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[18+] satoru gojo┊ teachers!au OF LOVE & LESSON (PLANS) ⭑ ch1. for jane austen

PAIRING. ── teachers au, physics!gojo x english!reader

⭑ ─ everyone thinks you must be in love with gojo. you would rather set the whole school on fire then prove them right.

SERIES SYNOPSIS. ⭑ you’ve spent years teaching english at jujutsu high across the hall from your most unbearable coworker—physics teacher satoru gojo—enduring his smug grins, loud lectures, and endless interruptions. but after a messy breakup with your high school sweetheart, the school rumor mill decides you and gojo must be secretly dating—because apparently all that yelling and eye-rolling counts as foreplay. suddenly, you’re stuck chaperoning events together, dodging nosy students and staff, and dealing with an ex who can’t mind his own business. but the worst part? gojo thinks it’s all hilarious, as you try not to get caught up in his own chaos…or your own feelings. the real question is: how long can you insist you hate him before everyone (and maybe even you) realizes you don’t?

TAGS. 18+, fem reader, modern au, nerd!gojo, the cast of jjk as teachers and students at a normal high school, workplace romance, rom com, sit com, opposites attract, slow burn, enemies to lovers, (kind of), workplace shenanigans, slice of life, lotsss of banter, friendships, fluff, humor, slight angst, jealousy, mutual pining, ex bf! naoya, scenes of smoking cigarettes & drinking, nsfw, eventual smut

STATUS. 1/(11?)

WORD COUNT. 7.7k

NAV. ☆ ao3. playlist. masterlist.

header art twt/@su2kuna. divider by @cafekitsune

⋆˚꩜ mae's note: hi lovelies, welcome to the first chapter <3 thank you so much for all the unexpected love on the announcement post you guys are the sweetest, and it was so exciting to see all the support! i'll see you at the end xx

Sometimes you’re convinced having your classroom across the hall from Satoru Gojo isn’t coincidence at all but some cruel Austenian plot device, the kind even Jane herself would’ve cut for being too implausible—because surely no heroine could keep their sense and sensibility being near him.

The projector whirs like it’s considering bursting into flames, casting flickering light across your classroom. The fourth-years in your English lit. class sit tiredly on their chairs, their bodies slouched in varying degrees depending on their stage of senioritis. Half of them are waiting to be entertained, the other half are already half-checked out.

“Alright,” you say, remote in hand, “Remember the excerpt we just read, and keep in mind that we’re analyzing narrative perspectives and unreliable perceptions. I’m going to show you a clip from the movie, just so you guys can visualize what you just read. Pay attention to what’s said, but more importantly, how it’s said. How does Darcy see himself in this situation versus how Elizabeth perceives him? How does the author, or in this case, the filmmaker, favor one perspective over the other?”

There are a few dutiful nods, and a few blank stares. Someone in the back whispers something about SparkNotes, and you decide to ignore it.

You cue the clip. On the screen, a still-frame. You’re about to show your students Elizabeth Bennet, standing in a rain-soaked gazebo, and glowering as Mr. Darcy stumbles through a confession of love that sounds suspiciously like an insult.

“This,” you add before pressing play, “Is one of the most famous proposal scenes in English literature. Oh, and also keep in mind this is a highly dramatisized version from the actual novel but I just love this scene. So, I’m forcing you all to watch it. And make sure to jot down notes for the questions on the side.”

The room quiets, and you shut off the fluorescent lights, leaving only the warmth of your fairy lights on — the coziness only furthering the exhaustion of your students, you think. But then the orchestra starts in a chaotic frenzy jolting a couple kids awake, before dying down as the sound of rain hisses from the projector speakers. Darcy starts listing the reasons why Elizabeth is unsuitable for him before proclaiming he can’t stop loving her anyway. Elizabeth’s fury is sharp, cutting. Keira Knightley is an angel.

You’re watching your students more than the film, as you take a seat at your desk and grab your sugary coffee for another sip. A few try not to smile at Elizabeth’s sharp tongue. A couple girls try not to smile at Matthew McFadden and his very pretty blue eyes.

It’s as thunder claps over these star-crossed lovers, that the door slams open.

You feel heads turn, but you’ve developed a sixth sense to know who’s at the door without even moving.

And in strides Satoru Gojo, physics teacher across the hall, nightmare of the faculty lounge, and apparently incapable of reading a clock. His white hair is unpleasantly tousled, and as you make eye contact you notice how his half-rimmed black glasses gleam under the fairy lights.

You look up at him, and scrunch your face with emphasis to your exasperation. “Really?”

“Relax,” he says cheerfully, “Just need to borrow your stapler.”

“In the middle of my class? How many times have I talked to you about this–”

“Oh..” He looks up, as if for the first time acknowledging that he’d burst into the middle of your very important—not at all self-indulgent—lesson about Pride & Prejudice. He waves back at a couple students, and obnoxiously smiles. “The lights were off and I thought you had a prep period too. And my stapler jammed. I can’t help it!” He doesn’t even lower his voice.

The students glance between you and him, their attention fully wrenched from the rain-soaked misery of Darcy and Elizabeth. Someone snickers, and your head whips around too fast.

