nerdjo who never made you feel like you weren't enough. every single day with him was filled with compliments. he'd tell you you're beautiful in the morning and that he loves you every night.
nerdjo who's always there to help. every time you need something, he's already standing by your side like an obedient puppy waiting for orders.
nerdjo who always taught you in areas you struggled the most with. patiently too! he never loses his patience around his beautiful girl.
nerdjo who turns into a blushing mess every time you compliment him. he'd bury his face into your neck, cheeks stained with scarlet. all while murmuring sweet nothings as he inhaled your scent. he loves you very much!
nerdjo who's very much a vanilla guy. don't get him wrong, he doesn't mind adjusting his tastes to whatever gets his girl off! you spasming all over his hands was probably the best it could get. but he just doesn't feel comfortable raising his voice—and most importantly, his hands—at his beautiful girl :( he claims you're too fragile for that.
and for a while, you believed that too. even if you've spent nights (more often than you'd like to admit) alone, where you get off with the idea of your one and only boyfriend degrading you as you clenched around his— yeah. you should stop.
enter fratjo
the total opposite of your boyfriend yet the perfect embodiment of everything you need and shouldn't want. conveniently though, the thought somehow slips away every time he's slipping inside you. rough, unforgiving, and fast.
his hands were wrapped around your neck, hard enough to stimulate but lose enough that you could free yourself if you wanted to. you never did.
"such a fucking slut, you save this all for me?" his grip tightens around your neck. you let out a moan, he gasps in return when he feels the reaction through your cunt. "what do you think your boyfriend will think when he finds out you're getting fucked so good by his brother?"
trust me, the pang of guilt was there. the worry that your sweet innocent boyfriend will find out you're whoring yourself out for his brother. but as fratjo smirked while he's on top of you with his other hand pressing your leg to your chest in a mating press, you start to believe its a problem for another time.
but tonight, you're his brother's dirty little secret, and he's yours.
lol hi 💔 first time writing again after like four-ish months? idea came to me after seeing an edit on tiktok haha. if anyone's up for it i might write a longer fic for this (no promises!). like always, lmk ur thoughts, love love love reading them <3
lwk wrote the whole thing under 20 mins 🙏🏻 sorry for the very rushed writing
synopsis you’ve hated gojo satoru since he insulted your precious glitter stickers at age six—and he’s made it his life’s mission to annoy you ever since. but after thirteen years of bickering, teasing, and showing up uninvited, one cracked smile during your date announcement makes you wonder: is hatred and annoyance truly the only emotions he can teach you?
tags enemies to lovers, one-sided (?) pining, gojo being a complete menace like he always is, two year age gap, reader and gojo are both in college, not super slow slowburn, jealous!gojo but he covers it up with being annoying, reader is suguru's little sister, brother's bestfriend!gojo, fluff, idiot(s) in love, eventual smut, gojo being in denial and everything hitting him all at once → previously
wc 7.4k
likes and reblogs are appreciated!
You’re starting to think you’ve called on every god you can name just to get you out of this moment.
The night isn’t bad. In fact, it’s good—beautiful even. Sunaru had planned it all with such care it felt like he’d studied romance down to a formula. He showed up at your door dressed neatly, his manners polished and deliberate.
He opened doors, guided you with a steady hand, and brought you to a restaurant that looked like it belonged in a drama set. Everything about it was perfect, the kind of date most people would dream about. Which means you should be enjoying it. You should.
But the conversation felt… practiced. Every word chosen like he was walking a line, careful not to cross it. His jokes came at the right times, and you gave back the right reactions—smiles, the occasional laugh. He was funny, genuinely. And still, your thoughts wouldn’t stay put. They kept pulling in the wrong direction. Toward Satoru.
Of all people, why him?
You should be angry with yourself. Angry for weighing Sunaru’s perfect effort against the memory of someone who had never bothered to treat you gently. Satoru, who laughed at your low exam scores. Satoru, who pushed your buttons just to watch you snap. Satoru, who pointed and howled whenever you tripped, whether there was an actual rock or not. Satoru, who cleared out your pantry and met your complaints with nothing more than a noncommittal shrug.
Annoying. Infuriating. Impossible to deal with.
And yet, here you were, sitting in front of someone who was the epitome of perfection—while thinking of the one person who thrived in chaos.
He was everything Satoru wasn’t.
That was his only flaw, a voice in the back of your head whispered, taunting.
Because the very same perfection left no space for the unfiltered chaos your body had grown accustomed to. The perfect champagne, lit candles, and silk table cloths seemed to grow pale next to the takeouts, really bad dramas, and mismatched socks that unknowingly grew synonymous to his name.
Sunaru’s perfectly curated movements only reminded you of the way Satoru barged into your life; unforgiving, loud, and messy. The way his laughter and nonsensical jokes filled space without trying. Sunaru felt like a dream carefully constructed. Satoru felt familiar.
When Satoru had left for college last year, something unfamiliar settled quietly in your chest. At first, it was easy to ignore—so faint it almost felt imagined. You went about your days as usual, only sometimes catching yourself drifting back to the night of your birthday party.
You brushed it off every time, convincing yourself it was nothing more than a slip, a lapse born from a haze, from vulnerability, from the dizzying trace of his cologne that had lingered far too close.
You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That it couldn’t. It shouldn’t.
So you buried it. The memory, the feeling, and the weight of everything it stirred—all shoved into the deepest corners of your mind. Left there. Unspoken. Almost forgotten.
It started during your finals week. Caffeine-fueled and sleep-deprived, your body was one mathematical equation away from breaking down. Your hand gripped your pencil so tightly your knuckles had turned white, the eraser worn to nothing from constant mistakes. Sheets of paper littered your desk and the floor around it, scrawled over with half-finished solutions and crossed-out formulas. Empty coffee cups and cheap energy drink cans sat abandoned in the corners of your desk, their faint smell mixing with the dryness of ink and paper.
Your eyes kept moving over the same problem, numbers twisting and swimming together until they no longer made sense. The frustration clawed at your chest, hot and sharp, and before you realized it, your vision blurred. A stinging heat gathered at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. “Fuck, this is so stupid.”
God. You were actually crying over math.
You blame the caffeine for the way your mind drifted to him without warning. You blame your fatigue for imagining his voice beside you, casually breaking down complex formulas into simple, manageable steps like it was the easiest thing in the world. You blame the stress for making you remember how he never once lost his patience, even when the simplest equations went straight over your head. You blame everything but yourself for remembering how even though he’d laugh at your scores, he’d pick you back up with a smile, the peach candy you loved, and a promise to help you through your next exam.
It was easier to pin it on exhaustion than to admit that, somewhere in the middle of your frustration, the thought of Satoru’s presence made the weight on your chest feel just a little lighter.
This marked the first of your moments of weaknesses, as you like to call it. You held your phone in hand, your thumb hovering over his number. You were tempted to call him, to rant about how stupid your professor was, and to ask for help.
But you didn’t.
Instead you closed your phone, went back to your equations, and convinced yourself that this was just another slip up. Definitely not because you were starting to miss the way he taught you with patience. Definitely not.
The next time it happened was during your PE class.
The gym was suffocatingly hot, the kind of heat that clung to your skin and made every breath feel heavier than the last. Sweat dripped from your temples and rolled down the side of your face, soaking into the collar of your shirt. The squeak of sneakers on polished floorboards echoed around you, sharp and unrelenting, a hundred basketballs hitting the ground at different rhythms until it blurred into one overwhelming noise.
Your teacher’s voice cut through it all, sharp and scolding. “How many times do I have to tell you—dribble properly! Use your fingertips, not your palms!”
You felt your temples throb. Overstimulated was an understatement.
Beside you, Mira leaned in, her voice just a notch above a whisper. “If I wasn’t lacking in units, I would’ve never taken this stupid ass class.”
The corner of your mouth twitched, but you didn’t quite manage a laugh. Your palms were slick with sweat, and the basketball you were holding felt heavier than it should. You bounced it against the floor, trying to keep time, but the rhythm slipped out of you as your exhaustion piled on. The sound was too loud, too repetitive, and the harder you tried to control it, the more it seemed to bounce away from you.
You felt a migraine building in your temple. You assumed it was the result of countless all-nighters that ranged from being caused by binge watching your favorite shows late at night, or the aftermath of it. If you knew that this is what ridiculously low amount of sleep would cause you, you wouldn't have chosen to stay up and watch a show with your favorite celebrity crush in it. Because as you shifted your weight to chase after the ball, you didn’t see the other one rolling lazily into your path until it was too late.
Your foot landed on it, and the world tilted sideways.
There was no grace in the way you fell—just the sudden, sharp thud of your knees hitting the hardwood floor, pain blooming up your legs so fast it stole your breath. The ball in your hand skittered away across the gym, and you clutched at your ankle instinctively, a hiss tearing from your throat before you could stop it.
The sound around you dulled, the way it always does when pain comes sharp and unexpected. Mira’s gasp reached you distantly, like she was underwater, her sneakers squeaking as she rushed to your side. Other voices joined in, some surprised, some concerned, all of them blending into the same blur. The ache in your ankle did not die down, if anything it intensified. Suddenly, all the pent up fatigue you had stored for days came crashing down on you at that exact moment.
And then—someone crouched beside you. A tall shadow fell over your hunched frame, a steadying hand slipping under your arm before you could collapse sideways. The grip was firm, almost too familiar, and when you blinked through the sting in your eyes, you saw him.
Or at least, you thought you did.
Broad shoulders, easy reach, the way his height seemed to dwarf everything around him—your chest lurched with recognition that shouldn’t have been there. For a split second, the ache in your ankle dulled, replaced by something else entirely.
“Satoru—” the name slipped past your lips, soft and cracked, like it had been waiting at the back of your throat all this time.
“Huh? Are you okay?” The boy froze. Not because he was Satoru—because he wasn’t.
Your eyes adjusted, blinking away the haze of pain, and the pieces fell back into place. A classmate. Tall, sure. Built in a way that tricked you for one cruel moment. But not him. His brows pulled together, his face unfamiliar and confused, his voice nothing like the one you’d expected. His hair wasn’t the pale snow-like white you’d grown familiar with, and his eyes didn’t resemble the sky in any way.
“Can you stand?” he asked carefully.
The words knocked you back into reality faster than the fall ever could. Heat flooded your cheeks, hot with humiliation, sharper than the ache in your ankle. You swallowed hard, blinking down at the floor, praying Mira hadn’t caught the name you let slip.
You nodded too quickly, fumbling to brush it off. “Y-yeah. Just—just slipped.”
But the weight in your chest told you otherwise.
The encounter reminded you of that afternoon.
You could still remember how his usual carefree stride shifted into something deliberate, every movement calculated as if the slightest misstep might make things worse. Satoru’s voice—normally laced with cocky remarks and teasing laughter, had been stripped of its bravado. In its place was something steadier, edged with worry, threaded with a panic he tried hard to disguise.
You remembered how He had crouched down without hesitation, his back turned toward you in silent insistence, and before you knew it, he was carrying you with your arms looped around his shoulders. His hands were firm around your legs, holding you in place with a steadiness that almost contradicted the chaos of who he was. The sting in your ankle had been sharp and unrelenting, but there had been something in his presence that dulled the pain, something that made you feel less like a burden and more like you belonged there.
And now, with the ache flaring in your leg again, you wished—against your better judgment—that it was him. That he was here to haul you back to familiarity, here to shoulder the weight of your clumsiness without making you feel like a nuisance.
That afternoon had marked a quiet shift, one you hadn’t wanted to name. A sign that the two of you had been inching dangerously close to something different, something you weren’t sure you were ready for.
And maybe that’s why, you unconsciously pushed the memory down your unconscious. Pushing it down and praying that you'd forget a moment of vulnerability had always been easier than confronting it. So, why, out of all possible timings, were you remembering it now?
“Why is your pantry always empty?” Mira’s voice carried from across the room, muffled by the sound of cupboard doors swinging open and slamming shut.
You didn’t bother answering right away. Instead, you stayed seated at the counter, crunching down on the bag of chips you’d dug up from the back of your drawer. It definitely didn’t count as a meal, but for a college student on a budget, it was salvation in its simplest form.
Mira pulled away from the pantry with an exaggerated sigh, holding up her hand like she’d just brushed against something unspeakable. “This has more dust than snacks. Honestly, what do you even eat here?”
You shrugged, licking the salt from your fingers. “Food.”
She gave you a flat look. “This? This isn’t food. This is… a cry for help.”
You smirked but said nothing, too lazy to defend yourself.
Her silence stretched just long enough to make you think she’d dropped it—until she spoke again. “Your dependence on Gojo is showing.”
That made you pause mid-crunch. Your brows furrowed. “I am not dependent on him.”
“Uh-huh.” Mira leaned against the empty shelf like a prosecutor delivering her closing argument. “So when was the last time you actually had to restock before he left?”
You threw her a face, lips pressing into a thin line. She had you there.
Back then, groceries never felt like a problem. They just… appeared. Sometimes in bags at your doorstep, other times shoved into your arms with some half-baked excuse. Bought too much. Your mom told me to drop these off (which you later found out she absolutely never did). Or the laziest of them all: a sent picture that showed a couple of bags on your doorstep. For someone who had considered sweets as a food group, he had always made sure you were eating well. You blame it on his wallet that didn’t seem to have an end.
Your gaze flicked to the corner of the room where his ridiculous reusable bag used to sit—some eco-friendly tote covered in cartoon cats that he insisted on using. You hadn’t noticed its absence until now, like the corner of your dorm was a little emptier without it.
“See?” Mira’s voice snapped you back. She grinned knowingly. “You didn’t even try to deny it properly.”
You rolled your eyes and crumpled the empty chip bag into your fist. “It’s called being a broke college student, not dependent.”
“Sure.” She didn’t sound convinced. “If you say so.”
You pretended not to hear the teasing lilt in her voice, but the words stayed long after Mira moved on, settling heavy in your chest.
Because the truth was, you hadn’t realized how easily he’d ingrained himself into your routine until he wasn’t there anymore. Little things—the way you’d gotten used to opening your fridge without worrying about it being empty, or how he always seemed to know when you were about to run out of instant noodles. He’d fill those gaps so seamlessly that you never noticed they were gaps at all.
Now, staring at your barren pantry shelves, the hollow space felt louder than Mira’s teasing.
But it didn’t mean anything. Of course it didn’t. That was just Satoru being… Satoru. He had a habit of worming his way into places he didn’t belong, making himself indispensable without ever asking permission. You were just feeling the absence of his noise. That’s all.
Still, you caught yourself glancing at the pantry again, at the corners that seemed too bare, and wondered if maybe—just maybe—Mira wasn’t entirely wrong.
You weren’t exactly gifted when it came to math, proven by the fact that you’d literally cried over it not even a month ago (and maybe again just last week, but, really, who’s counting?). Numbers had a way of knocking you flat, formulas taunting you from the page until frustration spilled over.
But if there was one equation you knew too well, one that never failed to solve itself, it was how to mess with your own head. How it could drag back things you swore you’d buried, memories you thought you’d outgrown, and feelings you told yourself you’d forgotten.
First, the equation started with alcohol. Classic. Stress had you digging through your pantry like a scavenger, hoping to find something you’d definitely regret the next morning.
What you had in mind was a sad little cup of ramen—the kind that was probably 70% sodium and 30% regret—but instead, your eyes landed on an untouched bottle of cheap red wine shoved into the back corner.
Not exactly dinner. But at that moment, who were you to say no?
You’d like to blame your low alcohol tolerance for everything that followed. One glass in and you were already humming along to sad songs, the kind of songs you swore you didn’t relate to until the alcohol decided otherwise. Your voice cracked, and you laughed at yourself, but there was something heavy in your chest that made the lyrics sting a little too much.
Two glasses in and you were on your phone, thumbs flying across the screen as you spammed your friends with over-the-top confessions of love. Every “I LOVE YOU!!” came with teary emojis, the warmth in your stomach convincing you that they had to know just how much they meant to you.
By the third glass, you found yourself rereading old messages of your past fling. Laughing at the embarrassing moments where you were still awkward, and cringing at pick up lines you thought were hot in the spur of the moment.
Four glasses in and your emotions had tipped into frustration, words spilling out in a one-sided rant to the potted plant sitting by your desk. It wilted quietly under the weight of your complaints about professors, deadlines, and how unfair life was, and how your neighbor kept you up at night by their ridiculously loud snoring. It was comforting, to a drunk person at least. No judgment but also no comfort.
And by the fifth glass, there was nothing left to do but stare. The wall blurred in front of you as your thoughts drifted, your body feeling both too heavy and too light at the same time. It was a kind of emptiness that wasn’t loud but wasn’t quiet either, leaving you suspended in a fog where you couldn’t decide if you wanted to cry or laugh—or both.
It was sometime around your sixth glass that you decided your apartment needed cleaning. A bold move for someone who could barely walk in a straight line, but alcohol had a way of gifting you sudden bursts of productivity that felt life-changing in the moment. At the very least, it kept you busy and away from pouring another drink—small victories.
You started with the living room. Candy wrappers crinkled as you stuffed them into a trash bag, the ghosts of midnight sugar binges leaving sticky fingerprints on your hands. Empty coffee cups clattered together, evidence of too many late-night cram sessions you’d barely survived. Chip bags, crumpled worksheets with half-solved problems, notes you swore you’d “review later” but never did—they all went the same way: the trash. By the time you stepped back, the room looked less like a battlefield. For once, you could actually see the surface of your table.
Your bedroom, however, was another story. You stood in the doorway, swaying slightly as you stared at the heap of clothes swallowing your chair whole. “More room for improvement,” you muttered, as if convincing yourself.
You started with the closet, tugging at hangers, folding clothes halfheartedly, until your hand brushed against something shoved to the very back. A cardboard box, corners softened with age. The word "keepsakes" scrawled across the front in black marker, the letters rushed and uneven, like they’d been written in the middle of packing up a life.
That was the second part of the equation. Memories. Specifically, the ones you thought you’d buried, left to gather dust in the corners of your mind.
If you’d been sober, maybe you would’ve shoved it back and closed the door. But the wine in your veins made you reckless, made you want to poke at things better left untouched. So you sat down cross-legged on the floor, box in your lap, and pried it open.
The first layer was harmless enough. Wrappers from candies your classmates used to share during lectures, their corners torn jaggedly. Receipts from cafés you didn’t even remember going to—one had a doodle of a smiley face in the corner, and you couldn’t tell if it had been the barista or one of your friends. There were tiny figurines too, the kind you won from capsule machines when you were bored and loose with your coins. You smiled at them, felt the faint tug of nostalgia, but nothing you couldn’t handle.
Then came the letters. Folded notes passed around during classes, still inked with messy inside jokes that barely made sense anymore now that you had forgotten the context. You flipped one open, laughed at how stupid the joke was, then folded it back up carefully as though it deserved respect for surviving all these years.
It was fine. All of this was fine.
Until your fingers brushed against something different—crinkled plastic wedged between two envelopes. You tugged it free, and your lips twitched. A snack wrapper. Not just any wrapper, though. The corner had a doodle in black ink, a pair of round glasses and an obnoxious grin. Gojo’s handiwork, no doubt. You could almost hear him defending it as “art” while stealing the last piece of candy right out of your hand.
You should’ve tossed it into the trash pile immediately, but instead, you found yourself smoothing out the plastic, thumb running over the faded ink. Dumb. It was so dumb. Out of all things to keep, why this?
You set it aside, convincing yourself it was just an accident—that it had slipped in there with the rest of the clutter. But the moment you dug deeper, the more those accidents started piling up. A movie stub from that one film he’d dragged you to, swearing it was “critically acclaimed” when it was actually the dumbest comedy you’d ever seen. A gum wrapper folded into the shape of a crane, lopsided and ridiculous, the kind of thing only he would waste his time on.
One by one, the harmless items were replaced by things that hummed with his presence. Subtle at first, but undeniable.
And suddenly, the box didn’t feel so harmless anymore. Blame it on the alcohol, or maybe the weight of recent events, but your mind had already wandered back to him. Again.
You began to wonder when it started—when you’d begun to see Satoru in a way that didn’t fit the box you’d always kept him in. When he stopped being just the annoying eight-year-old who once insulted your prized sticker collection, and became someone else. Someone who wasn’t just familiar, but—unsettlingly—very much a man.
Your thoughts trailed to the night of your eighteenth birthday. Secluded from the noise of the party, the two of you had found yourselves tucked away in the safe quiet of your room.
You remembered it vividly. How could you not? It lingered in the smallest of gestures—the ghost of his hand brushing your necklace whenever you clasped it, the way his grin softened when you handed him your drawing, holding it as if it was something worth treasuring. Those details had carved themselves deep into your memory, refusing to fade, no matter how much you tried to bury them.
And in the midst of all the teasing, all the banter that had defined your relationship for years, something else had stirred. Something warm had found its place in your chest. Something warm that only felt familiar whenever he was near.
Usually, you’d blame it on the alcohol. The bitter liquid was an easy scapegoat for every unfiltered thought that slipped past your guard. But were those memories really buried if they came back on their own? If they haunted you even in the quietest nights, when the world was calm and you had no excuse but to admit you missed him? And you had. Every time. Without really questioning why.
