My fear is to die without achieving my dreams but sometimes I’m thinking that maybe my dreams are meant to be just dreams and that I’m meant for a short life. I’m in a slump, it seems hard to get out.
୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ academic rivalry with rich boy gojo, but you genuinely don’t like him and he doesn’t understand it until it’s too late.
gojo doesn’t know you hate him.
in fact, if anyone asked, he’d probably say you like him. maybe even admire him, the way people tend to admire the sun when it catches their face in an accidental beam of warmth. he’s so sure of this that he’s never once considered the possibility that your tight smile isn’t playful, that your clipped tone isn’t just a quirk, that you might actually—god forbid—despise him.
he thinks you’re playing.
and why wouldn’t he? to him, everything is a game. he’s been winning since he was born—money, intelligence, height, beauty, charm, every stacked advantage you could imagine. the universe has been dealing him aces since day one, so when you come along and you’re… sharp—razor-sharp, not in the way that flatters but in the way that bites—he sees it as a worthy challenge.
you don’t just compete with him, you match him. quiz scores, debates, grades, presentations—you’re always right there, nipping at his heels or, occasionally, yanking the rug out from under him entirely. most people try to keep up with gojo. you try to trip him. and god, he thinks it’s fun.
he’s convinced the tension between you is mutual amusement. to him, every scathing remark you throw is just another volley in your private match, another brick in the strange little castle you’ve been building together for years.
and he likes it. likes you.
he makes a game of finding you in every room. you could be hidden in the corner of a crowded lecture hall, pretending to be engrossed in your notes, and he’ll still spot you in a heartbeat, striding over with that easy, infuriating smile. he talks to you like he’s letting you in on some secret, even when it’s just to point out that your pen ran out of ink and offer you one of his obnoxiously expensive ones.
he saves seats for you without asking.
he slips you answers when he thinks you’re stuck (you never are).
he says things like, “you’d miss me if i disappeared” with such unshakable confidence it makes your skin crawl.
the worst part? everyone else sees it too. to them, you’re just another in a long list of people charmed—begrudgingly or otherwise—by gojo satoru. your professors tease you about your “healthy academic rivalry.”
your classmates watch the two of you trade barbs like it’s some sort of will-they-won’t-they sitcom subplot.
nobody realises that while he’s busy grinning at you over the rim of his coffee cup, you’re thinking about how nice it would be to knock it out of his hands. to him, your relationship is the most exciting part of his academic life.
to you, it’s the most exhausting.
because you hated gojo satoru before you even met him.
not personally—back then, you didn’t even know his name. but you knew the type. loud, untouchably confident, born with more than they could ever deserve. the kind of boy who makes an entire room feel like they’re living in his orbit whether they want to or not.
and then you sat down for your first lecture of the semester, cracked open your notebook, and heard his voice behind you—smooth, careless, as if he were narrating life for an audience that existed solely to adore him.
of course.
but disliking him in theory was easy. hating him in practice took time.
the first time you realised you truly couldn’t stand him was during that stupid pop quiz. the professor was walking around, collecting answer sheets, and yours was barely dry from the last thing you scribbled down when a hand reached over your shoulder and took it. gojo. grinning, waving it in front of you like he’d just snatched candy from a child.
“don’t worry, i’ll hand it in for you.”
he didn’t wait for a thank you—just sauntered off, humming under his breath. when the grades came back, you noticed the coffee stain on the bottom corner of your paper.
you told yourself it was petty to care.
but then it happened again, in different ways.
the time he “accidentally” spilled water near your laptop but somehow turned it into a joke about you overreacting.
the way he always managed to just barely beat you in class rankings, like he was toying with the margin on purpose.
how he’d answer a question you were raising your hand for, looking over his shoulder to wink at you while the professor praised him.
the worst part was how untouchable he was. no matter what he did, everyone liked him. the professors adored his wit. classmates leaned toward him in conversation like plants toward sunlight. even the people he embarrassed seemed to forgive him instantly.