You look back at Gojo, who’s now rummaging over your desk. Inconsiderately blocking part of the projector with his tall frame and big head. You slap his wrist, and he looks down at you, a little amused.

You hiss through your teeth, pointing at the projector. “Can you not?”

Gojo cups a hand to his ear dramatically, and leans closer towards you, as if trying to hear what you had just said, but then you watch his jaw drop as Elizabeth says that Darcy’s the last man in the world she could ever be prevailed upon to marry.

“Wow. What did he do?” Which gets a couple laughs from the students, to your dismay.

He stands, moving aside from the projector and instead going behind your desk now, looking through the drawers like they’re his. You glare at him, and the coffee in your hand suddenly starts feeling like a projectile you could be using.

“If you’re going to interrupt, at least be quiet.” You stage-whisper.

“Me? Loud? Never.” He presses a finger to his lips like a cartoon spy, in an exaggerated shhh sound.

“The stapler is in the small drawer on the left. Leave my classroom.” As he moves a bit closer, opening the only drawer he forgot to check, your eyes pan up to his navy blue shirt, which reads in heinous lettering: Without friction, we’d all slip into despair. It’s a new one, and you have to wonder how many t-shirts with physics puns on them this grown ass man owns.

“Nice shirt.” You sarcastically quip. He pauses for a moment, holding your pretty pink stapler in hand.

“Aw. You like it?” He looks down at you in your chair, and pinches the front of his shirt with his free hand, as if to give you a better look at it. You want to smack that grin off his face.

“Hard not to when it’s screaming, I have no social life! in Comic Sans.”

He frowns, stage whispering back at you. “You’re kidding. This shirt’s a conversation starter. It’s so deep and poetic. Far from anything you could comprehend”

“Sure,” you deadpan, “Specifically, it starts the conversation: ‘God, what a loser.’”

“Me? A loser?” He whispers and cups a hand over his mouth this time, saying something now only you should hear. “Didn’t you turn down going to the club with Shoko last weekend so you could rewatch ‘The Great British Bake Off’?” You think that you can feel your face flushing.

“Wha—Why would Shoko tell you that?!” you sputter, a little louder than intended. Shoko Ieiri, what a traitor. A couple students near the front titter, and Gojo tips his head, smug.

You shoot the front row a sharp look. “Don’t encourage him.”

Onscreen, Darcy’s voice cracks with tension: “Forgive me, for taking up so much of your time.” But no one’s watching. They’re watching the way you’re squared off against Gojo like you’ve been through this routine a hundred times before.

You try to will your students’ attention back to the projector, but the air is buzzing with suppressed laughter, and the clip ends. Elizabeth is storming away from Darcy. Silence.

All eyes are on Gojo, as he starts walking towards the door.

One of the students mutters, just loud enough to hear, “Kinda feels like Elizabeth and Darcy right now.” You look around to see who said it, and of course it’s Hakari in the back row, slouched and practically half asleep. Always instigating.

Gojo perks up instantly. “Wait, which one am I?”

“You’re Mr. Collins.” you snap.

Gasps and laughter ripple through the class.

“Ouch,” Gojo says, clutching his chest theatrically. “Marriage proposal still stands, though.”

You can feel your blood pressure climbing as the students shout their ooo’s and ahh’s. “You got the stapler. Now, Get. Out.”

He grins, holding it up like it’s a trophy. He’s almost out the door now, his head is just peeking in like he wants to do one last thing to piss you off. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Right, right.” He pushes his glasses up, and his voice sing-songs sweetly. “See you at dinner, honey.”

And then he’s gone, out the door and across the hall to his classroom—and the entire class loses it. You want to sink through the floor.

“Alright,” you flick the lights back on, and try to act like you’re not planning to take that stapler back and whack him over the head with it once the bell rings. “Settle down. I don’t know what Mr. Gojo’s problem is but I want you all to act like that never happened. For my own peace of mind.”

They’re still giggling and you can hear the trail of whispers through the classroom. But still, it’s the image of Gojo’s grin that’s burning hot at the edge of your patience.

Your classroom feels strangely hollow after the bell, like the laughter of your students still clings to the walls even though they’ve all scattered for break. The projector is cooling down with a low hiss, the fairy lights glow faintly on the walls against bookshelves, student projects, and all the Etsy posters you bought for decor, and the only sound is the steady hum of the AC above to cool the late August heat outside.

You sit at your desk, stirring a plastic cup of iced coffee that tastes like melted ice cream and regret. Sickly sweet, just how you like it, though this morning you feel like you made it a little too sugary. You’ll survive, though.

The door creaks open and Utahime steps inside, a familiar relief with her cardigan draped neatly over her shoulder, her keys and staff lanyard swinging around her neck, and her ever-practical cherry red heels clicking against the linoleum. Without hesitation, she sinks into a student desk in the front row, sighing as her knees bump awkwardly against the underside. She lets her heels dangle a little, like she’s trying on a role that doesn’t quite fit.

“Don’t you have your own office?” You ask.

“Mm.” She tilts her head back, studying you from across the room. “Don’t you have better coffee?”