When you glanced up from the paper crane, your gaze landed on the full-length body mirror at the corner of your room. If you were sober, you would’ve had the sense to look away, maybe even laugh at yourself for being dramatic, but much to your demise, you weren’t. The wine made you linger.
And that’s when you saw her—your seventeen-year-old self staring back at you. Not just some hazy version of you, but the girl who rolled her eyes at every stupid joke he cracked, who swore she couldn’t stand him yet never noticed how her steps matched his when you walked home together.
She looked smug, arms folded, lips curled in a faint smirk you remembered hating at the time. But beneath it, there was something softer, something you never admitted was there.
You credit your pride for how long you withstood the fact that his corny jokes and equally annoying personality were anything more than a nuisance. But in the quiet corners of your bedroom, drunk off something that tasted like morning regrets, the reflection felt like proof you had been lying to yourself all along. A crack had appeared in what once was your unshakeable pride. A crack shaped far too much like him.
Waking up with a headache that could practically split your head in half was not ideal. Your so-called “cleaning mission” looked less like a mission now that you were sober, and more like the aftermath of a girl who clearly had alcohol infused into every drop of her blood. Clothes scattered across the chair, papers half-stuffed into drawers, a pile of snack wrappers shoved lazily to the side—it was chaos. Still, you would’ve taken the chaos over what actually greeted you.
A text from your brother lit up your phone.
Come home this Christmas break. Internship done. Satoru’s staying with us for a while.
You’d be surprised if you didn’t wake up tomorrow to a noise complaint from your neighbors because of how loud you screamed at the text.
You stared at the words like they were a death sentence. A war crime. A felony. It wasn’t just the hangover making your stomach churn—it was the undeniable truth that you weren’t ready for him. Not after weeks of thinking about him when you shouldn’t. Not after your eighteenth birthday had wormed its way back into your thoughts, uninvited and relentless.
You’d take ten more glasses of cheap wine over this. Fuck it, maybe even fifteen. You were convinced that no matter how many prayers you pray, how many wishes you wished, there was no way you’d make it out of your break alive, if it meant being in the same radius as Satoru.
Dropping your phone face-first into the mess of your bed, you tried to breathe. “This is fine,” you muttered, staring blankly at the ceiling. “Totally fine. No reason to panic. Seeing him after a year can't be that bad... right?”
Except your chest was tight, and your pulse picked up anyway. Because you could already see it: Satoru strolling through your front door like he owned the place, sunglasses perched stupidly on his nose even if it was cloudy, grin spreading like he’d just caught you in some embarrassing act. And of course, he’d have something to say. He always did. Whether it was a comment on how messy your hair had been, how you looked homeless, or how the chips you were eating left its trail on the corner of your mouth.
In a fit of desperation, you grabbed your phone again and dialed Mira.
She picked up on the third ring. “You sound like death and despair. But more like death,” she greeted flatly, over the crunch of what you assumed was potato chips.
“I am death. Like, deadass, maybe I’m the grim reaper but I’m the only one I’m killing.” you muttered, throwing an arm over your face. “My brother just texted me.”
“And…?” she asked, unimpressed.
“And Satoru’s staying with us for a while.”
There was a pause. Then, “Okay? And?”
You sat up, staring at the wall like it might validate your panic. “What do you mean ‘and’? Mira, do you know what this means?”
“That you’ll see him again? Congrats, reunion arc unlocked.” The sarcasm was bleeding in her every word.
You let out a strangled noise. “Don’t say it like that. It’s not a reunion. It’s... It’s a nightmare. He’s going to walk into my house, give me that stupid grin, and just— then—” You cut yourself off before you could spiral out loud about the grin.
Mira sighed like she’d been through this a hundred times before. “You’re being dramatic. It’s just Gojo.”
“Just Gojo?” you repeated, clutching your pillow like a life raft. “That’s like saying a tsunami is just some waves. He’s not ‘just Gojo,’ Mira. He’s—he’s—”
“A guy,” she interrupted. “A tall guy with white hair, bad sunglasses, and equally bad humor. Actually, scratch that, he can be a bit funny sometimes.” She added as an afterthought.
You groaned and flopped back down on your bed. “You don’t get it. He’s going to ruin everything.”
“Everything being… what?” she asked, and you could hear the smirk in her voice. “Your fragile sense of denial? Your perfectly curated reality that doesn't include your repressed feelings?”
“I don’t have denial! And I'm very much self-aware, thank you.” you snapped, too fast.
Silence on her end. Then, with irritating calm, “Sure, babe, of course you are.”
Your mind drifted against your will, traitorous as ever. To the way he always leaned too close when teasing you. The way his voice could slip from obnoxiously loud to disarmingly soft without warning. The way his hands, long-fingered, and steady, had once touched yours every time he held something out of your reach. All of it stitched itself into your memory whether you liked it or not.
“He’s like…” You searched for the words, fumbling, “like mold. Persistent. Impossible to get rid of. He just—sticks.”
Mira barked out a laugh. “You’re comparing the guy you’re lowkey in love with to mold?”
“I’m not in love with him!” you hissed, sitting up so fast your head throbbed in protest.
Her laughter only grew. “Denial, table for one.”
You groaned, collapsing back onto your bed. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet, the most correct.”
Her words echoed long after you hung up, heavier than they should’ve been. Because she’d planted it there, right in the middle of your chest—the thought you’d been trying to outrun. That maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t wrong at all.
And with the weekend closing in like a countdown, you weren’t sure if you had the strength to keep running.
The days that followed felt less like days and more like a ticking clock—loud, merciless, taunting. You couldn’t scroll through your phone, walk to class, or even take a shower without hearing it somewhere in the back of your mind. A metronome of doom. Tick. Tock. Home this weekend.
Five days. That was all it took for your life to turn into one long spiral.
On Monday, you sat in class staring at your professor’s slides, the words blurring together into meaningless lines. It wasn’t statistics or formulas on the screen anymore—it was his stupid grin flashing in your brain like a neon sign. You shook your head hard enough to make Mira nudge you, whispering if you were alright. You weren’t, but admitting that would mean acknowledging the exact problem you’d sworn not to. So you forced a smile, mumbled about being tired, and ignored the way your pen kept doodling a pair of round sunglasses in the margins of your notes.
Tuesday, you found yourself cleaning again. You told yourself it was therapeutic, something to help ease your stress, but the truth was harsher: you couldn’t sit still without remembering. The silence of your dorm was suffocating, every corner reminding you of a time when Satoru would just barge in uninvited, arms full of groceries you hadn’t asked for, acting like he belonged there.
You caught yourself rearranging snacks on your shelf and realized how empty it looked compared to back then. The word dependent whispered in your head, Mira’s voice wrapping around it smugly. You shoved the thought away, only to dig through old boxes you had no business opening. By the end of the night, you were surrounded by little keepsakes and too many memories to pretend you were unaffected.
Wednesday was worse. You dreamt about him. Not vividly, not romantically—just enough to shake you. A laugh, a touch on your shoulder, the way he said your name like it was his favorite word. You woke up with your heart racing and an ache in your chest that felt unfamiliar and unwanted. You buried your face into your pillow and told yourself it was just a dream, but the echo of it followed you all day. Every time your phone buzzed, you half-expected it to be him, even though he never texted. He wasn’t supposed to.
By Thursday, dread had sunk its claws deep into you. You tried bargaining with yourself—maybe you could come up with an excuse not to go home. Exams, projects, sudden illness, literally anything. But your brother’s text was final, immovable. Internship done. Satoru’s staying with us for a while. You knew if you didn’t show up, you’d just make it worse, draw more attention to yourself, and that was the last thing you needed. Avoidance wasn’t an option. Neither was escape.
And so Thursday evening found you pacing your room like it was a cage. Mira had long stopped entertaining your paranoia, brushing you off with a breezy “You’ll live.” But you weren’t so sure. You imagined walking into your house, imagined Satoru on the couch like nothing had changed, his long legs sprawled out, his presence filling every corner of your living room the way it always did.
You imagined his teasing the second he laid eyes on you, how he’d smirk and call you something infuriating, how he’d look at you like he still knew you better than you knew yourself. The thought made your stomach twist, half in annoyance, half in something you didn’t want to name.
Friday was suffocating. Every class, every step on campus, every stray laugh from someone passing by—it all reminded you that time was running out. You were being marched to the gallows, and the worst part was knowing you couldn’t stop it. It didn't help that you had seen someone wearing an infinity necklace on the way to your local café.
The scream you almost let out would've caused you a hundred of judgmental stares. Attempting to find peace, you sat in the library, pretending to study, but all you did was watch the clock tick toward the hour you’d have to pack your bag. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Every second felt like a shove closer to something you weren’t ready for. Every second felt like a part of your sanity was diminishing.
And then Saturday morning came.
You woke up with that same weight in your chest, heavier now, pressing down like gravity itself had decided to mock you. Packing your bag felt surreal—like you were loading up not clothes and toiletries, but the remnants of your dignity. Every folded shirt was a reminder that soon you’d be walking through your front door and seeing him again. That he’d be there, larger than life, like no time had passed at all.
The bus ride home was unbearable. The engine hummed steadily beneath you, people chatted quietly in the seats around you, but none of it reached you. Your headphones played something soft, something meant to distract, but all it did was make your thoughts louder. You couldn’t stop fidgeting—tugging at your sleeves, tapping your foot, scrolling aimlessly through your phone just to keep your hands busy.
What if he’d changed? The question lodged itself in your mind and refused to leave. You tried to picture him now, older, maybe more polished. His internship had been overseas—maybe he’d learned to carry himself differently, maybe he’d grown into that height and confidence. Maybe he’d found someone there.
The thought made you feel something unfamiliar. You told yourself you didn’t care. That it didn’t matter. That you were only dreading this because he was annoying, insufferable, the walking embodiment of a headache. But the way your heart beat faster at the thought of seeing him again betrayed you. You were curious, no matter how much you wished you weren’t. Curious about how he looked now, how he sounded, if his voice had deepened, if he still laughed the same way. If he’d remember the little things. If he’d remember you the same way you couldn’t stop remembering him.
The closer you got to home, the worse it became. Every stop the bus made felt like another step toward the inevitable, another moment for your thoughts to spiral into places you couldn’t control. You wanted to jump off and run in the opposite direction, but you also wanted the bus to drive faster just to end the torture of anticipation. You pressed your forehead against the glass and shut your eyes, but there was no escaping it.
Because no matter how much you denied it, no matter how much you tried to bury it under annoyance and excuses—Satoru Gojo was waiting at the end of the road.
And you didn’t know if you were ready for him.
“I’m home!” you called, more out of habit than expectation. The house answered with a hollow quiet — dad probably gone to work, mom likely deep in the steady choreography of cleaning before your brother arrived. The words that slipped out of you would usually land warm, the kind of comfort that tasted like warm homemade soup, fresh folded sheets and the ease of familiarity. Today they felt like a verdict.
Because saying it aloud made the text real. It sealed the weekend into a fact: any minute now someone would step through the same front door you’d just crossed, grin spread like he’d never left, confidence radiating as if he hadn’t quietly upended you from halfway across the world. You pictured him — sunglasses, that ridiculous tilt of his head — and your stomach clenched. Even miles away, Satoru’s presence had a way of lingering, like the faint echo of a laugh you couldn’t stop hearing.
You dragged your fingers over the banister, trying to steady the nervous flutter in your ribs. Somewhere in the house a clock ticked louder than usual. The cicadas suddenly started humming louder. When did your jacket suddenly feel so textured? And why does your hair suddenly look messy? The air around you started to feel heavy and anxious.
“You look different.”
“Fuck!” Your whole body flinched, hands flying to your chest in a desperate attempt to steady your racing heart. You turned, only to make your first mistake. Standing there was the ghost that had haunted you since last month, and the sight of him knocked the air clean out of your lungs. Maybe you weren’t even a millisecond away from a heart attack—maybe it was already happening.
Satoru Gojo, the man who once embodied every bad thing in your life—your dread, your irritation, the bane of your childhood existence—was now standing right in front of you. Except now, he wasn’t just that. He was the same Satoru, but… not entirely. His face still carried that unmistakable mischief, the same striking features you’d grown up glaring at, but there were faint new lines of definition along his jaw, a sharper focus to his expression that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t dramatic, but it was enough to throw you off balance—like noticing a picture frame had been tilted ever so slightly and suddenly nothing else in the room looked right.
And taller. Definitely taller. Broader, too—your eyes darted down before you could stop yourself, catching the way the sleeves of his shirt stretched just a little tighter around his arms, how his frame filled the doorway in a way it never used to. Not overly so, not enough to scream some drastic transformation, but just enough that your brain stumbled, scrambling to reconcile this version of him with the boy who once shoved you off the swing set and claimed your favorite popsicle.
Your breath caught, shallow and unsteady. Pathetically, your first instinct was to laugh, because how dare he just exist so casually while you stood there seconds away from collapse? He was holding a toothbrush, of all things, frozen mid-motion like you’d startled him, toothpaste still clinging stubbornly to the bristles. The absurd normalcy of it made everything worse—this stupidly ordinary moment clashing with the riot in your chest.
His head tilted, forehead scrunching in that way that was painfully familiar, the kind of look that once warned you he was about to say something insufferable. But right now, it didn’t feel like that. There was something quieter in his eyes, something that made your pulse trip over itself.
Then came the brow raise. Simple. Classic. A single, stupid motion you’d sworn you were immune to after all these years. And yet, your stomach twisted like it was the very first time.
And in that instant—between the toothbrush in his hand, the toothpaste on the bristles, the subtle new weight to his presence—you realized just how much trouble you were in.
“Am I that hot that the first thing you do when you see me, after a year by the way, is scream?”
And of course, like the menace he is, he ruins the moment with the most irritating statement you can hear from a man. You hand left your chest and instead met his arm (which now felt like they could lift a car. You ignored that.), hitting him with as much force as you could muster.
“Ow! What was that for?!” He practically whined, rubbing his forearm as if you actually had done damage. “A year has already passed and somehow you’re still stupid as ever.” You snarled, hands crossing over your chest. Just like before. He rolled his eyes with that smug grin and made his way to the kitchen. “You mean still handsome as ever,” He slurred as he finished brushing his teeth over the sink.
You stayed rooted in place, watching as he moved around like he owned the house. Like he always had. The towel was slung lazily over his shoulder, toothpaste still faintly clinging to the corner of his mouth, and somehow that small imperfection annoyed you more than anything else. He hadn’t even been here for five minutes and already he was acting like he never left. Typical Gojo behavior.
He caught your stare, tilting his head in that infuriatingly casual way of his. “What?” he asked, voice light and teasing. “You miss me that much already?”
You scoffed before you could think. “Miss you? I barely survived the last time you were here.”
“Really?” His lips curved, eyes glinting with the kind of amusement that made you want to throw something at him. “I distinctly remember you crying when I left.”
You gaped at him, scandalized. “Crying? Please. That was relief. Pure relief. Absolute bliss.”
He grinned like he’d just won something. “Sure it was."
You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, crossing your arms again. You wanted to say something sharper, something that would cut right through that smug confidence of his, but your brain was uncooperative. Because now that the initial shock had worn off, you were noticing things. Little things.
He was still the same Satoru—the same lazy posture, the same teasing glint in his eyes—but there was a subtle shift in how he carried himself. Broader shoulders, firmer stance, a quiet self-assurance that hadn’t quite been there before. The kind that comes with growing into yourself, maybe. And you hated that you noticed. Hated that you even cared enough to notice.
He turned toward the sink, rinsing out his toothbrush as if your entire nervous system wasn’t currently malfunctioning behind him. The sound of running water filled the silence, giving you too much room to think.
You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. It had been a year, after all. People change. He just… filled out a little. That’s normal. No reason to spiral over it.
And yet.
When he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned lazily against the counter, flashing you that same insufferably confident grin, your pulse betrayed you. It skipped—just slightly—but enough for you to notice.
“Staring’s rude, you know,” he said, smug as ever.
You snapped out of it immediately, glaring. “Please. You’re not that interesting. A dried leaf is more interesting than your whole personality." You state in a matter of fact tone.
“Ouch.” He clutched his chest dramatically. “One year apart and you’re still mean to me. Some things never change.”
“Some things should,” you shot back.
He chuckled, pushing himself off the counter, brushing past you like it was the most natural thing in the world. The scent of his cologne hit you as he walked by—subtle, familiar, like something that shouldn’t matter but somehow did.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, already halfway to the living room.
You turned just in time to see him stretch lazily, his shirt lifting a little higher than necessary. It was such an innocent movement, yet somehow the most irritating thing you’d seen all day. He caught your expression and smirked knowingly, as if he’d just read your thoughts.
You glared. “You haven’t changed at all.”
He flashed a grin over his shoulder. “Good. I’d hate to disappoint you.”
Your hand twitched, tempted to throw the nearest object at him. Maybe the towel. Maybe a chair. Anything.
Instead, you sighed—long and heavy—and muttered, “This is going to be hell,” mostly to yourself.
Because it hit you then, as you watched him plop himself onto your couch like he’d never left: he was still the same insufferable, cocky, impossible man you’d known your whole life. Only now, he was taller, broader, and—for reasons you’d refuse to acknowledge out loud—more distracting than ever.
And with that realization came another: there was absolutely no way this vacation was ending in peace.
wow... hello... id honestly be so surprised if there are still people reading this after like the two month break but if you are just know ure a real one 🤞🏻 i am SO sorry for the late update college has not been nice to me if anything its literally hard fucking me but not in the way i want. did i say this was supposed to be the last part? a lie. and as always ur thoughts will always mean very much to me, feel free to comment! i love reading them <3
idk why but i genuinely get annoyed when people use satoru in aus solely for smut. like ?? not sure if this is just because i personally dont love reading smut as much as other people do but to write him out as nothing but a sex crazy dude is just so icky for me. are we incapable of writing anything other than smut now 💔 to call an au thats pure smut as peak literature is so concerning sometimes. if the story has more than just pure sex in it then it's fine for me. please tell me im not alone in this
ferrari!gojo who claims that he bleeds ferrari, which, in a way, he does. after all, why would you expect less from ferrari's most adored prince?
ferrari!gojo who would point you out in the crowd during the driver's parade, winking as if he knows he already secured the win because you're watching. and he does. every time.
ferrari!gojo who slips his cap onto your head after the race, grinning when it practically swallows your face.
ferrari!gojo who doesn't believe in superstitions, but refuses to get in the car until he's kissed you. apparently, for ferrari's prince, good luck came in the form of your lips.
ferrari!gojo who always starts at P1 and ends at P1.
ferrari!gojo who rushes to you after the champagne celebration. why? to kiss you in front of all the cameras, of course. even during the moments when he's champagne and sweat covered, he needs to let the world know he didn't only win a race, but also the world's most beautiful girl (according to him, it's his biggest victory).
ferrari!gojo who claims the red lipstick you wore to his races should be a crime. "not fair. you're sitting there in the paddock looking all pretty and all i can think about is kissing that pretty shade of red off your lips."
ferrari!gojo who pulls you to the side before starting the race, whispering the nastiest things in your ear before flashing that charming smile for the cameras. "if i win, you're letting me fuck you raw tonight, yeah?"
ferrari!gojo who licks the champagne off your collarbone that he accidentally smeared on you during podium celebrations. deliberate and precise— just like how he is on the track.
ferrari!gojo who proves how good his stamina truly is every night to you. "come on, baby, i know you have more in you. keep up with me now. just like that, good girl," he says with that menacing smile he always had on.
ferrari!gojo who holds and worships your body every damn night as if it was something sacred. he thinks its better than any of the world driver's championships he won.
gojo satoru had a very simple morning routine: wake up, refuse to get out of bed, and make sure you suffered with him.
that was why you were currently trapped, your body tangled in long limbs that refused to budge. he had you locked in place, sprawled across you like he was auditioning to be the world’s heaviest blanket. his head was tucked against your neck, hair sticking up in every possible direction, his breath annoyingly warm on your skin.
“five more minutes,” he mumbled, voice hoarse from sleep, low and lazy in a way that made your stomach twist.
you sighed. “you said that fifteen minutes ago.”
“then what’s another fifteen?” he shifted, tightening his hold on your waist. “besides, do you really wanna be responsible for depriving me of my beauty sleep? think of the world, sweetheart. no one deserves to see me grumpy.”
you tried pushing him away, but his chest barely moved. he caught your wrist with ease, fingers wrapping around it like it was second nature. his lips grazed your knuckles before he pressed them against his cheek, as though testing how far he could get away with being insufferable.
“you’re so warm,” he murmured. “and soft. dangerous combination.”
“dangerous?” you echoed, flatly.
“mm. too comfortable. i might never let you go.” he nuzzled into your collarbone, grinning when you squirmed. “you don’t want that, do you? being stuck in bed with me all day?”
you rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the way your pulse betrayed you. “i’d get bored in five minutes.”
“liar.” his laugh vibrated against your skin, teasing and smug. “you’d last at least ten. maybe fifteen if i bribe you.”
“bribe me with what?” you challenged, more curious than you’d admit.
he lifted his head then, hair a complete mess, blindfold forgotten somewhere on the floor. his eyes, sharp and bright even in the morning light, held yours. mischief danced in them, but underneath it was that soft, dangerous warmth you could never quite prepare for.
