Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Time doesn’t pass in the prison realm.

Or maybe it does. Maybe it’s just that he doesn’t

He had tried, over thousands of times, to escape infinity. How ironic, because he is infinity.

He is nowhere, but he is somewhere. He is everywhere.

It’s an eternal darkness, embracing him with sick bittersweetness. 

Satoru doesn’t know how long, but he got tired, he lost hope. 

He had stopped trying to make sense.

He had stopped expecting.

At least it’s somewhat peaceful. Not warm, not gentle. Just dark and quiet.

Warmth.

When was the last time he felt warmth?

Light.

When was the last time he saw light?

He could vividly hear talking.

When was the last time he ever heard ?

Satoru blinked in a daze, the world around him changed. It welcomes him with featherlight touches and gentle embraces. It closed in on him, and now he properly sees at least a dozen of faces peering down at him.

So he is freed.

…That is a surprisingly calm realisation.

“He looks like a fucking twink,” someone deadpanned - and Satoru thinks, much to his amusement - wow, first words I’ve heard since don’t-know-how-long-but-probably-pretty-long.

“I thought there’s gonna be Nine Tailed Fox or some shit.”

Another surprise: Satoru feels very energised, enough so to be offended by both of the statements made.

So he scoffs, “And you sound like a 90 year old smoker.”

Okay, that isn’t the best comeback of the year. But he’s been trapped in practically nothingness for like, he doesn’t know - but the point stands.

“Woah, he can talk?”

Satoru holds himself up in a proper seating position. His blindfold was lost, and the over–sensory is almost making his eyes water.

He blinks. Then squints at the bunch of faces frowning at him.

At the very front stood a man who looks like sleep is a myth and had a messy loop of cloth wrapped around his neck. A teacher , because the rest behind were wearing very ugly, not fashionable uniforms.

There’s a girl with pink skin and horns, a guy with a fucking tail…

Yeah, he doesn’t even want to know.

His Six Eyes tells him they aren’t Curses, and his rationality tells him this might be like, a thousand years into the future so humanity has evolved.

No biggy.

“Um,” he starts.

He should say something smart, like -

“Why y’all staring?”

That wasn’t smart.

“Hoo, his eyes though. They are shining,” one utters with awe.

Now that’s what you call good taste. 

More murmurs, but the teacher’s eyes never once left him.

Protective. Satoru thinks smugly. Cute.

“We released you from the cube,” the teacher finally said, warily, as if to test him.

Satoru rises, half expecting his legs to buckle. But they don’t. His body’s fine—perfect, even. As if no time passed at all. The Prison Realm left him untouched. Physically, at least .

His actions also alarmed the already wary teacher, as he immediately threw his arms wide and straight on either side of him and took steps behind, effectively herding his students further away.

Satoru raises a brow, “so you did.”

He brushes invisible dust from the Jujutsu High uniform he’s still clad in, and tilts his head with a theatrical indifference.

“Is this the part where I thank you?”

The teacher doesn’t laugh.

“If you’re capable of that,” he says slowly, “it would be a nice place to start.”

Satoru whistles low. He sweeps his eyes over the group again. “Didn’t anyone teach your kids about dramatic reunions? A little confetti would’ve gone a long way.”

“That thing—” one of the  girls mutters, pointing to the open Prison Realm box still lying on the ground, “—almost fried all our circuits trying to open it.”

Satoru tilts his head. “So you brute-forced it open with future magic. Cool, cool. Still doesn’t explain the tail.”

The guy with the tail waves lazily. “Quirk,” he says, like that clears it up.

Satoru squints. “Quirk?”

Another kid steps up—bright-eyed, freckles, clearly someone who’s read way too much. “He’s from, like, centuries ago. Do they even have quirks?”

"I had initially hoped it would be a few decades," Satoru says slowly.

A beat passes.

“I’m guessing Sorcerers are no longer a thing?”

“Sorcerers? What’s that?” One deadpanned.

Of course they don’t know anything about Jujutsu. Sorcery at the time is heavily unknown to commoners, and the limited records probably have faded with time, along with the Clans. 