You look down at your coffee, now a bisque-shade from how much creamer you put in it this morning. Unpleasant to the untrained eye. But you snort, and take a sip anyway.

“That’s going to kill you before the students do.”

“It’s called self-preservation.” You swirl the coffee like it’ll magically taste better if you move the sugar around.

Utahime props her chin in her hand. “How’d you sleep?”

The truth is that you stayed up half the night rereading old messages from Naoya until your chest felt too tight to breathe. You could never tell Utahime this, though. First off, she was the one who you had cried to then rewatched the third season of Sex & The City with that weekend he’d broken up with you. Second off, she would use her guru-esque quality, not just as a school counselor, but as one of your best friends, to advise you against your self sabotaging habit of only looking at the good parts in your less than adequate, decade long relationship.

You force a casual shrug and don’t meet her eyes. “Fine. Finished a reread of Gatsby before we start our unit.”

“Mm-hm.” Utahime’s tone makes it clear she doesn’t buy it, but she lets it slide—for now.

Instead, she gestures vaguely toward the hallway. “So. How many times did Gojo barge in this week? I’m still betting under forty for the whole year. Suguru said over. So, no pressure, but just to let you know I have twenty dollars on the line right now.”

You groan and drop your forehead onto your folded arms on the desk. After the bell rang, you had quickly stomped over to his classroom to retrieve the stapler he’d stolen from you, but the idiot had already left and put a bright blue post-it note on his door that read: “BRB. I have the stapler on me. You know where to find me, Ms. L/N ~ ;)” You had ripped it off and threw it away—and hoped no one else noticed the perpetual steam coming out of your ears.

“Every day. Every single day this week. It’s like living across from an albino raccoon who figured out how doors work.”

Utahime chuckles, but her expression softens. “You’ve gotta stop falling for his bad ragebait.”

You peek up at her through your arms. “I can’t stop him from getting under my skin. It’s like his only hobby.”

“Then ignore him.”

“I’m trying. But then he does that thing where he inhales and then exhales—”

“—You mean breathing?”

“Exactly.”

Utahime shakes her head, amused, but the laughter fades as her eyes search yours. “You sure you’re okay?”

You straighten, wrapping your hands around the icy condensation of your coffee cup so your hands feel numb. “Sure. Never better.”

“You don’t have to joke about everything.”

“I’m not joking.” You smile anyway, the kind that feels plastered on. “I’m deflecting. It’s different.”

She doesn’t say Naoya’s name, but you hear it anyway, tucked inside the silence between you. It’s been about two months and eleven days since you had called it quits on who you thought—at some point or the other—would be the man you would spend the rest of your life with. Your high school sweetheart, the man who had seen you from junior-year prom to your masters thesis. Who you had moved in with at 19, then kicked you out at 27. It was mostly mutual, an unremarkable, inevitable split. The last couple years had felt like the end of a novel, dragging out the last few pages long after the story should’ve concluded. There wasn’t a week where you didn’t argue, scream at each other, or even talk at all. Ten years in, and you felt like it had been about six since the last time you could say without hesitation that you loved him unconditionally. The scary part is you don’t know if he ever loved you that way at all.

Doesn’t mean leaving didn’t hurt, though.

Utahime shakes you out of your thoughts, as she leans back in her chair, letting her heels swing lazily. “So…still dreaming about your good-for-nothing ex, or have you moved on to…physics teachers?”

You nearly choke on your coffee. “Excuse me?!?”

“You know, the students are already starting to speculate ever since you took down those photos of you and Naoya from your bulletin board,” You take a glance to your left, where you had a cute bulletin board you had crafted of scraps and pictures and stickers and sentimental items. It was half empty now…since most of your pictures were of you and your ex. You didn’t really think anyone would notice, but now that you’re looking at it, the emptiness is screaming at you. Yikes. “I’ve caught a few of them whispering whenever you two appear in the same hallway.”

“What? Speculate — speculate about what?!”

“About you two.” She smirks knowingly. “I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to. Your reputation precedes you.”

Your eyes narrow. “Reputation? You mean being a grown woman who actively wants to whack an unfunny physics teacher? Did they finally catch me planning first-degree murder?”

“Kind of,” she says, concealing her amusement. “Except…it doesn’t really sound like murder to the average high schooler. To them, it just looks… interesting. For lack of a better word.”

You groan and press your forehead into your palm. “I can’t. I just can’t. It’s literally my life goal not to give him any fuel, and now—”

“Now they’ve invented a fantasy version of you two,” Utahime finishes for you, tilting her head. “Honestly, it’s kind of impressive. You’ve got some competitive energy going on. Maybe one could even call it sexual tension if I had to give it a word—” You make a gagging noise, profusely shaking your head, and Utahime laughs at you.

“And I mean all of that for a guy who has Digimon collectibles all over his room. And a weirdly large collection of physics shirts.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “It’s a curse. I walk into the building and somehow my first thought is, ‘Which new physics pun is he wearing today?”

“And the second thought is?”

“Oh. That I should hide my stapler.”

Utahime raises an eyebrow. “Ah. That explains the blue post-it note.” She winks. “Classic Gojo.”