“oh, i dunno.” his grin widened. “breakfast in bed. unlimited cuddles. kisses.” he paused, leaning closer until his lips nearly brushed yours. “or, if you’re feeling greedy, all three at once.”
your breath hitched, and of course he noticed. he always noticed.
“you’re ridiculous,” you muttered, turning your face away.
“mm, maybe. but you’re the one wearing my shirt to bed.” he tugged lightly at the hem, oversized and hanging loose on you. “cute, by the way. very sexy. ten out of ten. would recommend.”
“it’s just a shirt, satoru.”
“it’s my shirt,” he corrected, smirk curling his lips. “and you wore it ‘cause you missed me. admit it.”
“i did not—”
“busted.” he cut you off, far too gleeful. “don’t worry, baby, i missed you too. every second. tragic, really. sleepless nights, dramatic sighs, staring out windows like i’m in some sad music video. all because i didn’t have you here looking criminally good in my clothes.”
you smacked his chest, but he only laughed harder, catching your hand and lacing his fingers with yours before you could pull away.
“see?” he teased, pressing a kiss to your palm this time, lips lingering just a little longer than necessary. “you can’t resist me. even when you’re pretending to.”
the room felt smaller then, quieter. his grin softened, though the playful glint never fully left his eyes. he tugged you closer, until his forehead rested against yours, his voice dropping low—dangerously intimate despite his usual teasing.
“stay with me,” he whispered. “five more minutes. ten. hell, the whole day.” his lips brushed your jaw, warm and unhurried. “i promise i’ll make it worth your while.”
and before you could retort, he added with a wicked smile, “starting with round two of last night.”
your face burned, and satoru—smug, ridiculous satoru—looked far too pleased with himself.
gojo satoru had a very simple morning routine: wake up, refuse to get out of bed, and make sure you suffered with him.
that was why you were currently trapped, your body tangled in long limbs that refused to budge. he had you locked in place, sprawled across you like he was auditioning to be the world’s heaviest blanket. his head was tucked against your neck, hair sticking up in every possible direction, his breath annoyingly warm on your skin.
“five more minutes,” he mumbled, voice hoarse from sleep, low and lazy in a way that made your stomach twist.
you sighed. “you said that fifteen minutes ago.”
“then what’s another fifteen?” he shifted, tightening his hold on your waist. “besides, do you really wanna be responsible for depriving me of my beauty sleep? think of the world, sweetheart. no one deserves to see me grumpy.”
you tried pushing him away, but his chest barely moved. he caught your wrist with ease, fingers wrapping around it like it was second nature. his lips grazed your knuckles before he pressed them against his cheek, as though testing how far he could get away with being insufferable.
“you’re so warm,” he murmured. “and soft. dangerous combination.”
“dangerous?” you echoed, flatly.
“mm. too comfortable. i might never let you go.” he nuzzled into your collarbone, grinning when you squirmed. “you don’t want that, do you? being stuck in bed with me all day?”
you rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the way your pulse betrayed you. “i’d get bored in five minutes.”
“liar.” his laugh vibrated against your skin, teasing and smug. “you’d last at least ten. maybe fifteen if i bribe you.”
“bribe me with what?” you challenged, more curious than you’d admit.
he lifted his head then, hair a complete mess, blindfold forgotten somewhere on the floor. his eyes, sharp and bright even in the morning light, held yours. mischief danced in them, but underneath it was that soft, dangerous warmth you could never quite prepare for.
“oh, i dunno.” his grin widened. “breakfast in bed. unlimited cuddles. kisses.” he paused, leaning closer until his lips nearly brushed yours. “or, if you’re feeling greedy, all three at once.”
your breath hitched, and of course he noticed. he always noticed.
“you’re ridiculous,” you muttered, turning your face away.
“mm, maybe. but you’re the one wearing my shirt to bed.” he tugged lightly at the hem, oversized and hanging loose on you. “cute, by the way. very sexy. ten out of ten. would recommend.”
“it’s just a shirt, satoru.”
“it’s my shirt,” he corrected, smirk curling his lips. “and you wore it ‘cause you missed me. admit it.”
“i did not—”
“busted.” he cut you off, far too gleeful. “don’t worry, baby, i missed you too. every second. tragic, really. sleepless nights, dramatic sighs, staring out windows like i’m in some sad music video. all because i didn’t have you here looking criminally good in my clothes.”
you smacked his chest, but he only laughed harder, catching your hand and lacing his fingers with yours before you could pull away.
“see?” he teased, pressing a kiss to your palm this time, lips lingering just a little longer than necessary. “you can’t resist me. even when you’re pretending to.”
the room felt smaller then, quieter. his grin softened, though the playful glint never fully left his eyes. he tugged you closer, until his forehead rested against yours, his voice dropping low—dangerously intimate despite his usual teasing.
“stay with me,” he whispered. “five more minutes. ten. hell, the whole day.” his lips brushed your jaw, warm and unhurried. “i promise i’ll make it worth your while.”
and before you could retort, he added with a wicked smile, “starting with round two of last night.”
your face burned, and satoru—smug, ridiculous satoru—looked far too pleased with himself.
synopsis — you’ve hated gojo satoru since he insulted your precious glitter stickers at age six—and he’s made it his life’s mission to annoy you ever since. but after thirteen years of bickering, teasing, and showing up uninvited, one cracked smile during your date announcement makes you wonder: is hatred and annoyance truly the only emotions he can teach you?
tags — enemies to lovers, one-sided (?) pining, gojo being a complete menace like he always is, two year age gap, reader and gojo are both in college, not super slow slowburn, jealous!gojo but he covers it up with being annoying, reader is suguru's little sister, brother's bestfriend!gojo, fluff, idiot(s) in love, eventual smut → next
wc: 1.8k
from this headcanon: childhoodenemy!gojo. likes and reblogs are very very appreciated!
at the ripe age of six, you had been introduced to two new emotions. hatred and annoyance. courtesy to your brother’s best friend, of course. if there was something you took pride in, it would be your patience. so why is it that every time you’re in the same radius as satoru gojo, that you find yourself screaming your head off every minute? well, let's just say that if your patience is what you pride yourself for, satoru’s was his outstanding ability to piss you off.
you first met him when suguru had brought him over to play this new game on his console, and ever since then, they became inseparable. much to your dismay.
the front door slammed open without warning, making your head turn toward the uninvited visitor. “suguru! I brought the weird soda you like! okay not gonna lie, i tasted a bit of it on the way here and it tastes absolutely horrible–“
it was unknown to you that the man who was about to be at the top of your ‘most hated things’ list had just strolled in as if he’d known the place. he had messy unkempt white hair, bright blue irises, and clothes that was definitely a wardrobe felony by how mismatched they were.
in one hand he held a half-empty bright blue soda can and a bag of chips and sweets in the other. sitting on the middle of the living room floor was you. you stared at him. he stared right back. tilting his head, he pointed at you. “who’s that?”
your brother smiled, sitting cross-legged beside you. “my sister. we’re playing stickers.”
gojo blinked. then a boyish grin appeared on his face. “stickers? really, suguru? thats what you made me rush over here for?” he took a step closer to the both of you, crouched and then peered. “so sparkly. they’re kinda girly, aren’t they?”
“they’re mine.” you say defensively, snapping your sticker book shut.
gojo tilted his head, smirking. “i never said it was bad. just… cute. i guess.” he shrugged, voice still laced with something teasing. “do you name your stickers too? like ‘princess cupcake’? oh! or maybe ‘sir bunny wunny’?”
you scowled. “no.”
“uh-huh. sure. totally convinced.” he looked at suguru with a grin. “she’s like a little rabbit. look at her cheeks.”
“they’re normal cheeks!” you burst, red-faced.
“i dunno, you’re kind of puffing them out right now.”
you glared at him, then stood up and slapped your sticker book against his arm with just enough force to slightly hurt.
“hey! violence doesn’t help you make friends y’know!’
“i don’t wanna be your friend!”
gojo gasped, mock-offended. “you wound me, miss bunny wunny!”
suguru groaned quietly. you stomped off the hallway, muttering, “how can someone be this annoying?!”
behind you, gojo shouted cheerfully, “i get that a lot!”
it has been thirteen years since that cursed afternoon in your living room. thirteen years since gojo satoru barged into your quiet little world. insulted your prized stickers, called you a little rabbit, and taught you two new emotions that refused to die around his presence.
you’d like to say you got over it.
you didn’t.
not when he still brings it up like comedy gold and definitely not when he still occasionally calls you by that annoying nickname. not when he never got out of that habit of randomly strolling in your house as if it was his and making sure he got to annoy you every chance he got.
“you are aware that you’re not funny, right?” you deadpan stare as he cracked the lamest joke of the century. it’s the third time this week he showed up uninvited, the second time he ate your snacks, and the nth time he cracked a joke that only seemed to make himself laugh. it was a tuesday.
gojo, still laughing at his joke, looked back at you with that shit-eating grin. “i’m hilarious. you‘re just emotionally repressed.” he took another bite of your pocky, enjoying the situation. you fold your arms across your chest. it’s that same smug look that seemed to grow more annoyingly irritating over time. it physically hurt to restrain yourself from shoving him out the nearest window.
“you’re twenty-one. grow up.”
he shrugs. “you’re nineteen. grow taller.” you glare at him. your height was his personal favorite way of attacking you. “besides, it’s amusing how your ears still twitch when you’re mad.”
“they do not twitch.”
“hm,” he taps at his temple. “photographic memory. living room floor, age six. you had glitter stickers and an impressive need for murder in your eyes for a six year old.” you rolled your eyes. he was delighted. gojo knew he just relived an embarrassing memory for you.
“i should’ve followed through. then, i wouldn’t have to deal with you.”
gojo, who was previously leaning on a counter, straightened his posture. “and miss all this?” he gestures to himself like he’s a walking miracle. “tragic.” your eyes twitch.
you step forward, snatch the pocky from his hand, and toss it in the trash.
he gasps as if you just did a heinous crime right in front of his eyes. “that’s limited edition!” you scoff. “for the record that was mine," your eyes had narrowed in his direction. "and don’t act like you can’t buy those for yourself.”
as he was about to retaliate, probably to say a smug remark, your phone lit up. a specific notification made a smile creep on your face.
“dId the assassin you hired to kill me finally respond?”
“haha, very funny.” sarcasm dripping from every word. “just confirming dinner plans.” you say casually.
“with?” his head tilting as he asks.
“someone,” you reply, not looking up from whatever you were typing. “it’s a date.”
you don’t miss it, the slightest crack in his usual teasing demeanor. his grin falters for a moment. a moment short enough to pretend it didn’t happen, but long enough for you to notice. after all, you’ve known him for thirteen years. before you could raise an eyebrow at the sudden change, he masked it again with amusement. weird.
“oh?” he says, tone light. “poor guy. he has no idea what he’s in for.”
this time, you do arch a brow. “what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“nothing, nothing.” he says, waving you off, already recovering. “he better like unsolicited nicknames. and emotional damage. and attitude 24/7. oh! add lazing around everyday to that list too.”
you roll your eyes, and start toward the hallway. showing him your middle finger along the way. “so what’s he like?” gojo calls after you, unfazed. “is he tall? funny? emotionally stable? that’s rare these days.”
you keep walking.
“come on,” he says, trailing behind you now. you hated how fast he was catching up to you with that height. “is he one of those pretentious film majors who only drinks iced americano and claims dead poets society is the best movie of all time? or maybe he thinks he’s deep cause he owns a record player.”
you pause outside your door. “why do you care?”
“i don’t.” he says too loud, too fast. too suspicious. “just worried that you’re lowering your standards. i set the bar very high, you know.”
you almost laugh at his statement. one of your many problems with gojo is that you never seemed to know when he's joking or not. so, for the sake of your already diminishing sanity, you choose to believe that what he said was another one of his jokes.
“you are the bar. hellishly low and easy to trip over.”
he gasps, clutching his chest for the dramatics. “that’s slander!”
you open your door, done with him. “i’m going to get ready. go back to my brother’s room and annoy him instead. stress isn’t a good look for the first date.”
as you walk in, he follows, leaning on the doorframe like a lazy shadow. “you gonna wear that black dress? the one with the little sleeves?”
a beat.
you blink. “how do you remember what i wear to dates?” for once your tone didn’t seemed annoyed, just genuinely curious. the grin never left his face. you saw gojo satoru in many ways, and not once did the word 'observant' make it to the list. with the exception of noticing something only if it'll piss you off.
“photographic memory. also, you’ve worn that dress twice now. one for that guy from your chem class. and now this one.” he continues on, as if the newfound information didn’t shock you at all.
you, however, managed to keep your cool unlike the uninvited guy that’s now in your room. “you seriously keep track?” something in your voice shifted, and you pray he doesn’t notice. god knows what kind of unbearable teasing would come with it.
“wouldn’t you like to know.” he turns, shifting his position at the doorframe like he hasn’t just peeled back a layer you didn’t mean to show. you watch him, his arms still crossed over his chest, your heartbeat louder than you’d like. of course he noticed. of course he’d say it like that—half-joking, half-daring you to call his bluff.
stupid dress. stupid memory. stupid gojo satoru and his stupid smug—
“i mean,” he pauses, as if he was carefully choosing his words, “just curious who you’re going out with this time.”
you narrow your eyes. “why?” your tone remained suspicious. “are you gonna track the guy down and flood his inbox with my worst moments?"
he shrugs, all faux-casual. “wonderful idea, bunny wunny, but you're very wrong. just hope he’s better than the chem guy. that one had a weird handshake.”
“you met him once.”
“once was enough.”
you roll your eyes. “are you done investigating me?”
“not even close,” he grins, but his voice has that edge again—too light, too fast.
you tilt your head. “you always this nosy?”
“only when it’s fun.”
there’s a beat where neither of you speak. he watches you, and you try not to fidget under the weight of it.
then: “what’s his name, anyway?”
“you don’t know him.”
“i could.”
“you’re not gonna.”
“hmm.” he turns to leave. “hope he’s funny.”
you blink. “why?”
“no reason,” he says too smoothly. he looked over his shoulder and his gaze landed on you. “you’ve got that kind of laugh that takes effort. would be a shame to waste it.”
you stare at him.
he gives you a lazy wave and disappears down the hallway before you can think of something to say back. which is probably for the best. you’re not sure what you would’ve said.
because that’s just what he does—pokes and prods until you bristle, all smug and effortless, like getting under your skin is his favorite sport.
he’s been like that since you were six. thirteen years later, nothing’s changed.
if anything, he’s only gotten better at it.
so no—gojo satoru hasn’t changed and he probably never will. so what was that look on his face that told you he’s thinking of a million things in one second? if you listened to your gut, which was almost always right, you had the inkling that you might’ve been in one of those million thoughts. or maybe you’re in every single one. who knows?
if u read until the end ily 🩷 not proofread, so please excuse if there are any formatting, grammatical or spelling errors!! if anyone wants to be tagged in the next part lmk <3
synopsis — you’ve hated gojo satoru since he insulted your precious glitter stickers at age six—and he’s made it his life’s mission to annoy you ever since. but after thirteen years of bickering, teasing, and showing up uninvited, one cracked smile during your date announcement makes you wonder: is hatred and annoyance truly the only emotions he can teach you?
tags — enemies to lovers, one-sided (?) pining, gojo being a complete menace like he always is, two year age gap, reader and gojo are both in college, not super slow slowburn, jealous!gojo but he covers it up with being annoying, reader is suguru's little sister, brother's bestfriend!gojo, fluff, idiot(s) in love, eventual smut, gojo being in denial and everything hitting him all at once → previously
wc: 6.5k
likes and reblogs are appreciated!
satoru was eight when he realized just how ridiculously easy it was to push your buttons.
it took minimal effort—barely any at all—and that alone fascinated him. there you were, plopped in the middle of the living room like a pint-sized monarch in a kingdom of chaos, surrounded by a sea of glittery stickers. the carpet around you looked like it had lost a war against every shade of pastel known to man. your hair was clipped in a dozen different colors, each barrette more violently neon than the last, turning your head into some kind of wild, living art project.
if it had been anyone else, he would’ve dragged suguru away and never looked back. but something about you—maybe it was the stubborn pout on your lips, or the way your gaze zeroed in on him with instant irritation, like you'd already decided he was the worst person alive—made him pause.
actually, it made him stay.
there was something undeniably funny about how fast you got riled up. he noticed it immediately—the way your brows pinched together like you were solving the world’s most annoying math problem every time he spoke. it was incredible. mesmerizing. every reaction you gave him felt like a reward.
he decided then and there, right between the glitter unicorn stickers and the scowl you’d offered in his direction, that teasing you might just be his life’s calling.
later, after you’d stomped up the stairs with all the rage your tiny body could contain, suguru let out a sigh and leaned against the couch, arms crossed.
“is it really impossible for you to not be annoying?” he asked, sounding more exhausted than mad.
satoru didn’t answer right away. his eyes were still fixed on the staircase, where your retreating footsteps had echoed moments before. his mind replayed the image of you standing there in your ridiculous teddy bear pajamas—too big for you, sleeves nearly swallowing your hands—pointing out each sparkly sticker as if you were showing off the crown jewels.
something about that stuck with him.
finally, he tore his eyes away and smirked, stretching his legs across the carpet like a king who had just won a battle. “nope. Impossible,” he said, solemnly. “that’s like asking me not to breathe.”
his tone was dead serious as he looked suguru in the eye, like he wasn’t just making a statement but declaring a fundamental law of nature.
then he gave the stairs one last glance—half-expecting you to come barreling back down with a plastic doll in hand, ready to hurl it at his head. honestly? he kind of hoped you would.
shaking his head at the thought, satoru flopped beside suguru on the floor, arms behind his head like he owned the room. “what’s her name?” he asked, too casual to be innocent. a small part of him worried suguru wouldn’t tell him. that maybe he’d keep it to himself, like it was some kind of secret he didn’t want to share.
but when suguru said it—your name, clear as day—satoru smiled.
not a big, toothy grin. just something small. barely-there. the kind of smile that slips out before you know it’s happening. he let your name roll off his tongue like he was testing the weight of it, committing it to memory.
there was this strange feeling—quiet and certain—that settled in his chest. a flicker of instinct, maybe. or fate, if he believed in that kind of thing.
somehow, he knew he’d be seeing a lot more of you.
satoru was fourteen when he decided that lazy afternoons like this were way too quiet without him stirring trouble.
the sky was pale blue, streaked with thin clouds that barely moved, and the air buzzed with the hum of cicadas. your mom had hung laundry out on the line, white sheets swaying gently like sails, and the smell of fresh soap clung to the summer breeze. how boring. satoru thought.
the heat was getting to him. suguru was busy reading some book he couldn't care less about. there were no more sweets in your pantry and your mom had offered him a banana as a substitute.
this is the worst day of my life. i'm basically dying. maybe i should just lay in the middle of the road. it'll finish my suffering quickly. he thought, all pouty.
with a determined mind ready to cause mischief, satoru looked around to find someone to pester. that's when his line of sight pointed to you.
you were sitting cross-legged on the porch steps, earbuds tucked in, sketchpad balanced on your lap. your hair was pulled back messily, a pencil behind your ear, and the sunlight lit up the tips like strands of gold.
satoru didn’t know why he noticed that. he blamed boredom.
“whatcha doing?” his voice came suddenly from behind you, making you flinch hard enough that your pencil left an ugly streak across the page.
“seriously?!” you spun around, glaring. “do you have to sneak up on people?”
“it’s a talent,” he said easily, dropping down onto the step below you without asking. his shoulders brushed yours, not that he cared—or maybe he did, because suddenly they felt way too warm. he ignored it.
you sighed dramatically and went back to erasing the line, muttering under your breath. he decided to ignore your string of curses and bad wishes for him, instead focusing on what you were drawing.
“you draw now?” he leaned in, head tilted like he was actually curious.
“always have,” you said flatly, shifting the sketchpad away from his line of sight.
that just made him grin wider. “oh, hiding it? must be bad then.”
your eyes narrowed. “it’s better than anything you could do.”
“please.” he snorted, snatching the pencil from your hand before you could react. “i’m a natural at everything.”
“give it back, satoru!” you lunged for it, but he just held it high, smirking as you scrambled to grab it. “what’s the magic word?” he asked while one of his eyebrows were arched.
“die.”
he laughed, leaning back on his hands, pencil spinning between his fingers like it was a game. you were glaring at him so hard, lips pressed tight, and for some stupid reason, the sight made his chest feel weird. not bad weird—just… weird weird.
“fine, fine,” he said eventually, handing it back like he was doing you some grand favor. “don’t cry about it.”
“i wasn’t going to cry,” you shot back, snatching it from him.