“Nevermind, it's nothing. What do you think I am?” He asks.

The teacher sighs, “We don’t know. The Cube was discovered over a century ago. It is said it contains tremendous power inside and whoever opens it could have it for themselves - no one could. Scientists from the past tried. Failed. Then villains stole it. Passed it around like a cursed heirloom for like seventy years. Only recently did my class recover it by surprise on a mission - and with new tech—finally, we managed to break it open,”

he glanced at the cube beneath Satoru’s feet. “New tech at this school lets us do more than what we could’ve done decades ago, though it broke almost all of our best equipment, and we thought there’s not much we could do, so we considered sending it to proper scientists. But it started glowing, and we panicked. I took it as far away from the main campus as possible.”

“And then,” another student cuts in, “you just popped out .”

“Like a dramatic genie,” someone adds.

Satoru snorts. “Well. I hope you all made a wish.”

The teacher looked fairly displeased, “I told you all to stay with the tech people and Vlad, not follow me out here. It could’ve been dangerous .

The students laughed sheepishly.

The teacher’s voice cuts through again, calm but wary. “What are you?”

Satoru meets his gaze, “just a guy.”

He frowns. They all frown.

Satoru grins.

They started to lead him back to the campus a few moments later.

Satoru lets out a low whistle, his fingers slipping into the familiar shape of mock-thought, “so… I basically hatched in the middle of a panic attack.”

“Pretty much,” One girl with uneven blue hair and weird ears says.

A dry cough cuts through the bickering. Aizawa, as he’d heard one of the kids call him, narrows his eyes again. “How do we know you’re not a threat?”

Satoru tilts his head, as if actually considering the question. “That’s a fair concern. I’ve been told I am a walking natural disaster.”

“You’re not helping your case,” Aizawa mutters

He shrugs. “I didn’t ask to be released, y’know. You people opened the damn Cube. Maybe you’re the threat.”

Another round of tense silence. This time, not even a mutter. The sky above is a thick blanket of dusk, clouds smeared like bruises across a bleeding horizon. It smells like ozone and scorched circuits—remnants of the explosion they must’ve caused breaking him out.

“I’m tired of posturing,” Aizawa says, voice low but steady. “We’re taking you back to campus. I want full scans. Tests. Answers.”

Satoru yawns. “You gonna dissect me?”

“No,” Aizawa says. “Not unless you give me a reason to.”

“Charming,” he deadpans.

He lets them surround him, though it’s more of an escort than a formation. 

They walk.

The trip back to the school is oddly quiet. No one quite knows what to do with him, this strange relic from a forgotten time. 

The campus reminds him too much of Jujutsu Tech, even though they look nothing alike. Satoru swallows the sickly feeling that is building up.

Aizawa shoo the kids away to the classrooms. The students groan and wail, demanding to come with them. But under the teacher’s intense stare, they relent, clearly

displeased.

Aizawa leads him to what looks like a research center. White lights. Glass walls. Doctors in black uniforms and masks. 

Cool. Jujutsu High had a research center, though this one is fancier.

One of them gasped.

“Is that… the entity from the relic?” she breathes.

“Name’s Satoru Gojo,” he offers, a little too brightly. “Not ‘entity.’ That’s rude.”

They usher him through security scans like he’s a bomb they’re not sure how to defuse. He doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t comment when they avoid touching him - not like they could, with his Infinity on.

They take samples. Hair, blood. 

Normal.

All the results indicate he’s normal, like he had expected.

He almost laughs when the tech mutters, “Nothing out of the ordinary. Quirkless, even.”

I’m always out of the ordinary, Gojo thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Let them sit with their confusion.

“You’re quirkless, Mr. Gojo. Do I understand this right?”

Principle Nezu is a rat.

Satoru isn’t trying to insult him.

A literal rat . In a suit. With a tie. Holding a clipboard like it’s perfectly normal for a rodent to conduct official meetings in a cushy, sunlit office.

A fucking rat.

A talking rat at that.

Should he even be surprised?

At least the office is cozy.