You groan, dramatically dragging a hand through your hair. You had really hoped no one else had seen that. “I don’t even know why he bothers me so much. I feel like he’s gotten worse this year, and we’re not even a full week in yet. Last year, I tried to use his tricks against him and randomly burst into his class to distract his students, but he didn’t even care. He just found it funny so I gave up that tactic because seeing him all golly made me annoyed.”

Utahime’s not looking at you anymore, picking at the fuzzy pills on her cardigan with her nails. “You know, sometimes the people who get under your skin the most aren’t the ones worth your attention, but they’re the ones who teach you the most about yourself.”

You snort softly, half disbelief, half in agreement. “That’s a nice way to say, ‘You’re weak for letting him annoy you this much.’”

“Maybe.” She smirks, playful again, and still not looking up at you. “But be careful around those students. They’re vicious.”

You clear your throat, “Seriously, though, Gojo? He’s like a fungus. The more you try to scrape him off, the more he grows back.”

Utahime smiles at you. “Then maybe you should stop feeding him your attention.”

You sip your coffee, saccharine and stinging. But deep down, you can’t shake the question: if he’s really not worth it, then why does he get under your skin so much?

The gym at Jujutsu High smells like freshly polished floors, popcorn, and a faint trace of febreeze. At least it didn’t smell like BO anymore. Or, at least not yet. Sunlight streams in through the high windows, cutting across the chaos below. The bleachers are completely full, and the gym is buzzing. Students are running everywhere—teams being called, banners being hung, foam fingers waving like flags.

It’s a Friday at lunch, and it's the end of your first week back. You’d almost forgotten that you had volunteered to supervise the Welcome Back Rally, until Utahime–who was also volunteering, against her will—had dragged you out of your classroom and placed a clipboard and whistle in your hand.

You’d imagined a relatively easy job, like patrolling the bleachers, maybe confiscating contraband snacks from first-years, or clapping politely at the cheer routine. What you hadn’t imagined was being paired with Gojo, because apparently the faculty roster is written by someone with a personal vendetta against you.

“Ah, my partner in crime.” He greets, sliding up to you with a grin wide enough to make you want to pull his teeth out. “And here you were, thinking you could make it through one school event without me.”

You eye him flatly. “I was actually hoping that exact thing, yeah.”

Your assignment, according to Mr. Takaba, the school’s activities director and his curt clipboard instructions, is to, “monitor the relay game.” Which translates into standing near a mess of cones and hula hoops while unobservant teenagers attempt organized chaos. Predictably, the chaos wins. A basketball goes rogue, someone trips over a hula hoop, and now some freshman’s already bleeding from the nose. You cover your gasp with your hand, and Gojo makes a surprised face. The crowd goes, oooh..and not in a good way.

“Oh. Um. This is fine.” Gojo says, as you both watch a senior haul away the freshman, who’s holding a hand over his bleeding nose. Shoko could take care of that.

The two of you are the only ones monitoring the home-side bleachers, so you and Gojo are unusually silent for a bit, watching the rally play out. Occasionally blowing your whistle here and there if you notice someone being unfair, but you’re mostly zoned out.

“Where were you this summer?” Gojo says suddenly, leaning against the railing, “I feel like I heard nothing from you.”

You glance at him, clipboard in hand. The dynamic between you and Gojo has always been…perplexing. Some of your closest friends at work, like Shoko Ieiri, the school’s head nurse, and Suguru Geto, the world history teacher and co-advisor of the school newspaper with you—have all been some of Gojo’s closest friends since university. You just can’t pinpoint where you and Gojo’s little back and forth started—it feels like there’s been a great number of reasons and incidents and coincidences that have built up over the years, ranging from things with Naoya that never sat right, to stupid things like using up the last life of ink on their shared printer—but ever since you’ve been teaching at Jujutsu High, so has Gojo. And by some cruel architectural twist of fate, he’s also always been just across the hall.

You glance at him, clipboard in hand. “I just live a life of mystery, apparently.” You’d spent the whole summer sulking after your break-up.

He smirks. “Mm-hm. Right. Or you were avoiding me.”

“Please,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “You’re everywhere anyway. I get my fill of Gojo for the entire school year. I need summer to recharge in peace.”

“Touché,” he says, hands tucked in his pockets. “But seriously…did you ever catch up with Shoko while I was off being brilliant and terrifying somewhere.”

You frown, thinking. “Yeah. We hung out a couple of times. Mostly called, though. She lives so far from here.”

He nods, and you glance at him, eyebrows raised. “And you? Did you actually do anything useful, or just flirt your way through your summer like usual?”

“Excuse me,” He feigns offense, tilting his head. “Flirtation is just a bonus. I was busy all summer with coaching baseball camp, and doing research at the university with this NASA-backed team there for Quantum Propulsions. I saw a real rocketship they’re building. You wanna see?”

He side steps a little closer to you, pulling out his phone and scrolling over to his photos app to show you a selfie of him with his face in the corner of the frame, pointing up at a rocketship with a big smile on his face.

“You like it? I put it in my class introduction slides this week.”

“Mm. It’s not your worst picture.”