and you? you played along.
because to break the illusion would mean explaining— to people who wouldn’t understand—that he wasn’t your rival in the fun, cinematic way they thought. he wasn’t a foil or a muse. he was just… exhausting.
so you kept your voice dry and your smile tight when you spoke to him. you let him think it was banter. you let everyone else think so, too. because it was easier to let the world believe you were some clever pair locked in an endless, flirtatious duel than admit the truth: you wanted him out of your life.
and yet, despite all that—he was everywhere.
every class. every study group. every event you didn’t even know he’d be attending until you heard his laugh from across the room. and each time, he’d make a beeline for you, all effortless energy, as if you were a fixed point in his compass.
you hated how good he was at finding you. you hated even more that you’d started noticing when he wasn’t there.
still, the things he did to piss you off(or just things he did, the way he existed) were too irritating, you absolutely despised him sometimes.
like that time you were deep into exam prep, surrounded by a fortress of books, when a hand slid a cup of coffee across the table toward you. you didn’t look up, because of course it was him, but you did say, flatly,
“if this has spit in it, i’m reporting you.”
gojo dropped into the chair across from you like he’d been invited. “spit? no way. that’s an artisanal oat latte. i had to wait in line for seven minutes for that.”
you stared at him. “i didn’t ask you to.”
“oh, i know.” he leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm. “but if you burn out before the exam, who will i crush?”
you meant to roll your eyes and go back to your notes. instead, what came out was, “you’re not half as smart as you think you are.”
he grinned. “sure i am. you just think you’re smarter.”
you bit down on the urge to tell him you didn’t think—you knew.
or when you’d somehow gotten paired with him for a group project. halfway through a work session, he started idly tapping his pen against your notebook.
you looked up. “can you not?”
“what, this?” he kept tapping.
“yes, that.” your voice sharpened, the way it did when you were one irritation away from snapping. “you’re distracting.”
his eyes lit up like you’d complimented him. “oh? then it’s working.”
you were so stunned by the sheer audacity of that answer that you just stared at him, giving him exactly the amused eye contact he thought you meant in the first place.
or the afternoon you’d just gotten a test back—second place again, him barely ahead—and you found him leaning against the wall outside, already waiting.
“congrats,” you said dryly, shoving the paper into your bag. “another half-point victory for the golden boy.”
he raised a brow. “you sound jealous.”
“i sound annoyed.”
“same thing, in my experience.” he fell into step beside you as you walked away, his voice easy and bright. “don’t worry. one day you’ll beat me again, and i’ll act all shocked, and we’ll laugh about it. that’s our thing.”
you stopped mid-step. “our thing?”
he smiled like it was obvious. “yeah. the whole ‘you chasing me, me pretending you’re catching up’ thing. it’s cute.”
you almost told him you weren’t chasing him at all. instead, you kept walking, because you knew it wouldn’t matter—he’d just think you were raising the stakes.
one late afternoon, after a seminar, you finally let the irritation slip.
“do you ever stop?” you asked as you both left the building.
he tilted his head. “stop what?”
“being—” you gestured vaguely at his whole existence “—you.”
“not really,” he said cheerfully. “i mean, would you want me to?”
you opened your mouth to say yes, but he was already smirking, like he’d caught you in some elaborate romantic setup. “yeah, didn’t think so.”
you hated him.
and worse—you hated that he was right about one thing: you’d never really get rid of him.
because of that, for a while, it was easier to hate him.
hatred is simple—it’s sharp and clean, like the edge of a paper you didn’t see coming. but somewhere between the constant barbs and the inevitable groupings and the countless “accidental” encounters, you started… not minding him as much.
it was never a sudden switch. it was little things.
like the time your umbrella broke in a sudden downpour and he wordlessly held his over you the whole walk to the station—not teasing, not smug, just humming something under his breath and keeping you both dry. you didn’t thank him, but you also didn’t tell him to get lost.
