Satoru Gojo was beautiful, undoubtedly so.

His soft platinum hair—a rare trait he of course had to acquire at birth. His sharp sapphire eyes that were enough to kill from a simple glare.

His jaw was a permanent necessity in blackpill edits, his skin a clear, fair almost porcelain like color. It had Nobara shrieking in bitter jealousy when he laughed at her question about his skincare routine.

Because in reality? Satoru doesn’t have anything to do. His so called “skincare” are tears he pretends not to shed and sugar that should have him breaking out all over.

Perfect, perfect, perfect.

You hate it.

You hate the way he talks like the weight of the world isn’t on his shoulders—like his mere existence wasn’t what’s keeping the world of Jujutsu stable.

It’s alien. It’s fake.

You watch him laugh, you watch him rock on his heels like an overgrown toddler while listening about the deadly missions he has to do.

He doesn’t even bat an eye.

In the teachers lounge.

You sit during break time, your students off eating lunch. A warm cup of coffee steaming near you. Your hand burned from using the half broken coffee machine.

Human consequences, daily mistakes.

The normalcy that was impossible for Satoru Gojo. He never burned his hand with hot water—Hell he didn’t even drink caffeine, a machine like him could run on a 4 hour sleep schedule with little to no issue.

“Ouchhh! Nasty burn, {{user}}! Must’ve hurt!”