“sure,” he said lightly, grin tugging at his mouth.
you again muttered something he didn’t catch, focusing on your sketch again. satoru leaned back, letting his elbows rest on the step behind him, eyes drifting toward you without meaning to.
the sunlight had made your hair look lighter than it usually was. your hair had been caught in the breeze, making it messier than usual. the both of you basked in the unusual silence, while the cicadas had filled in the quiet air. and for some reason he couldn’t stop looking. he told himself it was because he was bored. that was all.
he sat in silence for a second too long before blurting the first thing that came to mind. “you draw me yet? bet i’d look amazing.” he said as the side of his lip quirked up. you rolled his eyes at how pleased he seemed to be with his idea. satoru almost let out a chuckle at that.
you scoffed. “you’d look annoying.”
he grinned, leaning in close just to see you flinch. “guess that means you’d get it accurate.”
you shoved his shoulder, and he laughed, the sound ringing through the quiet summer air like it belonged there. like it was going to haunt you one day if you let it slip between your fingers.
satoru was fifteen when he became convinced that tutoring you was the worst mistake of his life.
he stared at the notebook in front of you like it had personally offended him. numbers and letters swam across the page—x’s, y’s, parentheses that clung together like lovers, and a sad-looking equal sign caught in the middle of it all. he ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends like the strands were responsible for your confusion.
“it’s literally simple,” he groaned, dramatically throwing himself back into the beanbag behind him. “just isolate the variable, divide both sides, and boom—done.”
you blinked at him, expression blank. “…that explains nothing.”
“are you serious?” he sat up fast, eyes wide in pure disbelief. “i just gave you gold. that was math gold.”
you turned to him slowly, pencil clutched like a weapon. “you basically said ‘just do the thing’ without telling me how to do the thing.”
satoru opened his mouth, then closed it again. then sighed, flopping to the floor with an arm over his eyes like the world was ending. “i’m going to die here. this is how it ends for me. death by seventh grade algebra.”
you rolled your eyes, scribbling something in your notebook that looked more like a sad doodle than actual math. “you’re so dramatic.”
he lifted his arm just enough to peek at you. you were frowning at the problem, chewing your lip like it had done something wrong, the tip of your pencil tapping against the paper in a rhythm that screamed “i’m trying, okay?”
and that’s what made him pause.
you were frustrated. not just annoyed—genuinely frustrated. your brows were scrunched, eyes narrowed, lips slightly pursed, and even your slouched posture looked tired.
satoru sat up, brushing his bangs from his eyes. for once, he didn’t say anything stupid right away. instead, he scooted closer and pulled the notebook toward him, his voice quieter this time.
“okay, look. this part here—” he pointed to a line of the equation “—is just saying you’re multiplying x by four. so to get x alone, you gotta undo the multiplication by dividing. like... imagine you're untying a knot backwards.”
you blinked. “…so… do the opposite of what’s trapping the x?”
“exactly,” he nodded, tapping the paper. “you’re not solving the whole world. you’re just getting x alone, like pulling it out of a really bad group chat.”
a breath of laughter escaped you—barely, but he caught it. his lips twitched.
you tried the problem again, muttering your steps under your breath. satoru watched silently, not bothering to hide the way he leaned closer every time your pencil moved.
“there.” you held the notebook out like a peace offering. “happy?”
he snatched it like it was a prize. squinted. paused.
“…okay, not bad. maybe i won’t die here after all.”
“wow,” you said flatly. “thanks for the honor.”
“i’m very generous.”
you flopped onto the carpet, arms splayed dramatically. “math is evil.”
“you’re just saying that ‘cause math beat you up a little.”
“a lot.”
satoru lay beside you now, arms behind his head. the ceiling looked boring. white and flat and perfectly uninteresting. he turned his head toward you, noticed the way your eyes were half-lidded now, clearly tired but too stubborn to admit it.
“wanna learn something cool?” he asked, tone suddenly light again.
“only if it’s not math.”
“it’s math-adjacent,” he said, rolling onto his side. “but it’s cool. i promise.”
you gave him a skeptical look. “…fine. hit me with it.”
he propped himself up on one elbow. “infinity.”
you groaned. “ugh. that’s so basic.”
“rude. it’s not basic. infinity is—” he paused, like he was trying to find the right words. “—it’s the idea that there’s no end. like, no matter how far you go, there’s always more. more numbers, more space, more everything. it just… keeps going.”
you stared at him, unimpressed. “…sounds boring.”
he laughed. “isn’t it kind of beautiful?”
you blinked. “you think math is beautiful?”
“sometimes,” he said, quieter now. “sometimes it feels like the only thing that makes sense.”
for a second, you didn’t say anything. he looked up at the ceiling again, thinking about infinity and space and the fact that maybe this moment would stick with him longer than he’d admit.
“...still sounds nerdy,” you muttered.
he snorted. “liar. you’re thinking about it. that makes you a nerd too.”
you didn’t reply. just nudged his arm with your foot, eyes fluttering shut like the tiniest nap couldn’t hurt.
he let the silence sit there, eyes tracing the shape of your face as it softened with sleep. your pencil was still clutched loosely in your hand. the notebook lay between you both like a bridge.
“you’re so gonna dream about infinity,” he whispered, a grin pulling at his lips.
and maybe, just maybe, he hoped he would too.
satoru was sixteen when he found the word.
not in a textbook or vocab sheet or anything remotely useful. no, it was in one of those books suguru liked to read—dramatic, slow-paced things with too many metaphors and not enough explosions. it had dog-eared pages and the kind of prose that made satoru’s brain itch.
still, he was bored. so he cracked it open, flipped through a few pages, and skimmed the lines until something caught his eye like a pebble in his shoe.
seraphic.
he said it out loud, just to see how it sounded. again, slower.
ser-a-phic.
it tasted ridiculous. too pretty. too soft. it didn’t sound like a real word—more like the name of a soap brand or some mystical shampoo.
what kind of person even used that word seriously?
still, his eyes dropped to the sentence on the page:
“she smiled, seraphic in her joy.”
ugh. gross. but underneath it, suguru had scribbled something in neat, small handwriting: angelic. blissful. pure.
satoru frowned. pure? angelic? what did that even mean? people weren’t like that. no one was so glowing, so otherworldly, that you’d need a word like seraphic just to describe the way they smiled. he looked up, gaze wandering across the room.
and then it landed on you.
you were sitting by the window, knees pulled up, sketchpad balanced in your lap. the sun was spilling in like warm syrup, trailing across the floor and wrapping around you like it had nowhere better to be. your hair shimmered in the light, strands falling into your face as you leaned over your drawing. your eyes were focused, expression soft in that way people only got when they forgot the world existed.
and for some reason—some dumb, fleeting, utterly nonsensical reason—satoru’s chest did this weird thing.
tightened. fluttered. paused.
just for a second. a tiny, stupid second.
oh.
he blinked hard, looked back down at the book like it had just betrayed him. the sentence sat there, smug and still. seraphic. angelic. blissful.
it wasn’t about you. obviously. don’t be weird.
he flipped the page like that would shake it out of his head—but the feeling clung, warm and irritating, like leftover sun on skin. it was the same itch he’d felt the day he first saw you sketching in silence, the way something about you—just sometimes—felt a little too still. too careful. like a scene from a dream.
he hated it.
well. not hated. more like… found it annoying. definitely annoying.
you shifted, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear, and the sunlight followed you again. dramatic much? honestly, it was like nature itself had a crush on you. disgusting.
before he could stop himself, he was staring again—and that’s when you spoke.
“what?”
you didn’t even look up. but your voice was dry, suspicious, like you were catching him mid-crime.
“nothing,” he said quickly. too quickly. he cleared his throat and leaned back into the couch with studied ease. “just… wondering how someone can draw with so little talent. it’s fascinating, really.”
you raised an eyebrow at him without turning. “do you ever shut up?”
“i do,” he said with a grin, “but only around people who deserve silence.”
your pencil paused briefly—just long enough for him to notice—before you shook your head and kept sketching. “you’re unbearable.”
he kicked his foot up over the armrest, slouching into the cushions. “and yet, here you are. bearing me. funny how that works.”
“unfortunately.”
he watched you for a moment longer, gaze lingering just a beat too long before he forced himself to look away. whatever. it didn’t mean anything. so what if you looked kind of… nice in the sun? so what if that word had temporarily messed with his head?
he wasn’t actually feeling anything. obviously.
it was just the lighting. the book. the boredom. a coincidence.
besides, if anything, you were the one acting weird lately. being all quiet. sketching things. sitting near him without arguing for ten whole minutes.
you were the problem.
he let out a breath and smirked to himself, flipping the book shut and tossing it on the table like it had bored him.
seraphic.
what a dumb word.
satoru was seventeen and currently yelling at a basketball in his head like it had personally betrayed him.
“that’s three points, baby!” he whooped, spinning on his heel and blowing a kiss to no one in particular. his white hair caught the light, sweat-damp and ridiculous, and the smug grin on his face practically begged to be punched.
you, aged sixteen and deeply regretting your life choices, sat beside shoko on the sun-warmed bench, arms crossed and unimpressed. “is this what you guys do for fun?”
shoko didn’t even glance at the game. she lounged like a cat, sunglasses on, sipping something questionably fizzy from a flask. “it’s like watching a baby deer on caffeine.”
you raised an eyebrow. “you mean suguru?”
“no. satoru.”
you looked back at the court just in time to see satoru pull off some flashy behind-the-back nonsense before tossing the ball cleanly into the hoop. he threw his arms up like he’d just won the olympics.
“you’re right. he even flails,” you muttered.
“i do not flail!” satoru called from across the court, his voice crystal clear despite the distance.
you blinked, then glared. “stop eavesdropping!”
“your voice carries!” he shouted back with a grin.
he dribbled lazily, barely trying, but still moving like he’d been born to play. his steps were fluid, effortless, almost like showboating was second nature. it was annoying how easy he made it look.
“are you seriously just gonna sit there like a statue?” he called out again, spinning the ball on one finger. “what, scared?”
you scoffed. “scared of what? your oversized ego?”
“of getting your pride shattered when i dunk on you,” he replied smoothly. then he casually sank another three pointer, as if to prove his point. satoru's face adorned an unimpressed look, as if he had already expected the shot to go in.
you squinted at him. “i’d rather eat dirt.”
he smirked. “what if i said we’re one player short?”
“you’re lying,” you said flatly, not budging.
“what if i said shoko already agreed to play?”
you glanced at your friend. she lifted her drink, expression unreadable. “technically,” she said with a sigh, “he said if i didn’t play, he’d read my old diary out loud.”
you looked at her, horrified. “you kept a diary?”
“middle school was a rough time,” she said and shrugged.
“c’mon,” satoru said, striding over now, spinning the ball lazily in his hands. “don’t you wanna show off your world-class coordination?”
“i will literally kick you.”
he grinned. “on the court? so you admit you’re in.”
you stared. “i didn’t say that!”
“you know,” he added with a tilt of his head, “it’d be kind of embarrassing if my best friend’s little sister backed out of a friendly game.”
your eye twitched. “is that reverse psychology?”
“nope,” he said cheerfully. “just straight-up bullying.”
you shot shoko a look. she shrugged and stood up. “just get it over with. you’ll feel better once you score on him.”
“thank you,” you muttered dryly.
“i meant me,” she added.
you groaned but stood anyway, brushing your hands on your shorts. “you guys suck.”
satoru grinned, clearly victorious. “you love us.”
you ignored him.
soon enough, you were standing at half court, frowning at the basketball he handed you. he looked way too pleased with himself.
“ready to be humiliated?” he asked.
“you mean like your sixth-grade haircut?” you shot back without missing a beat.
he winced. “low blow.”
you smiled. “you’ll live.”
to your surprise, you weren’t terrible. you passed decently, dribbled well enough, and even made a few half-decent shots. when you managed to steal the ball from satoru by elbowing him—lightly—in the ribs, he gasped like you’d stabbed him.
“assault!” he cried. “someone call the authorities!”
“you flopped,” you said, rolling your eyes.
“you’re violent,” he accused, pouting dramatically. “this is why you don’t get invited to parties.” you blinked. “you were the one who dragged me here!”
“i lured you with charm and emotional manipulation.”
“that’s not better!”
“semantics,” he said with a shrug.
you almost laughed. almost. but your next step landed funny. your foot twisted awkwardly on a hidden dip in the pavement, and pain jolted up your ankle sharp and sudden.
“ow—shit,” you hissed, stumbling and grabbing at your leg.
the mood snapped.
suguru jogged over immediately, brows furrowed. “hey. hey, what happened?”
shoko lowered her flask and stood still, her expression uncharacteristically serious. “she hurt herself?”
you grimaced, shifting your weight. “twisted it, i think. it’s fine.”
“that doesn’t look fine,” satoru said, suddenly crouched beside you. he hovered for a second, hands unsure, like he didn’t know whether to touch or not.
he hesitated—just for a breath, like he was trying to make up his mind.
then he turned around, crouching with his back to you.
“get on.”
you blinked. “...get on what?”
“me.”
“you’re insane.” you were convinced that your eyes were about to pop out of their sockets.
“and you’re injured.” he said, staying the obvious.
“satoru—”
“do you want to make it worse?” his voice snapped—sharp, sudden, just a little louder than usual.
you paused, startled. he didn’t look at you. his hands clenched briefly at his sides before he spoke again, quieter this time. “just. get on.”
there was a tightness in his voice. something he was holding back. suguru and shoko stood frozen behind him, like they weren’t sure whether to intervene or pretend they weren’t there.
with a sigh, you climbed onto his back, arms awkwardly looping around his shoulders.
“you’re sweaty,” you muttered, trying to ignore the way your face was heating up.
“you’re mean,” he said back, but his voice was gentler now.
“you’re dramatic.”
“you’re always falling for me,” he murmured with a snicker.
you smacked the back of his head lightly. “shut up. don't ever say that again.”
he laughed, adjusting his grip under your knees. his fingers brushed lightly over your skin, careful, almost too gentle. the walk back was quiet, save for his steady breathing and the occasional grumble when you shifted your weight wrong.
the air swept past your drenched hair as well as satoru's. you don't think you've been this close to him. his back was covered in sweat, something you couldn't stand on a normal day, but somehow you tolerated it now. you blamed it on your foot. his cologne had combined with the air—something manly but not too strong. satoru's breathing was steady, and if you focused enough you'd be able to hear his heartbeat. satoru prayed you didn't.
at your place, he set you down on the couch with ease, then disappeared into the kitchen.
he came back with a towel and a pack of ice, crouching in front of you like it was second nature. “ankle up,” he said, voice low.
you did as told, watching him work. the cold pressed to your skin, sharp and numbing, but the care in his touch was oddly… soft.
“you’re being weird,” you said after a beat.
“you’re being injured,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. for some unknown reason, you couldn't help but think that he was avoiding your gaze.
the room fell quiet.
satoru sat beside you, elbow resting on the back of the couch, his expression unreadable. for once, he didn’t look like he had something cocky to say.
then he glanced at you, expression unreadable.
“next time,” he said quietly, “don’t actually get hurt, yeah?”
you looked at him sideways. “why? you planning to carry me again?”
he rolled his eyes once again, a smile almost stained your lips. here you were practically dying and he was still here being annoying. “what else am i supposed to do?”
nothing was said. but something hung in the air between you, faint and unfamiliar.
a shift. small, strange. unnoticed by anyone else.
but not by either of you. not even a little.
at age nineteen, he was about to leave—and you had just turned eighteen.
“i can’t believe you wore that to my birthday party,” you said, eyeing satoru from head to toe.
he grinned, straightening the collar of his slightly wrinkled button-down. “what? i look good, admit it.”
“you look like you're working a 9 to 5 job.” the unimpressed tone made him smirk. “you’re just mad i wore it better than you ever could.”
“i’m not even wearing one.”
“exactly,” he said smugly, popping a candy into his mouth. “rookie mistake.”
you sighed, arms crossing, but your lips were twitching. “remind me why i invited you again?”
“because you’re obsessed with me,” he replied, draping an arm around your shoulders like he hadn’t done that same thing a hundred times over the years. “been obsessed since you were, what, six? i’ve seen the way you look at me.”
“like obsessed with the idea of dropkicking you into traffic? sure.” he tilted his head, acting like he was thinking carefully.
“more like you’d miss me if i ever stopped showing up.”
you paused. just long enough for him to notice. just long enough to make his smirk falter—before you shoved him away with a scoff.
“delusional.”
“you say that now,” he teased, “but you’ll be crying at the airport.”
“more like celebrating.”
but there was something in the way you looked at him then. like you were trying to memorize his face, all sharp edges and loud laughter, the way he always filled every corner of your world without asking.
he didn’t say anything. didn’t trust himself to.
later, when the music had dulled to a steady thrum and the room buzzed with small talk and half-finished stories, satoru found himself drifting away from the crowd.
he leaned against the wall, plastic cup in hand, his usual cocky energy beginning to unravel into something quieter. something restless. he was still smiling when people passed, still tossing out casual jabs and compliments—but beneath it all, a dissonance tugged at his chest.
it had started when you laughed.
not at him, not beside him—but across the room, with someone else. a laugh that reached your eyes. a hand resting on someone else's sleeve. satoru had always known you smiled like that. he just hadn’t realized how much he hated not being the cause of it.
he didn’t even notice shoko until she was beside him, cupcake in hand and mischief in her eyes.
“you look like a sulking flamingo,” she said, deadpan as ever.
“i am not sulking,” satoru replied, voice a little too loud, a little too defensive. “i’m brooding. there's a difference.”
“sure there is,” she smirked, eyeing him knowingly. “and you’re brooding because…?”
“because the music sucks,” he snapped. “and suguru ate the last slice of cake. obviously.”
shoko raised a brow. suguru, who had just wandered over with a plateful of sweets, glanced between them and blinked. “...i could get you another slice?”
“no,” satoru muttered, tossing the untouched cup of soda into a trash bag. “it’s tainted. betrayal never tastes sweet.” suguru, used to his dramatics, stepped away from the both of them to get a slice. satoru would probably be in a sourer mood if he doesn't.
but it wasn’t the cake. of course it wasn’t the cake.
it was you—laughing a little too brightly across the room, your hand brushing the arm of some guy whose name satoru didn’t bother to remember. he was someone from your class, maybe. the same guy who had hovered around you all evening like a mosquito with too much cologne and not enough shame.
and you let him.
you let him stand too close. you laughed at his jokes, even the bad ones. and worse, you didn’t look annoyed. not the way you always were around satoru.
“you’re acting like a kicked puppy,” shoko added, licking frosting from her finger. “you could just go talk to her, you know.”
“why would i?” he scoffed. “i don’t care. she can flirt with the entire country if she wants to.”
but the lie burned all the way down.
he watched as you leaned in to whisper something to the guy, watched your smile bloom—soft and easy. he hated it. hated that someone else could pull that out of you so effortlessly. hated that it wasn’t him.
suguru was starting to discuss something about dorm life as he was walking back when the guy finally said his goodbyes. satoru’s body moved before his mind could catch up. a blur of sharp footsteps, dismissive waves, and shoko’s knowing snort as he passed by.
“where are we going—? hey, satoru!” your voice behind him, high and exasperated, followed by hurried footsteps.
he grabbed your wrist, gently but firmly, and dragged you through the house, past balloons and confetti and candles that had long burned out. into the hallway, then up the stairs, and finally into the quiet of your room.
you yanked your arm away. “what the hell was that for?”
“needed air,” he said, shutting the door behind him, though the room wasn’t stuffy at all. “and you were the most annoying person to do it with.”
“you could’ve asked,” you huffed, arms crossing. “you’re so—ugh.”
but then, the tension shifted.
you fidgeted. your gaze dropped. something about the silence made you shift your weight from one foot to the other. “...wait. before you go. i have something for you.”
he let his eyes drift towards you, fingers still curled loosely around the doorknob. your voice—soft, uncertain—wasn’t one he was used to hearing. not from you. not when most of your conversations were built from sarcasm and eye-rolls, brick by brick. it made something in his chest clench, unfamiliar and tight. he turned slowly, brows quirking. “is it another headache?” he asked, lips twitching into a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. he was trying, as always, to deflect. to make light of the shift in the air he couldn’t quite name.
you didn’t respond to the joke. instead, you walked across the room toward your desk, your back to him, shoulders tense in a way he recognized too well. you looked like you were bracing for impact. and that—that alone made him straighten, amusement draining into something heavier. the teasing in his throat shriveled on his tongue.
your fingers hovered above the drawer before pulling it open. and he noticed then, for the first time, how hesitant you were. like whatever you were about to give him wasn’t just a gift—it was a piece of you. and that terrified you.
when you turned around, something small and carefully wrapped was held in both hands. you didn’t meet his eyes.
“don’t laugh,” you murmured.
his expression twitched—like he wanted to, like the reflex was there—but he didn’t. not fully. “you’re practically begging me to,” he replied instead, voice lower now. gentler. he didn’t know why he said it that way, but something about your posture, the tremble in your grip, made the usual snark feel wrong. and when you reached out to hand it to him, your fingers brushed his—and god, you were warm. warm in a way that left him reeling.
he took the paper from you with a kind of reverence he wasn’t known for. satoru gojo didn’t do gentle. didn’t do delicate. but this—this felt like sacred ground. he peeled the wrapping slowly, and the moment the sketch was revealed, the breath lodged in his throat and didn’t come back.
it was him.
not just a sketch of him, but him. the way you saw him. mid-motion, caught mid-game, hair disheveled, eyes sharp, body in sync with something bigger than himself. you’d shaded his face with soft shadows, smudged lines curling with energy, as though he were about to leap off the paper entirely. it wasn’t perfect—but maybe that’s what made it so gutting. it was flawed, but honest. and that honesty hit harder than any compliment ever could.
he stared.
too long. long enough for the silence to thicken.