or how, during one particularly brutal presentation day, he passed you a pack of gum under the table before yours started. you didn’t notice until after you’d nailed it, when he leaned over and said, “told you it’s magic,” and you realised he’d given you his last piece.
and there was that week you got sick. you didn’t tell anyone, but you came into class looking pale and ready to collapse. he noticed instantly—slid his notebook across so you could copy without asking, didn’t make a single joke about it. that was weird for him. unsettling. you didn’t copy anything, instead giving him an exhausted, weirded out look.
yet you started to think… maybe he wasn’t completely insufferable.
you still didn’t like him—god no—but there were moments where the energy between you didn’t feel like a battle. sometimes it was just… something. it felt like calm before storm.
and then came the internship.
you’d both applied for it—competitive, prestigious, the kind of thing that could shove open doors for the rest of your career. you wanted it so badly you’d cut your free time to nothing, prepping and polishing every piece of your application until it was practically a reflection of your soul.
when the results came in, you didn’t even have to check the email. you saw him in the hallway—leaning against the wall, phone in hand, that unstoppable grin stretched across his face.
“guess who’s officially off to the big leagues,” gojo announced to… well, everyone. he was holding his phone up like a trophy, scrolling through something with one hand while he waved the other in a lazy half-gesture. a couple of classmates offered congratulations, and he soaked it up like sunlight.
you felt the floor tilt under you.
you’d been waiting for that email all morning. checking your inbox every ten minutes, refreshing so much your phone battery had dipped into the red. you’d prepped for this internship like your life depended on it—cutting back on sleep, skipping out on weekends, combing through every requirement until you knew them better than your own name.
and he’d gotten it.
of course he had.
when he spotted you, his grin widened. “ohhh, there’s my runner-up. c’mon, don’t keep me in suspense—did you get it too?”
“no,” you said, too fast.
he blinked. “really? huh. weird. you were working your ass off.”
you don’t know if it was the casual way he said it, or the fact that he meant it like some kind of backhanded compliment, or just the sheer unfairness of it all—but something in you cracked.
“yeah, well, some of us have to,” you said, and it came out sharper than you intended.
he tilted his head. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
“it means you breeze through everything without trying, and then you stand there acting like it’s all just some fun little game.” you stepped forward before you could stop yourself, voice rising. “i killed myself over that application. i did everything right. and you—”
you broke off, because your hands were shaking.
gojo straightened slightly, the first flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “hey, it’s not like i didn’t work for it—”
“you didn’t work for this. not like i did. not like anyone else did. you just… exist. and things happen for you. they always have. you can waltz into any room and get whatever you want, because you’re gojo satoru, and people fall over themselves to give it to you.”
he opened his mouth, but you didn’t let him, hand flying up to shut him.
“and you know what? i don’t think this rivalry thing you keep talking about is cute. i don’t think you’re clever, or charming, or any of that crap you clearly believe about yourself. i don’t like you, gojo. i fucking hate you. i have from the start.”
the hallway felt suddenly, horribly quiet. someone down the way ducked into a classroom.
gojo just stared at you.
for the first time since you’d met him, he didn’t look like he had a quick comeback ready. he didn’t even look like he knew where to start.
“okay,” he said finally, and it wasn’t his usual playful tone—it was quieter. “didn’t realise you felt that way.”
you almost laughed, because how could he not have realised? but you didn’t. you just shouldered past him and walked away, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your teeth.