Gojo leans back further into the armchair, its plush velvet molding around him like it was designed to cradle egos. The office is too nice — warm, almost luxurious, the walls lined with bookshelves and polished plaques. A tray of biscuits sits untouched on the desk, beside a teapot steaming gently.

Quirkless. He's heard one lab girl say it. Why are they even asking? 

“That’s not nice of you to assume. I’m very quirky.”

“ - No, quirk as in, erm, a superpower would be the best term. It is fairly common for people to have quirks”

Gojo snorts. Then laughs — full-bodied and bright, tipping his head back as if the ceiling just told the best joke he’s heard in centuries - which, if you think about it, could be true.

“Oh man. Quirks?  How adorable.”

He imagines going around asking, “ hey what’s your quirk,”  in his world.

He could already see the displeasure in Megumi’s eyes, that subtle downturn of his lips that says: “ don’t embarrass me in public.”

He falters.

Megumi.

His heart clenched, brief but painful.

He wonders.

Satoru hopes he died of natural causes rather than -

It doesn’t matter anymore. Not here.

He grins at the principles and lies, “nah, I ain’t got no superpower. Ain’t no superhero.”

Nezu’s dark eyes gleam with curiosity, “strange. For so long, people have speculated that something immense was sealed inside the Cube.”

He blinks the thought away and denies briskly, “nah, no power. Just me. Are you disappointed? ‘Cause I’m a delight, you should be glad .”

“You’re remarkably upbeat for someone who’s spent centuries in isolation, Mr. Gojo.”

“Yeah, cause I’m Gojo.” Satoru chirps, like it's the most obvious answer in the world.

“Am I to understand time doesn’t pass in there? Because living for centuries doesn’t seem realistic.”

Satoru shifts in the cushion, long legs sprawled out like he owns this place “and you’re awfully smart for a rodent. I thought mice were supposed to steal cheese . But yeah, you got it right.”

The principal chuckles, “I get comments similar to that. How did you end up in the Cube?”

Gojo hesitates, then shrugs, “Long story. Once upon a time, there were monsters—nasty, mean things called Curses. Big war. Big mess. I was just a civilian - wrong place, wrong time. They meant to seal something else. Guess they missed.”

He lies, as easy as breathing. Why should he tell them?

It’s a strange world with strangle rules, and a strange rat wants to know his personal details.

He’ll watch. Wait. See what these “quirks” are made of.

Mostly he’s just bored and wants to have fun. 

And he doesn’t need Limitless anymore. The world he cared about is long gone in the river of time, there’s no point. Rather, telling them might make them too wary for his liking. He would like to have fun, not been watched by prudent eyes,

“And the sorcerers you mentioned?”

“Those are people who deal with Curses. They have superpowers, too. Isn’t that cool?”

“There is no records of any of this, Mr. Gojo.”

“No, I don't expect there to be any,” Satoru says nonchalantly, “normal humans can’t see Curses, and sorcerers are not known to commonors, so they probably vanished in history, like VHS tapes. There won’t be many records, it’s been a long time, so they’re probably gone.”

“Yet you could see these Curses?” 

“I have enough Cursed Energy to spot them, but not enough to actually fight.”

Nezu hums thoughtfully, “Cursed Energy?”

“Sorcerers need cursed energy to exorcise Curses. I have some, but not enough to do what they did. No flashy powers. So, technically? Still just a guy.”

Just a guy.

Maybe he could really just be a guy, for once. At least he would want to know how it feels.

He says it with a smile, but the truth behind the lie thrums under his skin like a second heartbeat.

He leans further back into the plush cushion, eyes flicking toward the window, sunlight slicing through his lashes, “y’know, I used to be a teacher.”

The principle raises his eyebrows, “really? A normal one?”

Satoru hesitated, “nah, I taught maths and physical combat in a special school for Sorcerers.”

“You must be very good at it,” Nezu says, “if you can teach combat when you have powers.”

Satoru smiles, a wave of nostalgia flowing through him, “I am good at what I do. The students loved me.”

There is a thick silence after that.

“Maybe,” Nezu starts, then falters.

“What?”

“Maybe you could teach here,” he offers.

Satoru blinks.

“Huh.”