“I guess I’ll take it.” He says, turning off his phone and stuffing it back into the pocket of his dark wash jeans. He doesn’t move back to his original spot, but he crosses his arms and watches the game for a bit, playing with the whistle between his fingers.

“Oh. You know I saw Naoya at a family thing last week? He kept glaring at me, but he looked like shit. Did he tell you abou–” He started trailing off, but your head had only registered, he looked like shit. You decided to take it as a small win.

“Don’t.” You grumble under your breath.

He leans closer, voice dropping just enough to carry over the crowd noise. “Oh, come on. I feel like the guys never liked me. Said I was too…flirty? Imagine that—me, flirty? The horror.”

“You know, he thinks that you’re off-putting.” You say, smirking despite yourself.

“I’m ignoring that. But, anyway. He came up to me at the family thing, because it was some Gojo-Corp slash Zenin-Corp schmuck fest I didn’t ask to be a part of, and he just kept glowering at me. Like, hello? Did I do something to you?”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head. “I swear you remember every single time someone’s ever wronged you, even minor stuff.”

“I don’t forget, I catalogue,” he says, mock-proud. “It’s a skill. Besides, it keeps things interesting. You’d be bored if I didn’t stir the pot a little.”

You glance at him, you find it slightly endearing, despite yourself. “I’m…not bored. Just constantly exasperated.”

“Exactly,” he grins, as if he had successfully proved a point. “We’re the perfect team. You, glaring. Me, grinning. Classic combo.”

You roll your eyes again. “I’m not sure ‘classic combo’ is the phrase I’d use for disaster waiting to happen.”

“Semantics,” he says lightly, leaning back a little with arms crossed. “Anyway, I missed this—seeing you overanalyze everything and still manage to look ridiculous while doing it. Kinda like a sport in itself.”

You huff, a little embarrassed but trying to hide it behind your clipboard.

The gym breaks into claps and whistles as the voice of athletics director, Mr. Ryomen Sukuna, announces over the speaker that the next relay round is about to start. You’re crouched down, trying to untangle two jump ropes that some geniuses thought would be funny to knot together, when you feel it — something flicks against the back of your ear.

You whirl around.

Gojo is standing there, twirling his whistle on a lanyard around his finger, infuriatingly casual as he looks down at you. “What?”

“You just flicked me.”

“Excuse me?” His voice dips into fake innocence, his grin widening when he sees your glare. He does it again.

“Stop that!” You hiss, and you’re back on your feet, glaring at him while he keeps twirling it between his fingers.

He leans down just enough to make his voice carry over the roar of the bleachers. “I’m just keeping you on your toes.”

You pause, and give him the most apathetic look you could muster.

“Get it…cause you were just crouching. On your toes…No?”

“You’re insufferable.” You yank the whistle from his hand and stuff it into your pocket, like you’ve confiscated candy from a baby.

Gojo just shrugs, then cups his hands around his mouth and looks at you, while simultaneously yelling towards the chaos of students, “Hey! Don’t steal school property, only teachers get to do that!” Before he places a hand to emphasize the gap between your height and his, making a show of how much taller he is than you. A few kids laugh, and you want the ground to swallow you whole.

“You are not funny.” You half cross your arms, with your clipboard still in hand.

“Not funny? Please. I’m the highlight of this rally.” He lifts his arms like he’s presenting himself to the crowd, and it gives you a full view of his newest outfit, written in block letters on a white shirt, accompanied with the graphic of a rollercoaster cart going up a drop: I have potential.

You hide your slight smile with a scowl. “Highlight? More like an eyesore. You lost your potential when you came in wearing a shirt like that.”

He clutches his chest. Offended. “My shirt is a beacon of scientific truth.”

“It’s a beacon of why you don’t have a girlfriend.” You scoff. He pauses, and you think you’ve gone too far… but then he laughs at you, and the sound of it weirdly makes you lighten up.

“Hey, if you called me insufferable, but dated that one awful guy for—what was it—ten years?” He smirks at the way your jaw tenses. “Then that means there’s hope for me.”

You freeze, blinking at him. You wish you could have seen the look on your face at this moment. “Wait—did you say dated? As in past tense, used to date.”

He freezes too, smirk faltering. Absolutely caught. “Uh… I might’ve… overheard. Or someone mentioned it.” You looked at him, completely unimpressed. There’s only one other person who you ran to almost immediately after it was over. Who you called even before the snot had stopped running down your nose. And there was also only one person who was friends with both you and Gojo, who also had a big mouth. “Okay, fine—Shoko told me. But it’s not like I was being weird about it, I swear.”

Shoko Ieiri, that absolute traitor.

You glare. “You asked Shoko about my breakup?”

He scratches his neck, sheepish. “Yeah…? Maybe that was overstepping. I just saw you guys unfollowed each other on Instagram, so I asked.”

You laugh, a little bitter, and shake your head at the sheer audacity of this guy. “Maybe you were overstepping??”

He shrugs, but his eyes flick over you like he’s checking if he can cross a line again. He’s so shameless you have to stop yourself from blowing the whistle in his ear. “I’m just saying—if a dumb t-shirt makes you cringe, but a guy wasting ten years of your life didn’t? Kinda feels like your priorities are flipped.”

