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
pair: bf!tsukishima x gn!reader | genre: fluff!! established relationship | warning(s): none! | wc: 500 | synopsis: in which tsukishima watches as you cut your bangs.
LYNNE’S NOTEZ🗒️: oh how i love you domestic tsukki
it’s a bad idea.
you know it’s a bad idea. you know and yet you’re perched up on the sink, and your fingers are carefully parting a small front section of your hair. the crappy kitchen scissors lay beside you, ready to be of use.
“it’s a bad idea.” tsukishima leans against the bathroom doorframe, his phone in one hand, the other hand tucked into the pockets of his grey sweatpants. you look up and meet his eyes in the mirror. his expression is as stoic as ever, but the small crease in his brows shows a bit of concern.
“it’s not.” you counter although your hands are shaky as you pick up the scissors. you bring two fingers to the front section of your hair and eyeball how short you want it.
tsukishima starts to move and you think he might stop you, but instead he puts the toilet lid down and sits and watches your next move. “are you still going to cut them?” he asks, propping his arm on the sink counter, inches away from your leg.
“jeez, i am.” you huff and turn to face the mirror. you breathe a couple uneven breaths before you bring the scissors up to your hair.
you breathe once more, and then— you cut.
it’s not perfect. definitely not. but it’s over in one go, and you sit staring at the cut off strands in your palm. the dead-ends mock you in silence.
finally, you gather the courage to look in the mirror. the bangs are choppy and they’re separated into those two awkward sections that happen when you don’t brush them together, but, they aren’t that short.
“c’mon, let me see,” he tugs gently on your leg but you refuse.
“this is embarrassing kei.” you say, burying your face into your hands.
“i’m the one who has to be seen with you.” he gets up from his spot and stands in front of you. grabbing your shoulders, he turns you around so your legs are at his sides and he gently pries your hands from your face to get a better look.
“i mean..” as soon as you hear a giggle from him, you push him away and hide your face again. he laughs a bit more before pulling you closer by the waist. “i’m just kidding, y/n. they don’t look that bad.” tsukishima can’t hide the stupid smile that grows on his face as he brushes your new bangs aside.
“you’re mean regardless.” your words are muffled when you bury your face further into his shoulder. he smells like laundry detergent and takeout dinner.
“told you it was a bad idea.” although he sounds smug, tsukishima lets you rest your head against him as he draws stars onto your back.
the rest of the night is spent with you figuring out how to clip your hair back as tsukishima teases you (and later apologizes with small kisses to your temple).
andulkaphoto
tangentwithtanner
snowghoul
titsay
yousharknotpass