“You are just a civilian from the past suddenly pulled into such a different world,” Nezu explains, “there wouldn’t be anywhere for you to go. You seem to enjoy teaching, so maybe you could just stay here.”

Silence stretches again. Longer this time.

Then he grins lazily, “trusting a stranger with your precious students?”

Nezu shrugs. He says nothing.

“Fine. I can be a teacher here.”

The principal smiles, it looks more genuine this time, “I’ll get you sorted.”

Satoru winks, “gee, thanks. Though could you get me a blindfol - I mean sunglasses? Preferably designer.”

Chapter Text

Aizawa thinks he’s hallucinating, or having a very bad dream

Either that or Nezu’s going insane. 

And honestly he had somewhat expected that, who wouldn’t with all that growing piles of paperworks?

Either way, no.

He is not fucking agreeing to this.

Being a completely foreign ancient relic is one thing. How old is that guy? Aizawa speculates 20 at the max.

And also quirkless.

His behaviour doesn’t help one bit.

Aizawa watches the way Gojo’s fingers tap rhythmically against the exam table, bored and bright-eyed, like this is all just an inconvenience in his day and sighs.

Another problem child.

“Are you going to keep staring at me, or do I get a lollipop at the end of this check-up?” Gojo says, chin tilted, that damn grin making Aizawa’s eyes twitch.

Aizawa doesn’t answer. Just stares, dry-eyed and unimpressed.

But Gojo keeps pushing. Of course he does.

“I mean, I get it. I’m gorgeous. It’s hard not to look.”

He’s going to kill Nezu. Or at least threaten it at the next staff meeting.

Aizawa sighs again. Tired to the bone. “I’m going to have to figure out what to do with you.”

Gojo’s smile returns, light and unbothered.

“Sounds fun. Nezu still hasn't got me designer sunglasses, though.”

Aizawa glares.

Gojo winks.

Problem child confirmed.

Good news, he got his sunglasses.

Bad news, it doesn’t help with the over-sensory by as much as he would have liked.

He thought of asking for a blindfold - but that would raise questions. Questions require answers. Answers mean explanations. And explanations mean… well, blowing his cover. Ending the fun. 

Another good news.

He’s officially a teacher now.

Yay?

So now he’s standing in front of the weird class, with Aizawa staring like he’s going to jump at him any moment. 

Half of them look starstruck. The other half look like they want to fight him. Another is glaring like he’s already planning a coup.

Satoru waves cheerfully anyway.

“Name’s Gojo Satoru, though you probably already know, I like sweet stuff."

He pauses, tilting his head.

“Oh, and I’ll be your new teacher for physical combat lessons. Sort of. Technically. Don't worry, I have some credentials. Somewhere.”

Aizawa sighs audibly.

Then a beat of silence.

A blue haired kid with nerdy glasses has his hand raised like they’re in a polite seminar. “Excuse me, are you sure you’re certified to handle combat classes- ?”

“Oh, no idea, though I did say I had credentials somewhere,” Satoru says breezily. “Nezu just sort of gave me keys and said, ‘Go nuts.’ So I did.”

Aizawa pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s supposed to assist in combat and special cases. Don’t ask. I didn’t approve of it.”

Satoru claps once. “Anyway! Enough about me. Let’s talk about you all. Anyone here into sweets? Karaoke? World domination? No judgment, safe space.”

The room practically explodes into chaos. Half confused, half furious. Satoru stands there grinning, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, bright eyes practically glowing underneath.

“It’s gonna be fun,” he chirps cheerfully, “everyone loves me.”

“Eww!”

“I was right about him being a twink!”

“Kacchan! That’s not nice!”

“But he looks kinda hot though -”

“Ew! Mina!”

“He can’t be much older than us -”

“He’s awfully tall.”

“He must be Aizawa-sensei’s secret love child -”

“What the heck, Todoroki!”

Aizawa drags a hand down his face, “I’m asking Nezu for a pay raise.”

Satoru clears his throat loudly, “I know I’m awesome and all and I love the enthusiasm, but maybe y’all can introduce yourselves?”

The class silences.

Izuku has seen a lot of weird things.