You actually can’t believe he just said that. The laugh you let out is sharp and bitter, surprising even yourself. “You would know all about bad priorities, wouldn’t you?”

That shuts him up for a beat. Long enough that the sound of cheering and sneakers squeaking on the gym floor go on for longer than either of you are comfortable with. Then he smiles again, brighter, faker this time. “Tch. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were projecting.”

You snap your head toward him. “Projecting what, exactly?”

“Mm.” He pretends to think, tapping his chin with one long finger. “Frustration. Deep-seated bitterness. Maybe some unresolved romantic trauma?”

Your mouth gapes open. “Excuse me?”

When you look back up at him, you see his head tilt up towards the bleachers, where a gaggle of juniors are very obviously whispering behind their hands, half-giggling, half-staring at the two of you like you’re they’re favorite celebrities. He nods his head at them, and you smile at them, and they burst out giggling before the two of you turn back around. What Utahime said to you yesterday rings in your head suddenly. You know the students are starting to speculate about you two…to them, it looks—interesting.

You shake your head, and he looks back at you, leaning in a little as the crowd roars again. “I mean, hey,” He says with an exaggerated shrug. “You don’t have to take it out on me just because someone dumped you.”

“I didn’t get dumped,” You hiss, jabbing a finger at his chest. “It was mutual.”

He gasps, scandalized. “Mutual? Oh no. That’s just what people say when they definitely get dumped.”

You shove his hand away as he reaches over like he’s about to pat your head. “Just stop talking.”

“Can’t. Won’t.” He beams. “Making you mad is way more entertaining than the relay race.”

“Gojo, I swear—”

“What? You’ll report me to Yaga? Please. He loves me.”

You’d thought about it. Had done your research to see if Gojo making you irritated and contemplate violence every time you see him border on the grounds of workplace harassment. But then you think about the things you’ve done to get him back over the years. Implied he got too excited over Digimon to his class of seniors, (if you know what I mean) which he laughed at. Broke some of his lab equipment after yelling at each other, which got slightly on his nerves. (And you felt bad, so you paid for most of it.) Swapped his whiteboard markers with ones that were dried out, to which he swapped yours with permanent markers. (The janitor had complained about it to Yaga.) Hid his chair in your room and replaced it with a kindergarten-sized one from the art room for a couple days. Hijacked his Spotify playlist to blast Dance Monkey in the middle of his lecture. To which he figured out your Spotify login and added I Am A Gummy Bear to all of your playlists. Those were some highlights among other things over the past four years.

And you know that Principal Yaga would only bring up all these other incidents if you were to complain about Gojo. Ugh.

“Yaga barely tolerates you.”

“Jealous?”

“Of what. Your complete lack of shame?”

“Of my charisma.” He winks. You gag.

“Gojo, if you say one more word, I’m shoving my whistle so far down your throat you’ll be calling plays from your stomach.”

He leans down until he’s eye-level, smile sharp. “Kinky.”

You feel your face flush again, and you spin around to see if anyone else had heard that. Thankfully, everyone seemed too focused on the kids about to hop over the finish-line of the three-legged race.

“You’re unbelievable.” You mutter, storming off towards the cones as the crowd erupts in cheers at the end of the race, commemorating the end of the rally and the start of the final cheer routine, which was highlighted in bright yellow on your clipboard. Behind you now, Gojo’s laughter booms over the crowd, louder than the pep rally itself.

Before he can retort, a cheerleader comes sprinting too close to the sidelines. She collides with one of the relay cones, sending it skidding straight toward you. You stumble back, about to lose your balance—until you feel a strong arm shoot out, catching you around the waist to steady you back on your feet.

And of course, because the universe hates you, Satoru Gojo doesn’t let go immediately. His hand is firm against your side, his face dipping closer than it has any right to be, his breath brushing your ear when he murmurs, “Careful there, wouldn’t want you to sue the school for hazardous cone placement.”

Your pulse spikes, embarrassment and heat searing through your face like you’d just played the entire relay yourself. The squeak of sneakers slows, replaced by a ripple of whispers and a sharp, collective gasp from the bleachers. The sound alone makes your stomach drop. You know people saw. Too many people.

You jerk out of his hold, spin around toward him with your clipboard clutched tight against your chest like a shield. “You’re unbelievable.” You hiss again, but this time it comes out thinner, because you can still feel the ghost of his hand against your waist.

Gojo leans back, his ears a little red, but his expression is unbothered, with that blinding grin spreading across his face like he’s covering another laugh. “Don’t worry,” he says, stretching his arms over his head as if he didn’t practically manhandle you in front of half the school. “I saved your life. You should really be thanking me.”

“You could’ve tripped me harder than the cone did.” You try to snap, but your voice wobbles, and judging by the smug sparkle in his eyes, he heard it.

“Huh. You’re right. Next time I’ll really commit.” He sing-songs, walking away to pick up the cone, and you feel your eye twitch. You step back as the cheer squad rallies into formation, and you can still swear you hear his soft chuckling over the buzz of the crowd. The sound of it echoes in your ears long after the marching band drowns it out.