“you remembered that day?” he finally managed to ask, but the words came quiet, barely audible. like speaking too loud might shatter whatever spell this was.
you shifted. “you always liked basketball. figured you’d want a memento.”
his heart twisted at that. a memento. the word lodged somewhere in his ribs. it sounded too final. too much like a goodbye. he looked at the sketch again and tried to find a joke. something easy. something safe. but his throat felt like it had been sewn shut.
because you’d seen him.
not just the loud, flashy version of himself. not the cocky show-off or the effortlessly brilliant student. but the boy beneath all of that. the one who tried so hard to be okay all the time. the one who loved the game not for the fame, but for the feeling of flying. of escaping.
you saw him. and you kept it. put it on paper. gave it to him.
“i kept messing up the jawline,” you mumbled. “you have an annoying face to draw.”
he let out a laugh—short, breathless, barely a sound. but it was genuine. it cracked something open in his chest. his fingers curled protectively around the edges of the paper, careful not to wrinkle it. careful not to damage what he already knew would become the most important thing he owned. satoru couldn't find the right words to say, his heart beating too fast for his own good.
so instead, he looked back at the sketch. forced himself to breathe. willed the flood back down with a shaky smile.
“you forgot my good side.”
you rolled your eyes, snorting. “you don’t have a good side.”
he chuckled under his breath, but his heart wasn’t in it.
his fingers tightened around the drawing once more before he finally folded it in half, careful and precise. he slipped it into his back pocket like it was something sacred. something only he could touch.
and then he looked at you—really looked at you.
eyes bright, a little wide, like he was standing on a ledge you didn’t know he’d climbed.
“i have something for you,” he said, softer now.
you smiled. “as you should. its my birthday after all.”
he didn’t answer. just reached into the front pocket of his slacks, pulling something out with a slow, quiet kind of care.
it caught the light in a soft glint—silver, delicate, hanging from a thin chain. he held it in his palm, almost hesitant, like part of him wanted to keep it to himself.
“you got me… jewelry?” you asked, squinting.
he didn’t respond right away. he just stepped closer. held the necklace a little higher so you could see the pendant better.
your breath hitched.
a small, simple loop. smooth and endless. the shape of it so familiar it made your chest ache.
an infinity symbol.
you stared at it, and for a second, you didn’t speak. didn’t move.
but then, slowly, a smile curled at your lips. not a teasing one. not smug. just soft. warm. like something tucked away in a memory finally unfolded itself in full bloom.
“i remember,” you whispered, soft and slow.
his brow quirked, but he knew what you meant.
“you taught me what infinity meant,” you added, fingers ghosting over the symbol. “you said it just keeps going. more space. more everything.”
“and you said it was boring,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
you laughed. “because i didn’t get it back then.”
his throat worked. “and now?”
you looked up at him. “now i do.”
he swallowed. eyes flickering from your face to the pendant, like he couldn’t decide which held him more captive.
his voice dipped, quiet and uneven. “can i?”
you nodded before he even finished.
turned around slowly, brushing your hair aside, the skin of your neck bared to him in the soft lamp light.
he stepped closer, breath shallow. hands shaking slightly as he brought the necklace around your collarbones.
his fingers brushed your skin, and the contact sent something fluttering down his spine—sharp and slow all at once.
it should’ve been simple. clasping a necklace. it should’ve taken two seconds.
but he was memorizing the curve of your neck. the way your shoulders rose with your breath. the heat of you, so close and real and it almost felt like it was his.
and all he could think about was how fucking dangerous it was, to feel this much.
he fastened the clasp with a soft click. his fingers lingered.
you looked at yourself in the mirror and met his eye. “thank you,” you said. your voice was steady. but your eyes—they gave you away.
and something about that broke him.
because suddenly, it all made sense.
the way you always lingered in the back of his mind. the way he counted time by the sound of your laughter. the way no other memory ever burned half as bright.
and then it hit him.
not like a punch. not like a falling weight. it was slower, deeper. like a tide that had been rising for years, finally cresting. and all he could do was stand there, soaked to the bone.
he was in love with you.
completely. irrevocably. devastatingly.
he didn’t know when it started. maybe it had always been there—dormant, quiet, buried under all the bickering and banter. or maybe it began the day you proved that his patience might not be as short as he thought when teaching you some stupid physics lesson. maybe it grew every time you called him unbearable but never walked away.
maybe it took root that afternoon when he carried you. drenched in sweat, heartbeat erratic, body aching from playing basketball all day. but he made it work. because for the first time, he felt your body pressed onto his, warm, fragile, gentle. he didn't know when he could do it again.
he could remember the day vividly, to the point he was convinced he could retell it multiple times without missing a single detail. it was engraved in his brain. stuck.
and now, standing behind you with your drawing in his hands and you looking up at him with uncertainty written all over your face—he realized just how badly he’d messed up.
because he couldn’t say it.
he couldn’t tell you. couldn’t admit it. because the moment he did, this fragile thing between you would tip, would shift, would change. and if he confessed and it wasn’t what you wanted—if he was wrong—he’d lose everything. not just the possibility. but you.
now, he stood behind you. satoru stared at the necklace now laying on your chest. you were still looking at it as if it was something precious. satoru almost thought he was dreaming. he prayed he wasn't.
because he was completely, utterly, and secretly screwed.
and the worst part?
he wouldn’t change a thing.
i quite literally poured my heart and soul into this.... i love gojo so much its actually not funny anymore. taglist is still open so comment if u wanna be added!! next part will be the last one :) lmk your thoughts <3
basketball player!gojo who acted like he’d been cast in the starring role of a teen rom-com. not the love interest, no—he was the genre. the walking cliché of arrogance and height, of smirks and sweaty jerseys, of finger guns and shameless flirting.
basketball player!gojo who’d made a career out of getting under your skin. who once interrupted your book presentation just to say he liked your voice, and when you deadpanned him into silence, whispered, “so mean, yet so pretty. unfair.”
basketball player!gojo who never took anything seriously—especially not you. and you were fine with that. you liked being the one person who didn’t swoon over his fast breaks and even faster mouth. someone had to remind him he was human, not a demigod in nikes.
and then someone bet he couldn’t make you fall for him.
and of course, he said yes. full of arrogance and mischief, he decided to make you his goal.
basketball player!gojo who upped the charm like he was flipping a switch. suddenly holding doors open for you, like chivalry wasn’t dead but personally resurrected by his ego. “after you, princess.”
you stared. blinked. walked the other way.
basketball player!gojo who started sitting beside you in class, even when there were a hundred other empty seats. tapping his pen on your desk and whispering, “what do you dream about at night? bet it’s me.”
you told him you dreamed about shoving him into traffic. he only laughed.
you were weirded out. this was worse than usual. he was smiling too much. too politely. and not even debating with you about senseless topics.
basketball player!gojo who serenaded you. not metaphorically.
you were walking out of school and there he was, on the bleachers, holding a speaker, blasting some tragically off-key boy band ballad while spinning a basketball like a ring box.
“this is harassment,” you yelled.
“this is love,” he yelled back in that sing song voice that you absolutely hated.
basketball player!gojo who started leaving your favorite coffee and a pastry in your locker during morning classes. it was accompanied by a small note, changing every day. you almost rolled your eyes at how cheesy today's entry was.
good luck with your classes today, pretty. he had doodled a digimon character at the bottom left corner, with a small text bubble that said "you can do it!".
cheesy it may be, but you never found it in you to throw it away.
basketball player!gojo who started doing the most un-gojo things—like offering to help you study. which would’ve been sweet if he didn’t show up with exactly one pencil, no notes, and a single sticky note that said “ur hot.”
basketball player!gojo who complimented your handwriting, your shoes, your eyebrows (“they’re like, so assertive”), and once, after a heated argument about shakespeare, said, “you’d be a great lady macbeth. you’ve got the crazy eyes.”
you seriously considered punching him.
but then he added, “also the brains. and ambition. and, you know… i'd kill a king for you.”
for a moment, you considered taking him to the nurse's office. there was something seriously wrong with him.
basketball player!gojo who made it harder to breathe the longer this whole act went on. because sometimes, just sometimes, the things he said felt real. and you hated that. hated the way your heart paused when he smiled like that. hated how your insults started losing their edge.
basketball player!gojo who caught you watching him at practice once, and winked.
you flipped him off.
he grinned like he won something. if you had stared for a second longer, you might've noticed the small change in his usual condescending grin. it turned into something softer, something more... him.
basketball player!gojo who leaned close one day after school, crowding your space with all six-foot-too-much of him, and asked, “do you still hate me?”
and you said nothing, settling for a roll of your eyes.
the seemingly innocent question kept you up that night. it echoed in every corner of your mind, occupying every cell in your brain. each passing second repeated the question in your head, seemingly louder than the last.
because you weren’t sure anymore. you didn't know what you would've said.
and it terrified you.
i offer this to all of you because i haven't written childhood enemy!gojo yet 🙏🏻
inspired by 10 things i hate about you because i love them so much 🩷 also because i found out the guy i went crazy for, who plays basketball, is in my class this year... pray for me 💔 might turn this into a full blown fic if anyone's up for it.
likes and reblogs are always appreciated! lmk your thoughts <3
synopsis — you’ve hated gojo satoru since he insulted your precious glitter stickers at age six—and he’s made it his life’s mission to annoy you ever since. but after thirteen years of bickering, teasing, and showing up uninvited, one cracked smile during your date announcement makes you wonder: is hatred and annoyance truly the only emotions he can teach you?
tags — enemies to lovers, one-sided (?) pining, gojo being a complete menace like he always is, two year age gap, reader and gojo are both in college, not super slow slowburn, jealous!gojo but he covers it up with being annoying, reader is suguru's little sister, brother's bestfriend!gojo, fluff, idiot(s) in love, eventual smut, gojo being in denial and everything hitting him all at once → previously
wc: 6.5k
likes and reblogs are appreciated!
satoru was eight when he realized just how ridiculously easy it was to push your buttons.
it took minimal effort—barely any at all—and that alone fascinated him. there you were, plopped in the middle of the living room like a pint-sized monarch in a kingdom of chaos, surrounded by a sea of glittery stickers. the carpet around you looked like it had lost a war against every shade of pastel known to man. your hair was clipped in a dozen different colors, each barrette more violently neon than the last, turning your head into some kind of wild, living art project.
if it had been anyone else, he would’ve dragged suguru away and never looked back. but something about you—maybe it was the stubborn pout on your lips, or the way your gaze zeroed in on him with instant irritation, like you'd already decided he was the worst person alive—made him pause.
actually, it made him stay.
there was something undeniably funny about how fast you got riled up. he noticed it immediately—the way your brows pinched together like you were solving the world’s most annoying math problem every time he spoke. it was incredible. mesmerizing. every reaction you gave him felt like a reward.
he decided then and there, right between the glitter unicorn stickers and the scowl you’d offered in his direction, that teasing you might just be his life’s calling.
later, after you’d stomped up the stairs with all the rage your tiny body could contain, suguru let out a sigh and leaned against the couch, arms crossed.
“is it really impossible for you to not be annoying?” he asked, sounding more exhausted than mad.
satoru didn’t answer right away. his eyes were still fixed on the staircase, where your retreating footsteps had echoed moments before. his mind replayed the image of you standing there in your ridiculous teddy bear pajamas—too big for you, sleeves nearly swallowing your hands—pointing out each sparkly sticker as if you were showing off the crown jewels.
something about that stuck with him.
finally, he tore his eyes away and smirked, stretching his legs across the carpet like a king who had just won a battle. “nope. Impossible,” he said, solemnly. “that’s like asking me not to breathe.”
his tone was dead serious as he looked suguru in the eye, like he wasn’t just making a statement but declaring a fundamental law of nature.
then he gave the stairs one last glance—half-expecting you to come barreling back down with a plastic doll in hand, ready to hurl it at his head. honestly? he kind of hoped you would.
shaking his head at the thought, satoru flopped beside suguru on the floor, arms behind his head like he owned the room. “what’s her name?” he asked, too casual to be innocent. a small part of him worried suguru wouldn’t tell him. that maybe he’d keep it to himself, like it was some kind of secret he didn’t want to share.
but when suguru said it—your name, clear as day—satoru smiled.
not a big, toothy grin. just something small. barely-there. the kind of smile that slips out before you know it’s happening. he let your name roll off his tongue like he was testing the weight of it, committing it to memory.
there was this strange feeling—quiet and certain—that settled in his chest. a flicker of instinct, maybe. or fate, if he believed in that kind of thing.
somehow, he knew he’d be seeing a lot more of you.
satoru was fourteen when he decided that lazy afternoons like this were way too quiet without him stirring trouble.
the sky was pale blue, streaked with thin clouds that barely moved, and the air buzzed with the hum of cicadas. your mom had hung laundry out on the line, white sheets swaying gently like sails, and the smell of fresh soap clung to the summer breeze. how boring. satoru thought.
the heat was getting to him. suguru was busy reading some book he couldn't care less about. there were no more sweets in your pantry and your mom had offered him a banana as a substitute.
this is the worst day of my life. i'm basically dying. maybe i should just lay in the middle of the road. it'll finish my suffering quickly. he thought, all pouty.
with a determined mind ready to cause mischief, satoru looked around to find someone to pester. that's when his line of sight pointed to you.
you were sitting cross-legged on the porch steps, earbuds tucked in, sketchpad balanced on your lap. your hair was pulled back messily, a pencil behind your ear, and the sunlight lit up the tips like strands of gold.
satoru didn’t know why he noticed that. he blamed boredom.
“whatcha doing?” his voice came suddenly from behind you, making you flinch hard enough that your pencil left an ugly streak across the page.
“seriously?!” you spun around, glaring. “do you have to sneak up on people?”
“it’s a talent,” he said easily, dropping down onto the step below you without asking. his shoulders brushed yours, not that he cared—or maybe he did, because suddenly they felt way too warm. he ignored it.
you sighed dramatically and went back to erasing the line, muttering under your breath. he decided to ignore your string of curses and bad wishes for him, instead focusing on what you were drawing.
“you draw now?” he leaned in, head tilted like he was actually curious.
“always have,” you said flatly, shifting the sketchpad away from his line of sight.
that just made him grin wider. “oh, hiding it? must be bad then.”
your eyes narrowed. “it’s better than anything you could do.”
“please.” he snorted, snatching the pencil from your hand before you could react. “i’m a natural at everything.”
“give it back, satoru!” you lunged for it, but he just held it high, smirking as you scrambled to grab it. “what’s the magic word?” he asked while one of his eyebrows were arched.
“die.”
he laughed, leaning back on his hands, pencil spinning between his fingers like it was a game. you were glaring at him so hard, lips pressed tight, and for some stupid reason, the sight made his chest feel weird. not bad weird—just… weird weird.
“fine, fine,” he said eventually, handing it back like he was doing you some grand favor. “don’t cry about it.”
“i wasn’t going to cry,” you shot back, snatching it from him.
“sure,” he said lightly, grin tugging at his mouth.
you again muttered something he didn’t catch, focusing on your sketch again. satoru leaned back, letting his elbows rest on the step behind him, eyes drifting toward you without meaning to.
the sunlight had made your hair look lighter than it usually was. your hair had been caught in the breeze, making it messier than usual. the both of you basked in the unusual silence, while the cicadas had filled in the quiet air. and for some reason he couldn’t stop looking. he told himself it was because he was bored. that was all.
he sat in silence for a second too long before blurting the first thing that came to mind. “you draw me yet? bet i’d look amazing.” he said as the side of his lip quirked up. you rolled his eyes at how pleased he seemed to be with his idea. satoru almost let out a chuckle at that.
you scoffed. “you’d look annoying.”
he grinned, leaning in close just to see you flinch. “guess that means you’d get it accurate.”
you shoved his shoulder, and he laughed, the sound ringing through the quiet summer air like it belonged there. like it was going to haunt you one day if you let it slip between your fingers.
satoru was fifteen when he became convinced that tutoring you was the worst mistake of his life.
he stared at the notebook in front of you like it had personally offended him. numbers and letters swam across the page—x’s, y’s, parentheses that clung together like lovers, and a sad-looking equal sign caught in the middle of it all. he ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends like the strands were responsible for your confusion.
“it’s literally simple,” he groaned, dramatically throwing himself back into the beanbag behind him. “just isolate the variable, divide both sides, and boom—done.”
you blinked at him, expression blank. “…that explains nothing.”
“are you serious?” he sat up fast, eyes wide in pure disbelief. “i just gave you gold. that was math gold.”
you turned to him slowly, pencil clutched like a weapon. “you basically said ‘just do the thing’ without telling me how to do the thing.”
satoru opened his mouth, then closed it again. then sighed, flopping to the floor with an arm over his eyes like the world was ending. “i’m going to die here. this is how it ends for me. death by seventh grade algebra.”
you rolled your eyes, scribbling something in your notebook that looked more like a sad doodle than actual math. “you’re so dramatic.”
he lifted his arm just enough to peek at you. you were frowning at the problem, chewing your lip like it had done something wrong, the tip of your pencil tapping against the paper in a rhythm that screamed “i’m trying, okay?”
and that’s what made him pause.
you were frustrated. not just annoyed—genuinely frustrated. your brows were scrunched, eyes narrowed, lips slightly pursed, and even your slouched posture looked tired.
satoru sat up, brushing his bangs from his eyes. for once, he didn’t say anything stupid right away. instead, he scooted closer and pulled the notebook toward him, his voice quieter this time.
“okay, look. this part here—” he pointed to a line of the equation “—is just saying you’re multiplying x by four. so to get x alone, you gotta undo the multiplication by dividing. like... imagine you're untying a knot backwards.”
you blinked. “…so… do the opposite of what’s trapping the x?”
“exactly,” he nodded, tapping the paper. “you’re not solving the whole world. you’re just getting x alone, like pulling it out of a really bad group chat.”
a breath of laughter escaped you—barely, but he caught it. his lips twitched.
you tried the problem again, muttering your steps under your breath. satoru watched silently, not bothering to hide the way he leaned closer every time your pencil moved.
“there.” you held the notebook out like a peace offering. “happy?”
he snatched it like it was a prize. squinted. paused.
“…okay, not bad. maybe i won’t die here after all.”
“wow,” you said flatly. “thanks for the honor.”
“i’m very generous.”
you flopped onto the carpet, arms splayed dramatically. “math is evil.”
“you’re just saying that ‘cause math beat you up a little.”
“a lot.”
satoru lay beside you now, arms behind his head. the ceiling looked boring. white and flat and perfectly uninteresting. he turned his head toward you, noticed the way your eyes were half-lidded now, clearly tired but too stubborn to admit it.
“wanna learn something cool?” he asked, tone suddenly light again.
“only if it’s not math.”
“it’s math-adjacent,” he said, rolling onto his side. “but it’s cool. i promise.”
you gave him a skeptical look. “…fine. hit me with it.”
he propped himself up on one elbow. “infinity.”
you groaned. “ugh. that’s so basic.”
“rude. it’s not basic. infinity is—” he paused, like he was trying to find the right words. “—it’s the idea that there’s no end. like, no matter how far you go, there’s always more. more numbers, more space, more everything. it just… keeps going.”
you stared at him, unimpressed. “…sounds boring.”
he laughed. “isn’t it kind of beautiful?”
you blinked. “you think math is beautiful?”
“sometimes,” he said, quieter now. “sometimes it feels like the only thing that makes sense.”
for a second, you didn’t say anything. he looked up at the ceiling again, thinking about infinity and space and the fact that maybe this moment would stick with him longer than he’d admit.
“...still sounds nerdy,” you muttered.
he snorted. “liar. you’re thinking about it. that makes you a nerd too.”
you didn’t reply. just nudged his arm with your foot, eyes fluttering shut like the tiniest nap couldn’t hurt.
he let the silence sit there, eyes tracing the shape of your face as it softened with sleep. your pencil was still clutched loosely in your hand. the notebook lay between you both like a bridge.
“you’re so gonna dream about infinity,” he whispered, a grin pulling at his lips.
and maybe, just maybe, he hoped he would too.
satoru was sixteen when he found the word.
not in a textbook or vocab sheet or anything remotely useful. no, it was in one of those books suguru liked to read—dramatic, slow-paced things with too many metaphors and not enough explosions. it had dog-eared pages and the kind of prose that made satoru’s brain itch.
still, he was bored. so he cracked it open, flipped through a few pages, and skimmed the lines until something caught his eye like a pebble in his shoe.
seraphic.
he said it out loud, just to see how it sounded. again, slower.
ser-a-phic.
it tasted ridiculous. too pretty. too soft. it didn’t sound like a real word—more like the name of a soap brand or some mystical shampoo.
what kind of person even used that word seriously?
still, his eyes dropped to the sentence on the page:
“she smiled, seraphic in her joy.”
ugh. gross. but underneath it, suguru had scribbled something in neat, small handwriting: angelic. blissful. pure.
satoru frowned. pure? angelic? what did that even mean? people weren’t like that. no one was so glowing, so otherworldly, that you’d need a word like seraphic just to describe the way they smiled. he looked up, gaze wandering across the room.
and then it landed on you.
you were sitting by the window, knees pulled up, sketchpad balanced in your lap. the sun was spilling in like warm syrup, trailing across the floor and wrapping around you like it had nowhere better to be. your hair shimmered in the light, strands falling into your face as you leaned over your drawing. your eyes were focused, expression soft in that way people only got when they forgot the world existed.
and for some reason—some dumb, fleeting, utterly nonsensical reason—satoru’s chest did this weird thing.
tightened. fluttered. paused.
just for a second. a tiny, stupid second.
oh.
he blinked hard, looked back down at the book like it had just betrayed him. the sentence sat there, smug and still. seraphic. angelic. blissful.
it wasn’t about you. obviously. don’t be weird.
he flipped the page like that would shake it out of his head—but the feeling clung, warm and irritating, like leftover sun on skin. it was the same itch he’d felt the day he first saw you sketching in silence, the way something about you—just sometimes—felt a little too still. too careful. like a scene from a dream.
he hated it.
well. not hated. more like… found it annoying. definitely annoying.
you shifted, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear, and the sunlight followed you again. dramatic much? honestly, it was like nature itself had a crush on you. disgusting.
before he could stop himself, he was staring again—and that’s when you spoke.