He fought a villain made of sludge, trained with the All Might himself, and nearly broke every bone in his body trying to throw a baseball.

However, this white haired man with eyes of the bright blue sky is the walking definition of weird.

And Izuku doesn’t know why. 

He stares at this strange man - Gojo Satoru - His sunglasses are tilted, his posture is lazy, and his smile is disturbingly bright .

Gojo Satoru.

Quirk status: Unknown. Maybe quirkless?

Height: approximately 190 cm (estimate).

Eyes: Bright. Possibly mutation type? Extremely unnerving when direct contact is made.

Slightly unhinged. 

Then Gojo says something about karaoke and world domination, and the class explodes again. Izuku watches Iida’s face twitch like a corrupted GIF. Yaoyorozu is frowning with polite confusion. Todoroki is squinting and frowning at the same time and Bakugo just looks like he wants to punch something.

Gojo’s sunglasses slide down his nose as he flashes another grin.

“It’s gonna be fun,” he says.

And Izuku, for the first time since the USJ incident, genuinely fears for their collective safety.

The teacher’s lounge from Jujutsu High has a sleek and professional look to it. The lounge here is more - soft, maybe? It is definitely more comfortable and homey. There’s a mismatched mug collection on a crooked shelf, and someone’s left a knitted throw blanket folded over the armrest like this is a sleepover.

Satoru finishes the last sip of coffee that is 10 percent coffee and 90 percent sugar and smacks his lips, obnoxiously loud, and ignores the way Aizawa’s glare sharpens to a murder attempt.

“I should add more sugar next time,” He suggests to himself, leaning further into the aggressively pink sofa that has clearly seen better days and says,

Aizawa - who is sitting six feet away from him like he’s afraid of catching some sort of lethal virus - frowns. This man is more fucking uptight than Megumi, and he’s not even a teenager going through their emo cringe phase.

Satoru turns to him and winks, “It’s awkward when I’m the only one talking, cutie.”

Okay, yeah, that was just - ew.

For the record—Satoru is not into old men. He’s into many things, but that was just his mouth going on autopilot. Unfortunately.

Aizawa doesn’t look pleased.

Satoru waves his hand dramatically in the air, “I get it, you’ll murder me in my sleep if I hurt your precious students. I won’t.”

He sticks his tongue out for good measure.

Aizawa remains perfectly still in his seat.

Satoru hums to the void, placing his empty mug on the coffee table.

“You’re boring,” he concludes.

The silence stretches long enough for the coffee machine in the corner to make a sad gurgling sound.

“I can’t be that bad to be around,” Satoru whines, sinking even more into the pink sofa, if that is even possible.

Aizawa sighs, the sound of a man reevaluating his life choices. “I already regret letting you in the building.”

Satoru grins, completely unaffected. “Aw, come on. You’re gonna love me.”

A beat.

“You’re going to tolerate me,” he amends quickly, sitting upright for the first time, hands up in mock surrender. “Eventually.”

No reply.

But Aizawa does look a little more resigned than homicidal now, so Satoru takes that as a win.

The peace - if you could call the tense, barely-civil silence between Gojo and Aizawa peace —doesn’t last long.

The door bursts open like a dramatic stage cue, and in a man with a crazy haircut, sunglasses gleaming, coat flaring.

“YO YO YOOOOO!” he shouts, voice echoing off the walls. “WHO’S READY TO—oh. Wow. This room is tense. You guys fighting? Please say yes. I love drama.”

The new guy points at him with both hands like he’s selecting a player on a video game screen. “You must be Gojo! The sparkly new addition with a god complex and no volume control—I’ve heard so much.”

“Guilty as charged.” Satoru grins, lifting his now-empty mug like a toast, “and you’re - what, the DJ?”

“Name’s Present Mic, you can call me Hizashi. Teacher of English and good vibes,” Present Mic declares, giving him an over-the-top thumbs-up, “and part-time translator for grumpy erasers.”

Aizawa groans softly into his coffee, clearly debating whether to walk out or roll himself under the couch and disappear forever.

Satoru leans toward Present Mic, conspiratorial, “so how long does it take to get Mr. Brood-and-Gloom to smile?”