You’re half-paying attention to the students as they file out of the gym, congratulating teams and waving banners, but the whispers follow you like a persistent shadow. Every time someone giggles behind their hand or nudges a friend, your stomach twists. You’re convinced it’s because pep rallies are dumb, and not because of anything—or anyone—in specific.

You teach English to seniors in the morning, and sophomores after lunch. You go about your last two English 2 Honors classes of the day trying to ignore the lingering heat in your cheeks. You pass out all the worksheets you had printed the day before, teaching the slides to round out your lesson on Literary Devices like you always do in the beginning of the year. You don’t forget to remind your class about their timed summer reading essays next Friday, which gives way to a unanimous groan.

You would’ve forgotten the way Gojo had held you at that pep rally, if only not for every time you glance up, you’d notice the subtle smirks and sidelong glances your students exchange. A few kids even whisper to each other while stealing glances at you, and it sets your nerves on edge. You shift your weight on your tennis shoes, hoping it’s all in your head. Surely, it’s just the lingering excitement from the rally.

By the time the final bell rings, you’re practically sprinting out the classroom, trying to look casual while stuffing papers into your bag. The hallways are still buzzing with students, some waving at friends from other classes, others chattering in small groups. And yet—and maybe you’re just a little paranoid—you notice the occasional pause as someone spots you and then whispers to the next person.

You’re crossing the main hallway near the teacher’s lounge, when you hear a small gasp from the far end of the corridor, followed by muffled laughter. Your stomach lurches. Kids are really scary sometimes. But you have to ignore it, ignore it, ignore it.

Still, the whispers and stifled giggles continue, subtly threading through the hallways as you make your way to the lounge. You’ve barely just closed the door, when it swings open behind you, and Utahime steps in, phone held out in front of her face.

“Explain THIS.”

You’re startled at first, but you follow her gaze, and your heart feels like it fell down to your ass. There it is—the photo. It’s a Snapchat photo, taken in low, zoomed in quality, with a black bar of text below that writes: “English X Physics OTP??????” The background is blurred, the gym chaos still visible, but the focus is zoomed in on the two of you. Gojo, leaning in close, one hand braced around your waist, your face flushed and wide-eyed like something out of a rom-com poster. And it all looks way too intimate than it really was.

“Oh. My. God.” You slump into one of the worn chairs in the lounge. Utahime follows, taking her phone back and staring at it with an infuriatingly gleeful grin plastered across her face.

“Oh, come on,” Utahime says, nudging you with her elbow. “It’s hilarious. Look at this!” She holds up the phone again, and you reflexively shield your face. “The posture! The panic! You’re basically a rom-com lead who just realized the camera’s on.”

“I am not a rom-com lead,” You whisper defensively. Your hands are covering your face out of complete embarrassment. “How many people has this gotten around to?? That looks—that looks criminal out of context—”

Utahime snorts. “Relax. It’s fine. It’s…well, it’s definitely not fine, because everyone’s seen it by now, but at least it’s funny.” She tries to give you a supportive smile, but is clearly savoring your meltdown. “I’ve got to say, though, the way your eyes are this wide—adorable.”

“Utahime!” You squeak, flailing. “Please delete it. Hide it. Burn it. ANYTHING.”

“Too late,” She says brightly, scrolling through her phone like she’s about to share it to everybody but you. “The students have it posted all over their private stories, apparently. You’re viral, congratulations.”

Before you can sputter further, the door to the lounge swings open and Ijichi, the secretary, pokes his head in, clipboard in hand and a polite, but firm expression.

“L/N?” He says, a little shy. “Principal Yaga is asking for you in his office. Right now.”

You jolt upright, nearly tripping over the chair. “Wha–what? Why?”

Ijichi blinks, a little startled at your reaction. “I don’t have details. He said it’s urgent. If you could come with me, please.”

Utahime bursts into another round of laughter, practically doubled over now. “Ohhh, this is perfect. Go on—walk into the storm, Ms. Bennet. (She says in a mock British accent) Make me proud.”

You groan, flinging your bag over your shoulder and muttering curses under your breath as you follow Ijichi out of the lounge. You can still hear Utahime in there, barely able to contain her giggles while your stomach feels like it’s turning to mush.

As you follow Ijichi down the quiet hallway, now devoid of students, the worst possible scenarios slip through your mind. Of course this had to be about the photo—but can they fire you for that? Surely to any professional teacher, it would just look like a co-worker helping another co-worker from an imminent case of eating straight shit right? I mean, it was only to those hormonal teenagers for it to look like something else entirely, right?

And of course, of course, when you round the corner outside the principal’s office, there he is. Gojo. Sitting casually against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, phone in hand, scrolling with what looks like an irritatingly calm expression. He looks up, just for a second, and behind his glasses, the sparkle in those clear blue eyes tells you he knows exactly why you’re panicking.

“Yikes.” He mutters softly, seemingly more to himself than you, though you can feel it like a poke to the ribs.

Ijichi clears his throat, opening the door to Yaga’s office. “You two can come in,” He says, voice dry, eyes flicking between you and Gojo like he’s silently cataloguing the impending chaos.