“what?”
you didn’t even look up. but your voice was dry, suspicious, like you were catching him mid-crime.
“nothing,” he said quickly. too quickly. he cleared his throat and leaned back into the couch with studied ease. “just… wondering how someone can draw with so little talent. it’s fascinating, really.”
you raised an eyebrow at him without turning. “do you ever shut up?”
“i do,” he said with a grin, “but only around people who deserve silence.”
your pencil paused briefly—just long enough for him to notice—before you shook your head and kept sketching. “you’re unbearable.”
he kicked his foot up over the armrest, slouching into the cushions. “and yet, here you are. bearing me. funny how that works.”
“unfortunately.”
he watched you for a moment longer, gaze lingering just a beat too long before he forced himself to look away. whatever. it didn’t mean anything. so what if you looked kind of… nice in the sun? so what if that word had temporarily messed with his head?
he wasn’t actually feeling anything. obviously.
it was just the lighting. the book. the boredom. a coincidence.
besides, if anything, you were the one acting weird lately. being all quiet. sketching things. sitting near him without arguing for ten whole minutes.
you were the problem.
he let out a breath and smirked to himself, flipping the book shut and tossing it on the table like it had bored him.
seraphic.
what a dumb word.
satoru was seventeen and currently yelling at a basketball in his head like it had personally betrayed him.
“that’s three points, baby!” he whooped, spinning on his heel and blowing a kiss to no one in particular. his white hair caught the light, sweat-damp and ridiculous, and the smug grin on his face practically begged to be punched.
you, aged sixteen and deeply regretting your life choices, sat beside shoko on the sun-warmed bench, arms crossed and unimpressed. “is this what you guys do for fun?”
shoko didn’t even glance at the game. she lounged like a cat, sunglasses on, sipping something questionably fizzy from a flask. “it’s like watching a baby deer on caffeine.”
you raised an eyebrow. “you mean suguru?”
“no. satoru.”
you looked back at the court just in time to see satoru pull off some flashy behind-the-back nonsense before tossing the ball cleanly into the hoop. he threw his arms up like he’d just won the olympics.
“you’re right. he even flails,” you muttered.
“i do not flail!” satoru called from across the court, his voice crystal clear despite the distance.
you blinked, then glared. “stop eavesdropping!”
“your voice carries!” he shouted back with a grin.
he dribbled lazily, barely trying, but still moving like he’d been born to play. his steps were fluid, effortless, almost like showboating was second nature. it was annoying how easy he made it look.
“are you seriously just gonna sit there like a statue?” he called out again, spinning the ball on one finger. “what, scared?”
you scoffed. “scared of what? your oversized ego?”
“of getting your pride shattered when i dunk on you,” he replied smoothly. then he casually sank another three pointer, as if to prove his point. satoru's face adorned an unimpressed look, as if he had already expected the shot to go in.
you squinted at him. “i’d rather eat dirt.”
he smirked. “what if i said we’re one player short?”
“you’re lying,” you said flatly, not budging.
“what if i said shoko already agreed to play?”
you glanced at your friend. she lifted her drink, expression unreadable. “technically,” she said with a sigh, “he said if i didn’t play, he’d read my old diary out loud.”
you looked at her, horrified. “you kept a diary?”
“middle school was a rough time,” she said and shrugged.
“c’mon,” satoru said, striding over now, spinning the ball lazily in his hands. “don’t you wanna show off your world-class coordination?”
“i will literally kick you.”
he grinned. “on the court? so you admit you’re in.”
you stared. “i didn’t say that!”
“you know,” he added with a tilt of his head, “it’d be kind of embarrassing if my best friend’s little sister backed out of a friendly game.”
your eye twitched. “is that reverse psychology?”
“nope,” he said cheerfully. “just straight-up bullying.”
you shot shoko a look. she shrugged and stood up. “just get it over with. you’ll feel better once you score on him.”
“thank you,” you muttered dryly.
“i meant me,” she added.
you groaned but stood anyway, brushing your hands on your shorts. “you guys suck.”
satoru grinned, clearly victorious. “you love us.”
you ignored him.
soon enough, you were standing at half court, frowning at the basketball he handed you. he looked way too pleased with himself.
“ready to be humiliated?” he asked.
“you mean like your sixth-grade haircut?” you shot back without missing a beat.
he winced. “low blow.”
you smiled. “you’ll live.”
to your surprise, you weren’t terrible. you passed decently, dribbled well enough, and even made a few half-decent shots. when you managed to steal the ball from satoru by elbowing him—lightly—in the ribs, he gasped like you’d stabbed him.
“assault!” he cried. “someone call the authorities!”
“you flopped,” you said, rolling your eyes.
“you’re violent,” he accused, pouting dramatically. “this is why you don’t get invited to parties.” you blinked. “you were the one who dragged me here!”
“i lured you with charm and emotional manipulation.”
“that’s not better!”
“semantics,” he said with a shrug.
you almost laughed. almost. but your next step landed funny. your foot twisted awkwardly on a hidden dip in the pavement, and pain jolted up your ankle sharp and sudden.
“ow—shit,” you hissed, stumbling and grabbing at your leg.
the mood snapped.
suguru jogged over immediately, brows furrowed. “hey. hey, what happened?”
shoko lowered her flask and stood still, her expression uncharacteristically serious. “she hurt herself?”
you grimaced, shifting your weight. “twisted it, i think. it’s fine.”
“that doesn’t look fine,” satoru said, suddenly crouched beside you. he hovered for a second, hands unsure, like he didn’t know whether to touch or not.
he hesitated—just for a breath, like he was trying to make up his mind.
then he turned around, crouching with his back to you.
“get on.”
you blinked. “...get on what?”
“me.”
“you’re insane.” you were convinced that your eyes were about to pop out of their sockets.
“and you’re injured.” he said, staying the obvious.
“satoru—”
“do you want to make it worse?” his voice snapped—sharp, sudden, just a little louder than usual.
you paused, startled. he didn’t look at you. his hands clenched briefly at his sides before he spoke again, quieter this time. “just. get on.”
there was a tightness in his voice. something he was holding back. suguru and shoko stood frozen behind him, like they weren’t sure whether to intervene or pretend they weren’t there.
with a sigh, you climbed onto his back, arms awkwardly looping around his shoulders.
“you’re sweaty,” you muttered, trying to ignore the way your face was heating up.
“you’re mean,” he said back, but his voice was gentler now.
“you’re dramatic.”
“you’re always falling for me,” he murmured with a snicker.
you smacked the back of his head lightly. “shut up. don't ever say that again.”
he laughed, adjusting his grip under your knees. his fingers brushed lightly over your skin, careful, almost too gentle. the walk back was quiet, save for his steady breathing and the occasional grumble when you shifted your weight wrong.
the air swept past your drenched hair as well as satoru's. you don't think you've been this close to him. his back was covered in sweat, something you couldn't stand on a normal day, but somehow you tolerated it now. you blamed it on your foot. his cologne had combined with the air—something manly but not too strong. satoru's breathing was steady, and if you focused enough you'd be able to hear his heartbeat. satoru prayed you didn't.
at your place, he set you down on the couch with ease, then disappeared into the kitchen.
he came back with a towel and a pack of ice, crouching in front of you like it was second nature. “ankle up,” he said, voice low.
you did as told, watching him work. the cold pressed to your skin, sharp and numbing, but the care in his touch was oddly… soft.
“you’re being weird,” you said after a beat.
“you’re being injured,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. for some unknown reason, you couldn't help but think that he was avoiding your gaze.
the room fell quiet.
satoru sat beside you, elbow resting on the back of the couch, his expression unreadable. for once, he didn’t look like he had something cocky to say.
then he glanced at you, expression unreadable.
“next time,” he said quietly, “don’t actually get hurt, yeah?”
you looked at him sideways. “why? you planning to carry me again?”
he rolled his eyes once again, a smile almost stained your lips. here you were practically dying and he was still here being annoying. “what else am i supposed to do?”
nothing was said. but something hung in the air between you, faint and unfamiliar.
a shift. small, strange. unnoticed by anyone else.
but not by either of you. not even a little.
at age nineteen, he was about to leave—and you had just turned eighteen.
“i can’t believe you wore that to my birthday party,” you said, eyeing satoru from head to toe.
he grinned, straightening the collar of his slightly wrinkled button-down. “what? i look good, admit it.”
“you look like you're working a 9 to 5 job.” the unimpressed tone made him smirk. “you’re just mad i wore it better than you ever could.”
“i’m not even wearing one.”
“exactly,” he said smugly, popping a candy into his mouth. “rookie mistake.”
you sighed, arms crossing, but your lips were twitching. “remind me why i invited you again?”
“because you’re obsessed with me,” he replied, draping an arm around your shoulders like he hadn’t done that same thing a hundred times over the years. “been obsessed since you were, what, six? i’ve seen the way you look at me.”
“like obsessed with the idea of dropkicking you into traffic? sure.” he tilted his head, acting like he was thinking carefully.
“more like you’d miss me if i ever stopped showing up.”
you paused. just long enough for him to notice. just long enough to make his smirk falter—before you shoved him away with a scoff.
“delusional.”
“you say that now,” he teased, “but you’ll be crying at the airport.”
“more like celebrating.”
but there was something in the way you looked at him then. like you were trying to memorize his face, all sharp edges and loud laughter, the way he always filled every corner of your world without asking.
he didn’t say anything. didn’t trust himself to.
later, when the music had dulled to a steady thrum and the room buzzed with small talk and half-finished stories, satoru found himself drifting away from the crowd.
he leaned against the wall, plastic cup in hand, his usual cocky energy beginning to unravel into something quieter. something restless. he was still smiling when people passed, still tossing out casual jabs and compliments—but beneath it all, a dissonance tugged at his chest.
it had started when you laughed.
not at him, not beside him—but across the room, with someone else. a laugh that reached your eyes. a hand resting on someone else's sleeve. satoru had always known you smiled like that. he just hadn’t realized how much he hated not being the cause of it.
he didn’t even notice shoko until she was beside him, cupcake in hand and mischief in her eyes.
“you look like a sulking flamingo,” she said, deadpan as ever.
“i am not sulking,” satoru replied, voice a little too loud, a little too defensive. “i’m brooding. there's a difference.”
“sure there is,” she smirked, eyeing him knowingly. “and you’re brooding because…?”
“because the music sucks,” he snapped. “and suguru ate the last slice of cake. obviously.”
shoko raised a brow. suguru, who had just wandered over with a plateful of sweets, glanced between them and blinked. “...i could get you another slice?”
“no,” satoru muttered, tossing the untouched cup of soda into a trash bag. “it’s tainted. betrayal never tastes sweet.” suguru, used to his dramatics, stepped away from the both of them to get a slice. satoru would probably be in a sourer mood if he doesn't.
but it wasn’t the cake. of course it wasn’t the cake.
it was you—laughing a little too brightly across the room, your hand brushing the arm of some guy whose name satoru didn’t bother to remember. he was someone from your class, maybe. the same guy who had hovered around you all evening like a mosquito with too much cologne and not enough shame.
and you let him.
you let him stand too close. you laughed at his jokes, even the bad ones. and worse, you didn’t look annoyed. not the way you always were around satoru.
“you’re acting like a kicked puppy,” shoko added, licking frosting from her finger. “you could just go talk to her, you know.”
“why would i?” he scoffed. “i don’t care. she can flirt with the entire country if she wants to.”
but the lie burned all the way down.
he watched as you leaned in to whisper something to the guy, watched your smile bloom—soft and easy. he hated it. hated that someone else could pull that out of you so effortlessly. hated that it wasn’t him.
suguru was starting to discuss something about dorm life as he was walking back when the guy finally said his goodbyes. satoru’s body moved before his mind could catch up. a blur of sharp footsteps, dismissive waves, and shoko’s knowing snort as he passed by.
“where are we going—? hey, satoru!” your voice behind him, high and exasperated, followed by hurried footsteps.
he grabbed your wrist, gently but firmly, and dragged you through the house, past balloons and confetti and candles that had long burned out. into the hallway, then up the stairs, and finally into the quiet of your room.
you yanked your arm away. “what the hell was that for?”
“needed air,” he said, shutting the door behind him, though the room wasn’t stuffy at all. “and you were the most annoying person to do it with.”
“you could’ve asked,” you huffed, arms crossing. “you’re so—ugh.”
but then, the tension shifted.
you fidgeted. your gaze dropped. something about the silence made you shift your weight from one foot to the other. “...wait. before you go. i have something for you.”
he let his eyes drift towards you, fingers still curled loosely around the doorknob. your voice—soft, uncertain—wasn’t one he was used to hearing. not from you. not when most of your conversations were built from sarcasm and eye-rolls, brick by brick. it made something in his chest clench, unfamiliar and tight. he turned slowly, brows quirking. “is it another headache?” he asked, lips twitching into a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. he was trying, as always, to deflect. to make light of the shift in the air he couldn’t quite name.
you didn’t respond to the joke. instead, you walked across the room toward your desk, your back to him, shoulders tense in a way he recognized too well. you looked like you were bracing for impact. and that—that alone made him straighten, amusement draining into something heavier. the teasing in his throat shriveled on his tongue.
your fingers hovered above the drawer before pulling it open. and he noticed then, for the first time, how hesitant you were. like whatever you were about to give him wasn’t just a gift—it was a piece of you. and that terrified you.
when you turned around, something small and carefully wrapped was held in both hands. you didn’t meet his eyes.
“don’t laugh,” you murmured.
his expression twitched—like he wanted to, like the reflex was there—but he didn’t. not fully. “you’re practically begging me to,” he replied instead, voice lower now. gentler. he didn’t know why he said it that way, but something about your posture, the tremble in your grip, made the usual snark feel wrong. and when you reached out to hand it to him, your fingers brushed his—and god, you were warm. warm in a way that left him reeling.
he took the paper from you with a kind of reverence he wasn’t known for. satoru gojo didn’t do gentle. didn’t do delicate. but this—this felt like sacred ground. he peeled the wrapping slowly, and the moment the sketch was revealed, the breath lodged in his throat and didn’t come back.
it was him.
not just a sketch of him, but him. the way you saw him. mid-motion, caught mid-game, hair disheveled, eyes sharp, body in sync with something bigger than himself. you’d shaded his face with soft shadows, smudged lines curling with energy, as though he were about to leap off the paper entirely. it wasn’t perfect—but maybe that’s what made it so gutting. it was flawed, but honest. and that honesty hit harder than any compliment ever could.
he stared.
too long. long enough for the silence to thicken.
“you remembered that day?” he finally managed to ask, but the words came quiet, barely audible. like speaking too loud might shatter whatever spell this was.
you shifted. “you always liked basketball. figured you’d want a memento.”
his heart twisted at that. a memento. the word lodged somewhere in his ribs. it sounded too final. too much like a goodbye. he looked at the sketch again and tried to find a joke. something easy. something safe. but his throat felt like it had been sewn shut.
because you’d seen him.
not just the loud, flashy version of himself. not the cocky show-off or the effortlessly brilliant student. but the boy beneath all of that. the one who tried so hard to be okay all the time. the one who loved the game not for the fame, but for the feeling of flying. of escaping.
you saw him. and you kept it. put it on paper. gave it to him.
“i kept messing up the jawline,” you mumbled. “you have an annoying face to draw.”
he let out a laugh—short, breathless, barely a sound. but it was genuine. it cracked something open in his chest. his fingers curled protectively around the edges of the paper, careful not to wrinkle it. careful not to damage what he already knew would become the most important thing he owned. satoru couldn't find the right words to say, his heart beating too fast for his own good.
so instead, he looked back at the sketch. forced himself to breathe. willed the flood back down with a shaky smile.
“you forgot my good side.”
you rolled your eyes, snorting. “you don’t have a good side.”
he chuckled under his breath, but his heart wasn’t in it.
his fingers tightened around the drawing once more before he finally folded it in half, careful and precise. he slipped it into his back pocket like it was something sacred. something only he could touch.
and then he looked at you—really looked at you.
eyes bright, a little wide, like he was standing on a ledge you didn’t know he’d climbed.
“i have something for you,” he said, softer now.
you smiled. “as you should. its my birthday after all.”
he didn’t answer. just reached into the front pocket of his slacks, pulling something out with a slow, quiet kind of care.
it caught the light in a soft glint—silver, delicate, hanging from a thin chain. he held it in his palm, almost hesitant, like part of him wanted to keep it to himself.
“you got me… jewelry?” you asked, squinting.
he didn’t respond right away. he just stepped closer. held the necklace a little higher so you could see the pendant better.
your breath hitched.
a small, simple loop. smooth and endless. the shape of it so familiar it made your chest ache.
an infinity symbol.
you stared at it, and for a second, you didn’t speak. didn’t move.
but then, slowly, a smile curled at your lips. not a teasing one. not smug. just soft. warm. like something tucked away in a memory finally unfolded itself in full bloom.
“i remember,” you whispered, soft and slow.
his brow quirked, but he knew what you meant.
“you taught me what infinity meant,” you added, fingers ghosting over the symbol. “you said it just keeps going. more space. more everything.”
“and you said it was boring,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
you laughed. “because i didn’t get it back then.”
his throat worked. “and now?”
you looked up at him. “now i do.”
he swallowed. eyes flickering from your face to the pendant, like he couldn’t decide which held him more captive.
his voice dipped, quiet and uneven. “can i?”
you nodded before he even finished.
turned around slowly, brushing your hair aside, the skin of your neck bared to him in the soft lamp light.
he stepped closer, breath shallow. hands shaking slightly as he brought the necklace around your collarbones.
his fingers brushed your skin, and the contact sent something fluttering down his spine—sharp and slow all at once.
it should’ve been simple. clasping a necklace. it should’ve taken two seconds.
but he was memorizing the curve of your neck. the way your shoulders rose with your breath. the heat of you, so close and real and it almost felt like it was his.
and all he could think about was how fucking dangerous it was, to feel this much.
he fastened the clasp with a soft click. his fingers lingered.
you looked at yourself in the mirror and met his eye. “thank you,” you said. your voice was steady. but your eyes—they gave you away.
and something about that broke him.
because suddenly, it all made sense.
the way you always lingered in the back of his mind. the way he counted time by the sound of your laughter. the way no other memory ever burned half as bright.
and then it hit him.
not like a punch. not like a falling weight. it was slower, deeper. like a tide that had been rising for years, finally cresting. and all he could do was stand there, soaked to the bone.
he was in love with you.
completely. irrevocably. devastatingly.
he didn’t know when it started. maybe it had always been there—dormant, quiet, buried under all the bickering and banter. or maybe it began the day you proved that his patience might not be as short as he thought when teaching you some stupid physics lesson. maybe it grew every time you called him unbearable but never walked away.
maybe it took root that afternoon when he carried you. drenched in sweat, heartbeat erratic, body aching from playing basketball all day. but he made it work. because for the first time, he felt your body pressed onto his, warm, fragile, gentle. he didn't know when he could do it again.
he could remember the day vividly, to the point he was convinced he could retell it multiple times without missing a single detail. it was engraved in his brain. stuck.
and now, standing behind you with your drawing in his hands and you looking up at him with uncertainty written all over your face—he realized just how badly he’d messed up.
because he couldn’t say it.
he couldn’t tell you. couldn’t admit it. because the moment he did, this fragile thing between you would tip, would shift, would change. and if he confessed and it wasn’t what you wanted—if he was wrong—he’d lose everything. not just the possibility. but you.
now, he stood behind you. satoru stared at the necklace now laying on your chest. you were still looking at it as if it was something precious. satoru almost thought he was dreaming. he prayed he wasn't.
because he was completely, utterly, and secretly screwed.
and the worst part?
he wouldn’t change a thing.
i quite literally poured my heart and soul into this.... i love gojo so much its actually not funny anymore. taglist is still open so comment if u wanna be added!! next part will be the last one :) lmk your thoughts <3
synopsis — you’ve hated gojo satoru since he insulted your precious glitter stickers at age six—and he’s made it his life’s mission to annoy you ever since. but after thirteen years of bickering, teasing, and showing up uninvited, one cracked smile during your date announcement makes you wonder: is hatred and annoyance truly the only emotions he can teach you?
tags — enemies to lovers, one-sided (?) pining, gojo being a complete menace like he always is, two year age gap, reader and gojo are both in college, not super slow slowburn, jealous!gojo but he covers it up with being annoying, reader is suguru's little sister, brother's bestfriend!gojo, fluff, idiot(s) in love, eventual smut → next
wc: 1.8k
from this headcanon: childhoodenemy!gojo. likes and reblogs are very very appreciated!
at the ripe age of six, you had been introduced to two new emotions. hatred and annoyance. courtesy to your brother’s best friend, of course. if there was something you took pride in, it would be your patience. so why is it that every time you’re in the same radius as satoru gojo, that you find yourself screaming your head off every minute? well, let's just say that if your patience is what you pride yourself for, satoru’s was his outstanding ability to piss you off.
you first met him when suguru had brought him over to play this new game on his console, and ever since then, they became inseparable. much to your dismay.
the front door slammed open without warning, making your head turn toward the uninvited visitor. “suguru! I brought the weird soda you like! okay not gonna lie, i tasted a bit of it on the way here and it tastes absolutely horrible–“
it was unknown to you that the man who was about to be at the top of your ‘most hated things’ list had just strolled in as if he’d known the place. he had messy unkempt white hair, bright blue irises, and clothes that was definitely a wardrobe felony by how mismatched they were.
in one hand he held a half-empty bright blue soda can and a bag of chips and sweets in the other. sitting on the middle of the living room floor was you. you stared at him. he stared right back. tilting his head, he pointed at you. “who’s that?”
your brother smiled, sitting cross-legged beside you. “my sister. we’re playing stickers.”
gojo blinked. then a boyish grin appeared on his face. “stickers? really, suguru? thats what you made me rush over here for?” he took a step closer to the both of you, crouched and then peered. “so sparkly. they’re kinda girly, aren’t they?”