“Fifty years,” Yamada replies without missing a beat. “We’re on year thirty-one. Almost there.”

“Hey.” Aizawa finally speaks, deadpan, “don’t encourage him.”

“I like you,” Satoru declares, “you’re my new bestie.”

Hizashi throws an arm over Satoru’s shoulders, “yep, we’re gonna get matching jackets and friendship bracelets.”

Aizawa drinks from his coffee and pretends this isn’t his life now.

The class looks, blinks, and frowns at him in open skepticism.

“C’mon,” Satoru says, “this is our first session, aren’t you excited?”

Satoru stands at the center of the field. His sunglasses are in place, smile impossibly wide and in his hands—because of course—he’s bouncing a luridly colored beach ball he clearly found somewhere inappropriate. It squeaks with every bounce.

The morning sun is bright and loud, perfectly matching his booming voice.

Satoru points to the sky. “Today’s theme is: spontaneous combat chaos ! Trademark pending.”

“Is that… even a thing?” The girl with black ponytail asks - Momo Yaoyorozu, Satoru dredges the name up.

Learning their names hadn’t been hard. Each student stood out like a primary color in a black-and-white world.

“Everything is a thing if you believe hard enough,” Satoru replies, absolutely unhelpful.

“Did Principle Nezu approve this?” Iida asks, (class president, Satoru remembers) hand raised politely like they’re still in a classroom. “There must be some structure or lesson plan—”

Satoru cuts him off by tossing the beach ball at him with surprising speed. Iida barely manages to deflect it without falling over.

“There’s your structure, four-eyes! Rule number one: always expect the unexpected.”

“What the hell?!” Bakugou explodes, “who do you think you are? Mr Aizawa told us you don’t even have a quirk !”

Satoru tilts his head. There’s the word again, quirk. He held back his laughter.

Satoru gasps in mock offence, “I’m a physical combat teacher, ain’t no need quirks for that. Unless you can’t fight without your so-called quirks?”

Bakugo goes red, “ you -”

The Kaminari kid grabs his arms before he throws a punch, “Kacchan, calm down! He’s still a teacher.”

Ah, this is so much fun.

“It’s fine, little Denki-chan,” Satoru winks at him with a thumbs up, “let him come up, we can do it one on one. Physical combat, no quirks.”

Bakugo snarls, “oh yeah, you’re on.”

The rest of the class takes a step back as Bakugo marches forwards, each angry step crunching the grass.

“One person can be the referee,” Satoru suggests.

There are some murmurs, then Sero comes up. He walks forward with the resigned energy of a man who’s been dragged into a bar fight he never agreed to watch.

Bakugo takes his ground, muscles flexed and eyes fierce, “I’ve been wanting to punch this fucking twink for ages.”

Satoru takes his sunglasses and settles it on the supple grass. 

Sero clears his throat, feet shuffling nervously and he probably wants to be anywhere rather than here.

“Start on 1,”

“3,”

Satoru readies himself, hands in pockets but posture steady.

“2,”

Bakugou’s snarl curls into a grin full of teeth

Sero raises his arms and shouts:

“1!”

Bakugo fights brutally, messy, and uncoordinated. Pure power fueled by whatever is causing him to rage. He fights on adrenaline rather than actual polished techniques.

He moves like a bullet fired from a cannon, throwing a punch that would’ve shattered ribs if it hit.

Satoru tilts to the side. The punch cuts through empty air.

The way he fights isn’t necessarily bad, it’s chaotic and would go well with his quirk, Explosion, if he remembers it right. He’s efficient in his own way and faster than Satoru had expected.

But not fast enough.

Bakugo charges again, a blur of attack, aggressive - and Satoru raises a brow. He is impressed - this kid is properly trained . 

None of them lands. 

To be fair, he’s cheating — just a little. Infinity is off, but his Six Eyes aren’t. They trace every twitch, every muscle shift, every inhale Bakugo takes before he even throws a punch. It’s like watching a movie in slow motion, while the rest of the world watches on fast-forward.

