned two things about Jujutsu High.
One: teenagers were scary. also adorable and all required therapy asap in your humble opinion
Two: Gojo Satoru was a one-man natural disaster with perfect hair. And too hot for his own good
And right now that natural disaster was leaning inside your classroom doorway like he owned the building, one hand on the frame, blindfold pushed up just enough to show a glint of blue - like stop flirting with me sir i'm a simple woman - wearing the exact posture of a man who was about to be annoying on purpose.
With strangers he was ritualistic in his bad behavior, a ceremonial menace. Teasing, flippant, leaning too close, speaking too casually. He liked to poke at new staff until they cracked or bristled or reported him to someone who could not, in fact, stop him. It was a system. A hobby. A public service, probably. “Transfer teacher,” he greeted, lilting, shameless, nevermind you asking him to stop calling you that. His English was perfect, not accented at all, the Gojo heir was growing up surrounded by strict tutors in all the disciplines, English included. “How’s the kingdom of grammar turmoil today? Kids still alive? Or did the pronunciation of ‘through’ finally break you?”
You, halfway through packing up your worksheets, glanced at him with that tired-fond little smile you’d been giving him since day one. The one that made him suspicious, you already figured out his entire bit.
“Hi, Satoru,” you said, bright and amused. “Are you here to steal my chair again?”
He widened his stance like a cat pretending it hadn’t already planned exactly that. “Steal? No. Borrow. Maybe relocate. Consider it occupational enrichment.”
He sauntered across the empty classroom, spun your chair around, dropped into it, and stretched his legs like a king claiming territory.
You gave him a long look, then shrugged, walked over, and—without hesitation—settled right on his lap like it was the obvious solution. You wiggled on purpose, just to feel his strong, rock-like thighs with your butt. Nevermind your whole lower regions immediately caught on fire. The main agenda was to bit back.
His breath hitched - a small win. Only a tiny bit, but enough for his brain to go 'oh'.
He hadn’t expected that. He expected fluster, indignation, a halfhearted threat about professionalism.
Instead he got… warmth settling against his thighs and your hair brushing his jaw as you leaned back to look at him innocently. He clocked in the scent of your shampoo, storing it away somewhere amongst the smells of his favourite mochi.
His large hands landed on your hips as he leaned lazily back. Your skin made zappy-zaps where his fingers touched you, and you tried not to melt into a puddle from the simple contact. Or not so simple.
“Bold,” he drawled, aiming for smug but landing somewhere between impressed and intrigued. “Early in the week for seduction attempts, sensei.”
“I’m just being practical,” You said sweetly, making doe eyes. “If you take my chair, I’ll take whatever’s left. Physics.”
He grinned. He did not want to admit that your little butt fit perfectly in his lap.
“Right. Physics. My favorite subject.”
His perfume was subtle, warm, way too distracting. His fingertips started to draw little circles through your clothes where they touched your hips. Your brain left the system and returned only when he pointed at the half-eaten pastry on your desk.
“That for me? I'll help myself, no worries.”
You blinked, but he didn’t wait. He leaned forward, snagged the bun with two fingers, and took a bite with a shit-eating grin, clearly waiting for you to scold him. What is it with this man and being obnoxious?
But you didn’t scold him. You didn’t slap his hand away. You raised a brow and smiled, amused but fond. A soft, conspiratorial little thing that made him chew a bit too loudly.
“Hope it’ll give you enough energy to save the world, Mr. Strongest,” you murmured, voice dipped half in playful sarcasm, half in sincerity. You wanted to watch him chew, but the proximity was already too intense for you to handle, so you looked slightly aside but didn't pull away from him.
“So supportive,” he teased, biting the bun again and making a 'nom-nom-nom' sound effect right into your ear to make you giggle. “I might keep you.”
You laughed, warm and low. “I might let you.”
…Okay, what the hell. Who gave you permission to be so nice.
He needed to win this round. Bad.
He licked his fingers clean, and with one move easily lifted you up by your hips - mmm, squishy - to set aside on the floor because he was a gentleman and absolutely not because he started to get hard. Then he stood up, groaned while stretching his long body and with a flair, reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the thing he’d stolen earlier: your bra. Folded like a prize. Found in your room, where he absolutely hadn't been sneaking in. He plopped it onto his head like a tiny, deranged bonnet, made a dramatic spin, and posed.
"How do I look?" he declared. And waited.
Your eyes widened comically.
"BITCH IS THIS MY BRA--"
You barked a laugh, huffing and puffing, and kicked his shin for good measure with your little foot because wow the bastard had sneaked into your room, the fucking gall! but your eyes were full of mirth.
"Very avant-garde. It suits you."
He tugged at the straps and made a pouty tone. "More than you?"
You leaned closer and wiggled your brows, lowering your voice just a sweet little bit.
"Oh, I look much better without it." Satoru grinned slowly, feral and delighted.
He was in trouble. He could feel it like a curse crawling up his spine.
This wasn’t the usual new-teacher hazing.
You weren’t flustered, intimidated, or even mildly overwhelmed. You rolled with him. Worse—you played with him.
His type. His kryptonite. His whole downfall in one cozy human package.
He cleared his throat one last time, his voice cracking just a little despite the enormous ego he wrapped it in.
“So, uh. You done with grading? I can… walk you back to the dorms.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You? Escorting me? What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” he lied instantly. “Just being polite. Gentlemanly. Chivalrous. Whatever word makes me sound good.”
You smirked and reached to take your bra back, way too graceful for someone who just fried his entire nervous system.
“Alright, Mr. Savior. Walk me.”
And Satoru, despite himself, despite the grin and the games and the way he told himself this was just another new hire to mess with, felt something unfamiliar creep in.
It was harder to piss you off than he’d planned.
Worse, much worse, he was starting to like that you never tried to stop him.
He did not, of course, admit this.
But the way he watched you through his blindfold — the cheerful bounce of your walk, the ridiculous ease with which you perched your own bra on your head now — said more than he ever would.