“they’re mine.” you say defensively, snapping your sticker book shut.
gojo tilted his head, smirking. “i never said it was bad. just… cute. i guess.” he shrugged, voice still laced with something teasing. “do you name your stickers too? like ‘princess cupcake’? oh! or maybe ‘sir bunny wunny’?”
you scowled. “no.”
“uh-huh. sure. totally convinced.” he looked at suguru with a grin. “she’s like a little rabbit. look at her cheeks.”
“they’re normal cheeks!” you burst, red-faced.
“i dunno, you’re kind of puffing them out right now.”
you glared at him, then stood up and slapped your sticker book against his arm with just enough force to slightly hurt.
“hey! violence doesn’t help you make friends y’know!’
“i don’t wanna be your friend!”
gojo gasped, mock-offended. “you wound me, miss bunny wunny!”
suguru groaned quietly. you stomped off the hallway, muttering, “how can someone be this annoying?!”
behind you, gojo shouted cheerfully, “i get that a lot!”
it has been thirteen years since that cursed afternoon in your living room. thirteen years since gojo satoru barged into your quiet little world. insulted your prized stickers, called you a little rabbit, and taught you two new emotions that refused to die around his presence.
you’d like to say you got over it.
you didn’t.
not when he still brings it up like comedy gold and definitely not when he still occasionally calls you by that annoying nickname. not when he never got out of that habit of randomly strolling in your house as if it was his and making sure he got to annoy you every chance he got.
“you are aware that you’re not funny, right?” you deadpan stare as he cracked the lamest joke of the century. it’s the third time this week he showed up uninvited, the second time he ate your snacks, and the nth time he cracked a joke that only seemed to make himself laugh. it was a tuesday.
gojo, still laughing at his joke, looked back at you with that shit-eating grin. “i’m hilarious. you‘re just emotionally repressed.” he took another bite of your pocky, enjoying the situation. you fold your arms across your chest. it’s that same smug look that seemed to grow more annoyingly irritating over time. it physically hurt to restrain yourself from shoving him out the nearest window.
“you’re twenty-one. grow up.”
he shrugs. “you’re nineteen. grow taller.” you glare at him. your height was his personal favorite way of attacking you. “besides, it’s amusing how your ears still twitch when you’re mad.”
“they do not twitch.”
“hm,” he taps at his temple. “photographic memory. living room floor, age six. you had glitter stickers and an impressive need for murder in your eyes for a six year old.” you rolled your eyes. he was delighted. gojo knew he just relived an embarrassing memory for you.
“i should’ve followed through. then, i wouldn’t have to deal with you.”
gojo, who was previously leaning on a counter, straightened his posture. “and miss all this?” he gestures to himself like he’s a walking miracle. “tragic.” your eyes twitch.
you step forward, snatch the pocky from his hand, and toss it in the trash.
he gasps as if you just did a heinous crime right in front of his eyes. “that’s limited edition!” you scoff. “for the record that was mine," your eyes had narrowed in his direction. "and don’t act like you can’t buy those for yourself.”
as he was about to retaliate, probably to say a smug remark, your phone lit up. a specific notification made a smile creep on your face.
“dId the assassin you hired to kill me finally respond?”
“haha, very funny.” sarcasm dripping from every word. “just confirming dinner plans.” you say casually.
“with?” his head tilting as he asks.
“someone,” you reply, not looking up from whatever you were typing. “it’s a date.”
you don’t miss it, the slightest crack in his usual teasing demeanor. his grin falters for a moment. a moment short enough to pretend it didn’t happen, but long enough for you to notice. after all, you’ve known him for thirteen years. before you could raise an eyebrow at the sudden change, he masked it again with amusement. weird.
“oh?” he says, tone light. “poor guy. he has no idea what he’s in for.”
this time, you do arch a brow. “what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“nothing, nothing.” he says, waving you off, already recovering. “he better like unsolicited nicknames. and emotional damage. and attitude 24/7. oh! add lazing around everyday to that list too.”
you roll your eyes, and start toward the hallway. showing him your middle finger along the way. “so what’s he like?” gojo calls after you, unfazed. “is he tall? funny? emotionally stable? that’s rare these days.”
you keep walking.
“come on,” he says, trailing behind you now. you hated how fast he was catching up to you with that height. “is he one of those pretentious film majors who only drinks iced americano and claims dead poets society is the best movie of all time? or maybe he thinks he’s deep cause he owns a record player.”
you pause outside your door. “why do you care?”
“i don’t.” he says too loud, too fast. too suspicious. “just worried that you’re lowering your standards. i set the bar very high, you know.”
you almost laugh at his statement. one of your many problems with gojo is that you never seemed to know when he's joking or not. so, for the sake of your already diminishing sanity, you choose to believe that what he said was another one of his jokes.
“you are the bar. hellishly low and easy to trip over.”
he gasps, clutching his chest for the dramatics. “that’s slander!”
you open your door, done with him. “i’m going to get ready. go back to my brother’s room and annoy him instead. stress isn’t a good look for the first date.”
as you walk in, he follows, leaning on the doorframe like a lazy shadow. “you gonna wear that black dress? the one with the little sleeves?”
a beat.
you blink. “how do you remember what i wear to dates?” for once your tone didn’t seemed annoyed, just genuinely curious. the grin never left his face. you saw gojo satoru in many ways, and not once did the word 'observant' make it to the list. with the exception of noticing something only if it'll piss you off.
“photographic memory. also, you’ve worn that dress twice now. one for that guy from your chem class. and now this one.” he continues on, as if the newfound information didn’t shock you at all.
you, however, managed to keep your cool unlike the uninvited guy that’s now in your room. “you seriously keep track?” something in your voice shifted, and you pray he doesn’t notice. god knows what kind of unbearable teasing would come with it.
“wouldn’t you like to know.” he turns, shifting his position at the doorframe like he hasn’t just peeled back a layer you didn’t mean to show. you watch him, his arms still crossed over his chest, your heartbeat louder than you’d like. of course he noticed. of course he’d say it like that—half-joking, half-daring you to call his bluff.
stupid dress. stupid memory. stupid gojo satoru and his stupid smug—
“i mean,” he pauses, as if he was carefully choosing his words, “just curious who you’re going out with this time.”
you narrow your eyes. “why?” your tone remained suspicious. “are you gonna track the guy down and flood his inbox with my worst moments?"
he shrugs, all faux-casual. “wonderful idea, bunny wunny, but you're very wrong. just hope he’s better than the chem guy. that one had a weird handshake.”
“you met him once.”
“once was enough.”
you roll your eyes. “are you done investigating me?”
“not even close,” he grins, but his voice has that edge again—too light, too fast.
you tilt your head. “you always this nosy?”
“only when it’s fun.”
there’s a beat where neither of you speak. he watches you, and you try not to fidget under the weight of it.
then: “what’s his name, anyway?”
“you don’t know him.”
“i could.”
“you’re not gonna.”
“hmm.” he turns to leave. “hope he’s funny.”
you blink. “why?”
“no reason,” he says too smoothly. he looked over his shoulder and his gaze landed on you. “you’ve got that kind of laugh that takes effort. would be a shame to waste it.”
you stare at him.
he gives you a lazy wave and disappears down the hallway before you can think of something to say back. which is probably for the best. you’re not sure what you would’ve said.
because that’s just what he does—pokes and prods until you bristle, all smug and effortless, like getting under your skin is his favorite sport.
he’s been like that since you were six. thirteen years later, nothing’s changed.
if anything, he’s only gotten better at it.
so no—gojo satoru hasn’t changed and he probably never will. so what was that look on his face that told you he’s thinking of a million things in one second? if you listened to your gut, which was almost always right, you had the inkling that you might’ve been in one of those million thoughts. or maybe you’re in every single one. who knows?
if u read until the end ily 🩷 not proofread, so please excuse if there are any formatting, grammatical or spelling errors!! if anyone wants to be tagged in the next part lmk <3
synopsis — you’ve hated gojo satoru since he insulted your precious glitter stickers at age six—and he’s made it his life’s mission to annoy you ever since. but after thirteen years of bickering, teasing, and showing up uninvited, one cracked smile during your date announcement makes you wonder: is hatred and annoyance truly the only emotions he can teach you?
tags — enemies to lovers, one-sided (?) pining, gojo being a complete menace like he always is, two year age gap, reader and gojo are both in college, not super slow slowburn, jealous!gojo but he covers it up with being annoying, reader is suguru's little sister, brother's bestfriend!gojo, fluff, idiot(s) in love, eventual smut, gojo being in denial and everything hitting him all at once → previously
wc: 6.5k
likes and reblogs are appreciated!
satoru was eight when he realized just how ridiculously easy it was to push your buttons.
it took minimal effort—barely any at all—and that alone fascinated him. there you were, plopped in the middle of the living room like a pint-sized monarch in a kingdom of chaos, surrounded by a sea of glittery stickers. the carpet around you looked like it had lost a war against every shade of pastel known to man. your hair was clipped in a dozen different colors, each barrette more violently neon than the last, turning your head into some kind of wild, living art project.
if it had been anyone else, he would’ve dragged suguru away and never looked back. but something about you—maybe it was the stubborn pout on your lips, or the way your gaze zeroed in on him with instant irritation, like you'd already decided he was the worst person alive—made him pause.
actually, it made him stay.
there was something undeniably funny about how fast you got riled up. he noticed it immediately—the way your brows pinched together like you were solving the world’s most annoying math problem every time he spoke. it was incredible. mesmerizing. every reaction you gave him felt like a reward.
he decided then and there, right between the glitter unicorn stickers and the scowl you’d offered in his direction, that teasing you might just be his life’s calling.
later, after you’d stomped up the stairs with all the rage your tiny body could contain, suguru let out a sigh and leaned against the couch, arms crossed.
“is it really impossible for you to not be annoying?” he asked, sounding more exhausted than mad.
satoru didn’t answer right away. his eyes were still fixed on the staircase, where your retreating footsteps had echoed moments before. his mind replayed the image of you standing there in your ridiculous teddy bear pajamas—too big for you, sleeves nearly swallowing your hands—pointing out each sparkly sticker as if you were showing off the crown jewels.
something about that stuck with him.
finally, he tore his eyes away and smirked, stretching his legs across the carpet like a king who had just won a battle. “nope. Impossible,” he said, solemnly. “that’s like asking me not to breathe.”
his tone was dead serious as he looked suguru in the eye, like he wasn’t just making a statement but declaring a fundamental law of nature.
then he gave the stairs one last glance—half-expecting you to come barreling back down with a plastic doll in hand, ready to hurl it at his head. honestly? he kind of hoped you would.
shaking his head at the thought, satoru flopped beside suguru on the floor, arms behind his head like he owned the room. “what’s her name?” he asked, too casual to be innocent. a small part of him worried suguru wouldn’t tell him. that maybe he’d keep it to himself, like it was some kind of secret he didn’t want to share.
but when suguru said it—your name, clear as day—satoru smiled.
not a big, toothy grin. just something small. barely-there. the kind of smile that slips out before you know it’s happening. he let your name roll off his tongue like he was testing the weight of it, committing it to memory.
there was this strange feeling—quiet and certain—that settled in his chest. a flicker of instinct, maybe. or fate, if he believed in that kind of thing.
somehow, he knew he’d be seeing a lot more of you.
satoru was fourteen when he decided that lazy afternoons like this were way too quiet without him stirring trouble.
the sky was pale blue, streaked with thin clouds that barely moved, and the air buzzed with the hum of cicadas. your mom had hung laundry out on the line, white sheets swaying gently like sails, and the smell of fresh soap clung to the summer breeze. how boring. satoru thought.
the heat was getting to him. suguru was busy reading some book he couldn't care less about. there were no more sweets in your pantry and your mom had offered him a banana as a substitute.
this is the worst day of my life. i'm basically dying. maybe i should just lay in the middle of the road. it'll finish my suffering quickly. he thought, all pouty.
with a determined mind ready to cause mischief, satoru looked around to find someone to pester. that's when his line of sight pointed to you.
you were sitting cross-legged on the porch steps, earbuds tucked in, sketchpad balanced on your lap. your hair was pulled back messily, a pencil behind your ear, and the sunlight lit up the tips like strands of gold.
satoru didn’t know why he noticed that. he blamed boredom.
“whatcha doing?” his voice came suddenly from behind you, making you flinch hard enough that your pencil left an ugly streak across the page.
“seriously?!” you spun around, glaring. “do you have to sneak up on people?”
“it’s a talent,” he said easily, dropping down onto the step below you without asking. his shoulders brushed yours, not that he cared—or maybe he did, because suddenly they felt way too warm. he ignored it.
you sighed dramatically and went back to erasing the line, muttering under your breath. he decided to ignore your string of curses and bad wishes for him, instead focusing on what you were drawing.
“you draw now?” he leaned in, head tilted like he was actually curious.
“always have,” you said flatly, shifting the sketchpad away from his line of sight.
that just made him grin wider. “oh, hiding it? must be bad then.”
your eyes narrowed. “it’s better than anything you could do.”
“please.” he snorted, snatching the pencil from your hand before you could react. “i’m a natural at everything.”
“give it back, satoru!” you lunged for it, but he just held it high, smirking as you scrambled to grab it. “what’s the magic word?” he asked while one of his eyebrows were arched.
“die.”
he laughed, leaning back on his hands, pencil spinning between his fingers like it was a game. you were glaring at him so hard, lips pressed tight, and for some stupid reason, the sight made his chest feel weird. not bad weird—just… weird weird.
“fine, fine,” he said eventually, handing it back like he was doing you some grand favor. “don’t cry about it.”
“i wasn’t going to cry,” you shot back, snatching it from him.
“sure,” he said lightly, grin tugging at his mouth.
you again muttered something he didn’t catch, focusing on your sketch again. satoru leaned back, letting his elbows rest on the step behind him, eyes drifting toward you without meaning to.
the sunlight had made your hair look lighter than it usually was. your hair had been caught in the breeze, making it messier than usual. the both of you basked in the unusual silence, while the cicadas had filled in the quiet air. and for some reason he couldn’t stop looking. he told himself it was because he was bored. that was all.
he sat in silence for a second too long before blurting the first thing that came to mind. “you draw me yet? bet i’d look amazing.” he said as the side of his lip quirked up. you rolled his eyes at how pleased he seemed to be with his idea. satoru almost let out a chuckle at that.
you scoffed. “you’d look annoying.”
he grinned, leaning in close just to see you flinch. “guess that means you’d get it accurate.”
you shoved his shoulder, and he laughed, the sound ringing through the quiet summer air like it belonged there. like it was going to haunt you one day if you let it slip between your fingers.
satoru was fifteen when he became convinced that tutoring you was the worst mistake of his life.
he stared at the notebook in front of you like it had personally offended him. numbers and letters swam across the page—x’s, y’s, parentheses that clung together like lovers, and a sad-looking equal sign caught in the middle of it all. he ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends like the strands were responsible for your confusion.
“it’s literally simple,” he groaned, dramatically throwing himself back into the beanbag behind him. “just isolate the variable, divide both sides, and boom—done.”
you blinked at him, expression blank. “…that explains nothing.”
“are you serious?” he sat up fast, eyes wide in pure disbelief. “i just gave you gold. that was math gold.”
you turned to him slowly, pencil clutched like a weapon. “you basically said ‘just do the thing’ without telling me how to do the thing.”
satoru opened his mouth, then closed it again. then sighed, flopping to the floor with an arm over his eyes like the world was ending. “i’m going to die here. this is how it ends for me. death by seventh grade algebra.”
you rolled your eyes, scribbling something in your notebook that looked more like a sad doodle than actual math. “you’re so dramatic.”
he lifted his arm just enough to peek at you. you were frowning at the problem, chewing your lip like it had done something wrong, the tip of your pencil tapping against the paper in a rhythm that screamed “i’m trying, okay?”
and that’s what made him pause.
you were frustrated. not just annoyed—genuinely frustrated. your brows were scrunched, eyes narrowed, lips slightly pursed, and even your slouched posture looked tired.
satoru sat up, brushing his bangs from his eyes. for once, he didn’t say anything stupid right away. instead, he scooted closer and pulled the notebook toward him, his voice quieter this time.
“okay, look. this part here—” he pointed to a line of the equation “—is just saying you’re multiplying x by four. so to get x alone, you gotta undo the multiplication by dividing. like... imagine you're untying a knot backwards.”
you blinked. “…so… do the opposite of what’s trapping the x?”
“exactly,” he nodded, tapping the paper. “you’re not solving the whole world. you’re just getting x alone, like pulling it out of a really bad group chat.”
a breath of laughter escaped you—barely, but he caught it. his lips twitched.
you tried the problem again, muttering your steps under your breath. satoru watched silently, not bothering to hide the way he leaned closer every time your pencil moved.
“there.” you held the notebook out like a peace offering. “happy?”
he snatched it like it was a prize. squinted. paused.
“…okay, not bad. maybe i won’t die here after all.”
“wow,” you said flatly. “thanks for the honor.”
“i’m very generous.”
you flopped onto the carpet, arms splayed dramatically. “math is evil.”
“you’re just saying that ‘cause math beat you up a little.”
“a lot.”
satoru lay beside you now, arms behind his head. the ceiling looked boring. white and flat and perfectly uninteresting. he turned his head toward you, noticed the way your eyes were half-lidded now, clearly tired but too stubborn to admit it.
“wanna learn something cool?” he asked, tone suddenly light again.
“only if it’s not math.”
“it’s math-adjacent,” he said, rolling onto his side. “but it’s cool. i promise.”
you gave him a skeptical look. “…fine. hit me with it.”
he propped himself up on one elbow. “infinity.”
you groaned. “ugh. that’s so basic.”
“rude. it’s not basic. infinity is—” he paused, like he was trying to find the right words. “—it’s the idea that there’s no end. like, no matter how far you go, there’s always more. more numbers, more space, more everything. it just… keeps going.”
you stared at him, unimpressed. “…sounds boring.”
he laughed. “isn’t it kind of beautiful?”
you blinked. “you think math is beautiful?”
“sometimes,” he said, quieter now. “sometimes it feels like the only thing that makes sense.”
for a second, you didn’t say anything. he looked up at the ceiling again, thinking about infinity and space and the fact that maybe this moment would stick with him longer than he’d admit.
“...still sounds nerdy,” you muttered.
he snorted. “liar. you’re thinking about it. that makes you a nerd too.”
you didn’t reply. just nudged his arm with your foot, eyes fluttering shut like the tiniest nap couldn’t hurt.
he let the silence sit there, eyes tracing the shape of your face as it softened with sleep. your pencil was still clutched loosely in your hand. the notebook lay between you both like a bridge.