And Cursed Energy is still here, he realizes, thrumming beneath the surface of everything like an old song. Of course it is. Otherwise, the Six Eyes wouldn’t be working this well.

The kid lunges again, fury on his face, and this time he attacks with more spite than strategy. Satoru jumps back, and Bakugo jabs the grass instead, the earth sinks under impact, dirt flaring up like a smokescreen.

The students behind gawk, eyes wide and brows furrowed, They’re watching with wide eyes, a few clutching at each other like they’re not sure whether to be impressed or terrified.

Bakugo pivots, low kick sweeping for Satoru’s legs. It’s sharp, fast — immediately followed by another, and another. 

Satoru hops, movements fluid and graceful. But the kid doesn’t let up. An axe kick comes down, straight and clean — and this time, Satoru doesn’t have time to dodge.

He catches it with his arms crossed, the force reverberating up to his shoulders. The impact drives them both back, feet skidding over grass.

Bakugo almost slams into the crowd of students, earning a few shouts of concern. But he recovers quickly, rocketing forwards with a rough roundhouse. Satoru drops low, one knee brushing the grass, hastily rolling backwards when another kick is coming his way, then does a terrible, definitely not correct kip-up before Bakugo could get a chance to keep on down - and ow, that did something to his waist. Yep, definitely not 18 anymore.

The kid misses his kick and loses his balance - because of the amount of force he put in it, fully expecting for it to land, and it backfired on him -  crashing into the grass on his legs with a gentle thud. Satoru takes the chance to keep him down, but Bakugo reacts quickly - and in the right way. He uses his two hands as support and hurls his whole body back, legs swinging up and effectively forcing Satoru to retreat a few steps back.

Bakugo landed the somersault - far from perfect and wobbling a little, but still holding his ground, his breath ragged and laboured.

Kids these days are so flexible, it’s like they’ve got no bones.

Satoru attacks this time, rushing with an uppercut. Bakugo didn’t manage to leap away, so he parries, grimacing under the force. 

Satoru took the chance, snapping his hips up in a side kick, Bakugo turned fast like a trained dancer, tucking the side of his body in. It didn’t land.

The turn left the kid unsteady, so Satoru struck brutally with his elbow, deadly precise. This time it landed, hard and firm.

A bit too hard, hard to make Satoru think: oops.

The kid stumbled back, trying desperately to balance himself again but obviously failing, he tottered and wobbled, and fell face flat.

Half the students just stared, and the other half looked like they were debating whether or not they should clap.

“That was pretty good, kid,” Satoru cheers, offering him a hand, which of course he didn’t take.

Bakugo raised from some difficulty and shot Satoru with a dirty glare that is worth a million swear words.

“Don’t touch me or I’ll blow your damn arm off,” 

Satoru just laughs, head tilting back with amusement, “that’s the spirit.”

The kids stop questioning after that. They follow his instructions, even Bakugo - and guess what? His first lesson went pretty well. He pointed out a few of their weak points, and they take criticism better than he had expected. There’s a warmth in his chest he wasn’t expecting.

Ah, my cute students.

Izuku Midoriya reminded him of Yuji - bright eyed and far too optimistic - the spitting image of Yuji - the kind of heart you just want to protect, even if he doesn’t want you to. Mina reminds him of Nobara with all that sass and glitter and zero hesitation, and Fumikage reminds him of Megumi.

Though Megumi isn’t a bird - no, that would be weird, and Satoru doesn’t even want to think about that.

The girls chatter nearby, leaning into each other with wide grins and fast words, giggling over some pop singer he’s never heard of. Meanwhile, the boys are chasing each other across the grass, using quirks as an excuse to roughhouse and shout insults. Mineta is upside down in a tree and Kirishima is yelling about it.

Adorable.

Teenagers are all so adorable that it’s not fair.

And standing here, watching them, Satoru knows exactly what it feels like to love students you know you might not be able to keep.

He smiles anyway.

He misses them—Yuji, Nobara, Megumi. All of them. So much it makes his bones ache. So much it makes the laughter feel a little too bright. Like staring into the sun for too long.

He swallows it down, that ache.

This world might not be his, but for now, these kids are.

He’ll try to keep them safe.