Behind the door, Principal Yaga sits behind his desk, expression unreadable behind those visors he wears, even indoors. The office smells faintly of a Bath & Body Works mahogany and teakwood candle, and his chairs are weirdly far from his desk, and also weirdly shorter in comparison, making Yaga seem like a giant in front of them. “Sit,” he says, not bothering with pleasentries. Both of you comply, though Gojo makes it dramatic, leaning back and spreading his arms onto the rests.

“I’ve called you two in for a talk on professionalism.” Yaga begins, folding his hands on the desk. You feel your face cringe, and you don’t even bother looking over at Gojo. “While I don’t care what you do on your own time, I do care about what students see. I’ve seen the picture being spread. Stop giving them fuel for gossip. Stop giving them reasons to speculate about your behavior.”

You quickly nod, scared to look away, but Gojo leans toward you just enough that you can hear him whisper, with a smirk on his face. “Wow. We become that popular that fast?”

You snap your head toward him, voice sharp, but whispering, “Shut up. You’re literally the reason we’re here.”

Yaga sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Again. I don’t care what you two do outside of school, but this—” He gestures at the two of you, Gojo holding his chin with his hand, while leaning his arm on your arm rest, and you, your face unconsciously close to his as you were whispering to him just seconds ago. “—this hallway spectacle—is inappropriate. Since it’s already being spread amongst the students it could become a whole thing with the parents contacting us about professional conduct, and I just don’t want to deal with that headache. It’s happened before, and it wasn’t fun, Mr. Gojo and Ms. L/N.”

You blink, swallowing hard, trying to gather your words because you’re afraid if you open your mouth you’re going to puke from the embarrassment. “I completely understand, Yaga. Trust me, it won’t happen again. And about the picture, I promise you—”

Gojo leans even closer, completely cutting you off with an amused tone to his voice, “It’s fine, really. It was all totally staged, Yaga. See? She actually tripped on purpose just so she could land in my arms.”

You snap, glaring at him so sharply that he actually flinches slightly. “Stop. Playing. Games. This was not intentional. A rogue cone came flying at me and he just so happened to help me, even though I very clearly did not need any help. You actually made it WORSE!”

Gojo chuckles softly, eyes sparkling, locked into yours. “But it looks so much better when you act flustered. I mean, have you seen the picture? Not the best angle but I thought we looked kind of cu–”

You throw your hands up, exasperated. “Delete that photo from your phone, erase it from everyone else’s memory, and —”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down,” Gojo interrupts, voice still teasing. “You’re making it sound like you’re…obsessed with me or something. Careful, or Principal Yaga might think the same.”

Your eyes go wide, and you’re afraid they’re actually going to twitch this time. The audacity on this motherfucker. “Obsessed? With you? Are you insane??!”

Yaga groans, clearly done with both of you, and cuts in, voice sharp and final. “Do I make myself clear? Professionalism. Enough of this whispering, smirking, or any other nonsense. Our lead janitor is still angry at the two of you for your antics last year. I don’t care what you do on your own time, please. Go home. Both of you. Now.”

That seems to spook the two of you a bit, and you both look over at each other, immediately shutting up. You gather your things, give Yaga one last nod of understanding, and walk out the door, where Ijichi stands in the corner still, eyeing the two of you with a look of curiosity. You wonder how much of the conversation he’d heard.

As you walk out into the hallway, unfortunately having to walk the same direction to the staff parking lot, Gojo quickens his pace to match yours, and lets out a long, dramatic, mock sigh of disappointment, then leans toward you with a sly grin. “All I got out of that was Yaga just gave us his blessing. Officially. We’re cleared for all future shenanigans.”

You turn your head back at him incredulously. “He just said the exact opposite of that.”

“Opposite, same, potato, potathto…details, details. I prefer to think he secretly agrees with me.”

You close your eyes for a moment, listening to the way your steps sync on the linoleum floor. Imagining the takeout leftovers that are at home, waiting for you, before letting out a long, frustrated breath. “I hate you.”

“And yet,” He says, “You’ll be thinking about today all weekend.”

There’s some quick math done in your head, as Gojo blabbers onto you about his weekend plans. You calculate the amount of weeks in a year. Then you figure out how many weeks are left in a school year. 35 weeks of 36 to go. 35 more weeks of Gojo in your ear. 35 weeks more weeks until Gojo finally shuts up. 35 more weeks until you can find your sanity again.

You think this year will be so much fun.

⭑ mae's note: HII you've officially finished the first chapter!! i'm sorry if any of it got info-dumpy at one point, but i really wanted you guys to get to know these characters, and get to meet some more familiar friends along the wayyy :D constructive feedback is soo appreciated and my inbox is open for questions & comments (help and ideas for future chapters from a teacher would be sooo appreciated LMAO, i know nothing about teaching, google has been my best friend writing this so far) as for updates, i'm planning to post a new chapter bi-weekly, but there will be some changes depending on my schedule and everything going on. i'm ngl i kind of base my motivation on interactions..💔 so if you liked this at all likes+reposts+comments are my driving force </3 see u guys in the next one!!

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