“you’re so gonna dream about infinity,” he whispered, a grin pulling at his lips.
and maybe, just maybe, he hoped he would too.
satoru was sixteen when he found the word.
not in a textbook or vocab sheet or anything remotely useful. no, it was in one of those books suguru liked to read—dramatic, slow-paced things with too many metaphors and not enough explosions. it had dog-eared pages and the kind of prose that made satoru’s brain itch.
still, he was bored. so he cracked it open, flipped through a few pages, and skimmed the lines until something caught his eye like a pebble in his shoe.
seraphic.
he said it out loud, just to see how it sounded. again, slower.
ser-a-phic.
it tasted ridiculous. too pretty. too soft. it didn’t sound like a real word—more like the name of a soap brand or some mystical shampoo.
what kind of person even used that word seriously?
still, his eyes dropped to the sentence on the page:
“she smiled, seraphic in her joy.”
ugh. gross. but underneath it, suguru had scribbled something in neat, small handwriting: angelic. blissful. pure.
satoru frowned. pure? angelic? what did that even mean? people weren’t like that. no one was so glowing, so otherworldly, that you’d need a word like seraphic just to describe the way they smiled. he looked up, gaze wandering across the room.
and then it landed on you.
you were sitting by the window, knees pulled up, sketchpad balanced in your lap. the sun was spilling in like warm syrup, trailing across the floor and wrapping around you like it had nowhere better to be. your hair shimmered in the light, strands falling into your face as you leaned over your drawing. your eyes were focused, expression soft in that way people only got when they forgot the world existed.
and for some reason—some dumb, fleeting, utterly nonsensical reason—satoru’s chest did this weird thing.
tightened. fluttered. paused.
just for a second. a tiny, stupid second.
oh.
he blinked hard, looked back down at the book like it had just betrayed him. the sentence sat there, smug and still. seraphic. angelic. blissful.
it wasn’t about you. obviously. don’t be weird.
he flipped the page like that would shake it out of his head—but the feeling clung, warm and irritating, like leftover sun on skin. it was the same itch he’d felt the day he first saw you sketching in silence, the way something about you—just sometimes—felt a little too still. too careful. like a scene from a dream.
he hated it.
well. not hated. more like… found it annoying. definitely annoying.
you shifted, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear, and the sunlight followed you again. dramatic much? honestly, it was like nature itself had a crush on you. disgusting.
before he could stop himself, he was staring again—and that’s when you spoke.
“what?”
you didn’t even look up. but your voice was dry, suspicious, like you were catching him mid-crime.
“nothing,” he said quickly. too quickly. he cleared his throat and leaned back into the couch with studied ease. “just… wondering how someone can draw with so little talent. it’s fascinating, really.”
you raised an eyebrow at him without turning. “do you ever shut up?”
“i do,” he said with a grin, “but only around people who deserve silence.”
your pencil paused briefly—just long enough for him to notice—before you shook your head and kept sketching. “you’re unbearable.”
he kicked his foot up over the armrest, slouching into the cushions. “and yet, here you are. bearing me. funny how that works.”
“unfortunately.”
he watched you for a moment longer, gaze lingering just a beat too long before he forced himself to look away. whatever. it didn’t mean anything. so what if you looked kind of… nice in the sun? so what if that word had temporarily messed with his head?
he wasn’t actually feeling anything. obviously.
it was just the lighting. the book. the boredom. a coincidence.
besides, if anything, you were the one acting weird lately. being all quiet. sketching things. sitting near him without arguing for ten whole minutes.
you were the problem.
he let out a breath and smirked to himself, flipping the book shut and tossing it on the table like it had bored him.
seraphic.
what a dumb word.
satoru was seventeen and currently yelling at a basketball in his head like it had personally betrayed him.
“that’s three points, baby!” he whooped, spinning on his heel and blowing a kiss to no one in particular. his white hair caught the light, sweat-damp and ridiculous, and the smug grin on his face practically begged to be punched.
you, aged sixteen and deeply regretting your life choices, sat beside shoko on the sun-warmed bench, arms crossed and unimpressed. “is this what you guys do for fun?”
shoko didn’t even glance at the game. she lounged like a cat, sunglasses on, sipping something questionably fizzy from a flask. “it’s like watching a baby deer on caffeine.”
you raised an eyebrow. “you mean suguru?”
“no. satoru.”
you looked back at the court just in time to see satoru pull off some flashy behind-the-back nonsense before tossing the ball cleanly into the hoop. he threw his arms up like he’d just won the olympics.
“you’re right. he even flails,” you muttered.
“i do not flail!” satoru called from across the court, his voice crystal clear despite the distance.
you blinked, then glared. “stop eavesdropping!”
“your voice carries!” he shouted back with a grin.
he dribbled lazily, barely trying, but still moving like he’d been born to play. his steps were fluid, effortless, almost like showboating was second nature. it was annoying how easy he made it look.
“are you seriously just gonna sit there like a statue?” he called out again, spinning the ball on one finger. “what, scared?”
you scoffed. “scared of what? your oversized ego?”
“of getting your pride shattered when i dunk on you,” he replied smoothly. then he casually sank another three pointer, as if to prove his point. satoru's face adorned an unimpressed look, as if he had already expected the shot to go in.
you squinted at him. “i’d rather eat dirt.”
he smirked. “what if i said we’re one player short?”
“you’re lying,” you said flatly, not budging.
“what if i said shoko already agreed to play?”
you glanced at your friend. she lifted her drink, expression unreadable. “technically,” she said with a sigh, “he said if i didn’t play, he’d read my old diary out loud.”
you looked at her, horrified. “you kept a diary?”
“middle school was a rough time,” she said and shrugged.
“c’mon,” satoru said, striding over now, spinning the ball lazily in his hands. “don’t you wanna show off your world-class coordination?”
“i will literally kick you.”
he grinned. “on the court? so you admit you’re in.”
you stared. “i didn’t say that!”
“you know,” he added with a tilt of his head, “it’d be kind of embarrassing if my best friend’s little sister backed out of a friendly game.”
your eye twitched. “is that reverse psychology?”
“nope,” he said cheerfully. “just straight-up bullying.”
you shot shoko a look. she shrugged and stood up. “just get it over with. you’ll feel better once you score on him.”
“thank you,” you muttered dryly.
“i meant me,” she added.
you groaned but stood anyway, brushing your hands on your shorts. “you guys suck.”
satoru grinned, clearly victorious. “you love us.”
you ignored him.
soon enough, you were standing at half court, frowning at the basketball he handed you. he looked way too pleased with himself.
“ready to be humiliated?” he asked.
“you mean like your sixth-grade haircut?” you shot back without missing a beat.
he winced. “low blow.”
you smiled. “you’ll live.”
to your surprise, you weren’t terrible. you passed decently, dribbled well enough, and even made a few half-decent shots. when you managed to steal the ball from satoru by elbowing him—lightly—in the ribs, he gasped like you’d stabbed him.
“assault!” he cried. “someone call the authorities!”
“you flopped,” you said, rolling your eyes.
“you’re violent,” he accused, pouting dramatically. “this is why you don’t get invited to parties.” you blinked. “you were the one who dragged me here!”
“i lured you with charm and emotional manipulation.”
“that’s not better!”
“semantics,” he said with a shrug.
you almost laughed. almost. but your next step landed funny. your foot twisted awkwardly on a hidden dip in the pavement, and pain jolted up your ankle sharp and sudden.
“ow—shit,” you hissed, stumbling and grabbing at your leg.
the mood snapped.
suguru jogged over immediately, brows furrowed. “hey. hey, what happened?”
shoko lowered her flask and stood still, her expression uncharacteristically serious. “she hurt herself?”
you grimaced, shifting your weight. “twisted it, i think. it’s fine.”
“that doesn’t look fine,” satoru said, suddenly crouched beside you. he hovered for a second, hands unsure, like he didn’t know whether to touch or not.
he hesitated—just for a breath, like he was trying to make up his mind.
then he turned around, crouching with his back to you.
“get on.”
you blinked. “...get on what?”
“me.”
“you’re insane.” you were convinced that your eyes were about to pop out of their sockets.
“and you’re injured.” he said, staying the obvious.
“satoru—”
“do you want to make it worse?” his voice snapped—sharp, sudden, just a little louder than usual.
you paused, startled. he didn’t look at you. his hands clenched briefly at his sides before he spoke again, quieter this time. “just. get on.”
there was a tightness in his voice. something he was holding back. suguru and shoko stood frozen behind him, like they weren’t sure whether to intervene or pretend they weren’t there.
with a sigh, you climbed onto his back, arms awkwardly looping around his shoulders.
“you’re sweaty,” you muttered, trying to ignore the way your face was heating up.
“you’re mean,” he said back, but his voice was gentler now.
“you’re dramatic.”
“you’re always falling for me,” he murmured with a snicker.
you smacked the back of his head lightly. “shut up. don't ever say that again.”
he laughed, adjusting his grip under your knees. his fingers brushed lightly over your skin, careful, almost too gentle. the walk back was quiet, save for his steady breathing and the occasional grumble when you shifted your weight wrong.
the air swept past your drenched hair as well as satoru's. you don't think you've been this close to him. his back was covered in sweat, something you couldn't stand on a normal day, but somehow you tolerated it now. you blamed it on your foot. his cologne had combined with the air—something manly but not too strong. satoru's breathing was steady, and if you focused enough you'd be able to hear his heartbeat. satoru prayed you didn't.
at your place, he set you down on the couch with ease, then disappeared into the kitchen.
he came back with a towel and a pack of ice, crouching in front of you like it was second nature. “ankle up,” he said, voice low.
you did as told, watching him work. the cold pressed to your skin, sharp and numbing, but the care in his touch was oddly… soft.
“you’re being weird,” you said after a beat.
“you’re being injured,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. for some unknown reason, you couldn't help but think that he was avoiding your gaze.
the room fell quiet.
satoru sat beside you, elbow resting on the back of the couch, his expression unreadable. for once, he didn’t look like he had something cocky to say.
then he glanced at you, expression unreadable.
“next time,” he said quietly, “don’t actually get hurt, yeah?”
you looked at him sideways. “why? you planning to carry me again?”
he rolled his eyes once again, a smile almost stained your lips. here you were practically dying and he was still here being annoying. “what else am i supposed to do?”
nothing was said. but something hung in the air between you, faint and unfamiliar.
a shift. small, strange. unnoticed by anyone else.
but not by either of you. not even a little.
at age nineteen, he was about to leave—and you had just turned eighteen.
“i can’t believe you wore that to my birthday party,” you said, eyeing satoru from head to toe.
he grinned, straightening the collar of his slightly wrinkled button-down. “what? i look good, admit it.”
“you look like you're working a 9 to 5 job.” the unimpressed tone made him smirk. “you’re just mad i wore it better than you ever could.”
“i’m not even wearing one.”
“exactly,” he said smugly, popping a candy into his mouth. “rookie mistake.”
you sighed, arms crossing, but your lips were twitching. “remind me why i invited you again?”
“because you’re obsessed with me,” he replied, draping an arm around your shoulders like he hadn’t done that same thing a hundred times over the years. “been obsessed since you were, what, six? i’ve seen the way you look at me.”
“like obsessed with the idea of dropkicking you into traffic? sure.” he tilted his head, acting like he was thinking carefully.
“more like you’d miss me if i ever stopped showing up.”
you paused. just long enough for him to notice. just long enough to make his smirk falter—before you shoved him away with a scoff.
“delusional.”
“you say that now,” he teased, “but you’ll be crying at the airport.”
“more like celebrating.”
but there was something in the way you looked at him then. like you were trying to memorize his face, all sharp edges and loud laughter, the way he always filled every corner of your world without asking.
he didn’t say anything. didn’t trust himself to.
later, when the music had dulled to a steady thrum and the room buzzed with small talk and half-finished stories, satoru found himself drifting away from the crowd.
he leaned against the wall, plastic cup in hand, his usual cocky energy beginning to unravel into something quieter. something restless. he was still smiling when people passed, still tossing out casual jabs and compliments—but beneath it all, a dissonance tugged at his chest.
it had started when you laughed.
not at him, not beside him—but across the room, with someone else. a laugh that reached your eyes. a hand resting on someone else's sleeve. satoru had always known you smiled like that. he just hadn’t realized how much he hated not being the cause of it.
he didn’t even notice shoko until she was beside him, cupcake in hand and mischief in her eyes.
“you look like a sulking flamingo,” she said, deadpan as ever.
“i am not sulking,” satoru replied, voice a little too loud, a little too defensive. “i’m brooding. there's a difference.”
“sure there is,” she smirked, eyeing him knowingly. “and you’re brooding because…?”
“because the music sucks,” he snapped. “and suguru ate the last slice of cake. obviously.”
shoko raised a brow. suguru, who had just wandered over with a plateful of sweets, glanced between them and blinked. “...i could get you another slice?”
“no,” satoru muttered, tossing the untouched cup of soda into a trash bag. “it’s tainted. betrayal never tastes sweet.” suguru, used to his dramatics, stepped away from the both of them to get a slice. satoru would probably be in a sourer mood if he doesn't.
but it wasn’t the cake. of course it wasn’t the cake.
it was you—laughing a little too brightly across the room, your hand brushing the arm of some guy whose name satoru didn’t bother to remember. he was someone from your class, maybe. the same guy who had hovered around you all evening like a mosquito with too much cologne and not enough shame.
and you let him.
you let him stand too close. you laughed at his jokes, even the bad ones. and worse, you didn’t look annoyed. not the way you always were around satoru.
“you’re acting like a kicked puppy,” shoko added, licking frosting from her finger. “you could just go talk to her, you know.”
“why would i?” he scoffed. “i don’t care. she can flirt with the entire country if she wants to.”
but the lie burned all the way down.
he watched as you leaned in to whisper something to the guy, watched your smile bloom—soft and easy. he hated it. hated that someone else could pull that out of you so effortlessly. hated that it wasn’t him.
suguru was starting to discuss something about dorm life as he was walking back when the guy finally said his goodbyes. satoru’s body moved before his mind could catch up. a blur of sharp footsteps, dismissive waves, and shoko’s knowing snort as he passed by.
“where are we going—? hey, satoru!” your voice behind him, high and exasperated, followed by hurried footsteps.
he grabbed your wrist, gently but firmly, and dragged you through the house, past balloons and confetti and candles that had long burned out. into the hallway, then up the stairs, and finally into the quiet of your room.
you yanked your arm away. “what the hell was that for?”
“needed air,” he said, shutting the door behind him, though the room wasn’t stuffy at all. “and you were the most annoying person to do it with.”
“you could’ve asked,” you huffed, arms crossing. “you’re so—ugh.”
but then, the tension shifted.
you fidgeted. your gaze dropped. something about the silence made you shift your weight from one foot to the other. “...wait. before you go. i have something for you.”
he let his eyes drift towards you, fingers still curled loosely around the doorknob. your voice—soft, uncertain—wasn’t one he was used to hearing. not from you. not when most of your conversations were built from sarcasm and eye-rolls, brick by brick. it made something in his chest clench, unfamiliar and tight. he turned slowly, brows quirking. “is it another headache?” he asked, lips twitching into a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. he was trying, as always, to deflect. to make light of the shift in the air he couldn’t quite name.
you didn’t respond to the joke. instead, you walked across the room toward your desk, your back to him, shoulders tense in a way he recognized too well. you looked like you were bracing for impact. and that—that alone made him straighten, amusement draining into something heavier. the teasing in his throat shriveled on his tongue.
your fingers hovered above the drawer before pulling it open. and he noticed then, for the first time, how hesitant you were. like whatever you were about to give him wasn’t just a gift—it was a piece of you. and that terrified you.
when you turned around, something small and carefully wrapped was held in both hands. you didn’t meet his eyes.
“don’t laugh,” you murmured.
his expression twitched—like he wanted to, like the reflex was there—but he didn’t. not fully. “you’re practically begging me to,” he replied instead, voice lower now. gentler. he didn’t know why he said it that way, but something about your posture, the tremble in your grip, made the usual snark feel wrong. and when you reached out to hand it to him, your fingers brushed his—and god, you were warm. warm in a way that left him reeling.
he took the paper from you with a kind of reverence he wasn’t known for. satoru gojo didn’t do gentle. didn’t do delicate. but this—this felt like sacred ground. he peeled the wrapping slowly, and the moment the sketch was revealed, the breath lodged in his throat and didn’t come back.
it was him.
not just a sketch of him, but him. the way you saw him. mid-motion, caught mid-game, hair disheveled, eyes sharp, body in sync with something bigger than himself. you’d shaded his face with soft shadows, smudged lines curling with energy, as though he were about to leap off the paper entirely. it wasn’t perfect—but maybe that’s what made it so gutting. it was flawed, but honest. and that honesty hit harder than any compliment ever could.
he stared.
too long. long enough for the silence to thicken.
“you remembered that day?” he finally managed to ask, but the words came quiet, barely audible. like speaking too loud might shatter whatever spell this was.
you shifted. “you always liked basketball. figured you’d want a memento.”
his heart twisted at that. a memento. the word lodged somewhere in his ribs. it sounded too final. too much like a goodbye. he looked at the sketch again and tried to find a joke. something easy. something safe. but his throat felt like it had been sewn shut.
because you’d seen him.
not just the loud, flashy version of himself. not the cocky show-off or the effortlessly brilliant student. but the boy beneath all of that. the one who tried so hard to be okay all the time. the one who loved the game not for the fame, but for the feeling of flying. of escaping.
you saw him. and you kept it. put it on paper. gave it to him.
“i kept messing up the jawline,” you mumbled. “you have an annoying face to draw.”
he let out a laugh—short, breathless, barely a sound. but it was genuine. it cracked something open in his chest. his fingers curled protectively around the edges of the paper, careful not to wrinkle it. careful not to damage what he already knew would become the most important thing he owned. satoru couldn't find the right words to say, his heart beating too fast for his own good.
so instead, he looked back at the sketch. forced himself to breathe. willed the flood back down with a shaky smile.
“you forgot my good side.”
you rolled your eyes, snorting. “you don’t have a good side.”
he chuckled under his breath, but his heart wasn’t in it.
his fingers tightened around the drawing once more before he finally folded it in half, careful and precise. he slipped it into his back pocket like it was something sacred. something only he could touch.
and then he looked at you—really looked at you.
eyes bright, a little wide, like he was standing on a ledge you didn’t know he’d climbed.
“i have something for you,” he said, softer now.
you smiled. “as you should. its my birthday after all.”
he didn’t answer. just reached into the front pocket of his slacks, pulling something out with a slow, quiet kind of care.
it caught the light in a soft glint—silver, delicate, hanging from a thin chain. he held it in his palm, almost hesitant, like part of him wanted to keep it to himself.
“you got me… jewelry?” you asked, squinting.
he didn’t respond right away. he just stepped closer. held the necklace a little higher so you could see the pendant better.
your breath hitched.
a small, simple loop. smooth and endless. the shape of it so familiar it made your chest ache.
an infinity symbol.
you stared at it, and for a second, you didn’t speak. didn’t move.
but then, slowly, a smile curled at your lips. not a teasing one. not smug. just soft. warm. like something tucked away in a memory finally unfolded itself in full bloom.
“i remember,” you whispered, soft and slow.
his brow quirked, but he knew what you meant.
“you taught me what infinity meant,” you added, fingers ghosting over the symbol. “you said it just keeps going. more space. more everything.”
“and you said it was boring,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
you laughed. “because i didn’t get it back then.”
his throat worked. “and now?”
you looked up at him. “now i do.”
he swallowed. eyes flickering from your face to the pendant, like he couldn’t decide which held him more captive.
his voice dipped, quiet and uneven. “can i?”
you nodded before he even finished.
turned around slowly, brushing your hair aside, the skin of your neck bared to him in the soft lamp light.
he stepped closer, breath shallow. hands shaking slightly as he brought the necklace around your collarbones.
his fingers brushed your skin, and the contact sent something fluttering down his spine—sharp and slow all at once.
it should’ve been simple. clasping a necklace. it should’ve taken two seconds.
but he was memorizing the curve of your neck. the way your shoulders rose with your breath. the heat of you, so close and real and it almost felt like it was his.
and all he could think about was how fucking dangerous it was, to feel this much.
he fastened the clasp with a soft click. his fingers lingered.
you looked at yourself in the mirror and met his eye. “thank you,” you said. your voice was steady. but your eyes—they gave you away.
and something about that broke him.
because suddenly, it all made sense.
the way you always lingered in the back of his mind. the way he counted time by the sound of your laughter. the way no other memory ever burned half as bright.
and then it hit him.
not like a punch. not like a falling weight. it was slower, deeper. like a tide that had been rising for years, finally cresting. and all he could do was stand there, soaked to the bone.
he was in love with you.
completely. irrevocably. devastatingly.
he didn’t know when it started. maybe it had always been there—dormant, quiet, buried under all the bickering and banter. or maybe it began the day you proved that his patience might not be as short as he thought when teaching you some stupid physics lesson. maybe it grew every time you called him unbearable but never walked away.
maybe it took root that afternoon when he carried you. drenched in sweat, heartbeat erratic, body aching from playing basketball all day. but he made it work. because for the first time, he felt your body pressed onto his, warm, fragile, gentle. he didn't know when he could do it again.
he could remember the day vividly, to the point he was convinced he could retell it multiple times without missing a single detail. it was engraved in his brain. stuck.
and now, standing behind you with your drawing in his hands and you looking up at him with uncertainty written all over your face—he realized just how badly he’d messed up.
because he couldn’t say it.
he couldn’t tell you. couldn’t admit it. because the moment he did, this fragile thing between you would tip, would shift, would change. and if he confessed and it wasn’t what you wanted—if he was wrong—he’d lose everything. not just the possibility. but you.
now, he stood behind you. satoru stared at the necklace now laying on your chest. you were still looking at it as if it was something precious. satoru almost thought he was dreaming. he prayed he wasn't.
because he was completely, utterly, and secretly screwed.
and the worst part?
he wouldn’t change a thing.
i quite literally poured my heart and soul into this.... i love gojo so much its actually not funny anymore. taglist is still open so comment if u wanna be added!! next part will be the last one :) lmk your thoughts <3