—
he didn’t move for a long time after you walked away.
he just stood there, phone still in his hand, screen dimming to black while the echo of your voice replayed in his head.
i don’t like you. i hate you. i have from the start.
gojo satoru wasn’t used to people telling him they hated him.
sure, he’d heard worse in debates, maybe in a couple of online comment sections, but those were strangers. disposable opinions. and when people didn’t like him in real life, they usually hid it. smiled through their teeth. tolerated him because it was easier than being on his bad side—or, more often, because they didn’t want to miss out on the good side.
you?
he thought you were in on it. the banter, the jabs, the constant back-and-forth—he thought that was your thing. your thing. he’d built the whole framework of whatever the hell your relationship was on that assumption.
and you’d just ripped it apart in a handful of sentences.
he tried to replay your expression, but all he could see was the way your hands had been shaking. not in fear but in that kind of restrained fury that felt personal. not academic, not playful. personal.
“dude, congrats on the internship,” someone said, passing by.
gojo smiled automatically, a thin, mechanical curl of his mouth. “yeah. thanks.”
his body moved through the rest of the day on autopilot. meetings, classes, congratulations. he kept hearing bits of your voice threaded through the noise.
you just exist. and things happen for you. they always have.
it wasn’t like he’d never heard that before—he had. but from you, it landed differently.
by the time he got home, the words had settled somewhere heavy in his chest. he told himself it was just surprise. he told himself you’d cool down, that you’d come back in a week with some sarcastic remark and they’d pick up where they left off.
but there was something else gnawing at him—a suspicion that maybe you hadn’t just been angry about the internship. maybe you’d been angry this whole time, and he’d been too wrapped up in his own little game to see it.
and for the first time since he’d met you, he wasn’t entirely sure how to win.
I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you that I had problems weighing me down. I wanted to tell you that I was on the verge of drowning. I wanted to tell you that I am a danger to myself.
sometimes I see pictures from when I was younger and it makes me wonder why I spent so much time hating myself. sweet little baby me. I was still growing. I was still learning. I was still getting used to my own skin. I didn’t deserve that
I am alive but barely. You know when you have a person who you’re willing to give everything to? Who you would risk all your beliefs and principles for? Who you would allow to use you in any way possible? I AM HAVING A MAJOR BRAIN ROT OVER A MAN WHO IS YEARS OLDER, I AM ILL!!! And it doesn’t help that he’s kind and genuine and smart and funny AND HIS VOICE??? THAT HEIGHT??? SIR—
I hope that at least he remembers my face or by some miracle… my name. I hope he remembers. Because I am marked by him and he doesn’t even fucking know IT’S UNFAIR I’M DOWN BAD AND I DON’T WANT TO PART FROM HIM I WANT TO BE WITH HIM EVEN IF I ONLY SEE GLANCES OR SNEAK IN A GREETING… I WANT TO BE IN THAT LIFE OF HIS GOD PLEASE
I think one of the greatest heartbreaks in life is accepting that you’re never going to be together. No matter how many universes you try to make with your imagination, the reality will crush those thoughts one by one. I stood there with him during an OR today for 8 hours. We talked, we laughed, all that sappy shit. I am thankful and happy but I am devastated all the same because even when we were breathing the same air and centimeters apart, we couldn’t be more distant from each other. He was as far and bright as the stars in the sky and I forgot that I was on Earth, only meant to watch. I forgot that no matter how much I try extend my desperate arms, I can never reach him, even get to touch a sliver of his soul. I am but a fleeting moment in his mind, waiting to be forgotten. Or maybe he already has.
I have imprinted him in my heart. He will always reside there, I guess. They say you’ll lose interest in someone once you get to know them. Well, that is bullshit in this case because I fell even more down the rabbit hole and I can already imagine the crash I’m about to go through. I will once again be the only one picking up the pieces of my broken heart. I know I should get used to this as someone who is never chosen. But it hurts each and every time. Even worse than the previous ones.
I told myself to guard my heart with all my might because god, it has been shattered so many times and is fragile af. But I let myself like him and be infatuated and now, I’m dead on the inside. Only he can light me up and bring me back alive. Fuck cheesy shit but it hurts okay?
He is kind of the prototype that I want in a man. He’s kind to a fault, intelligent, funny, protective, smart and like the street-smart kind of smart??? That is overly attractive to me okay?!? He’s tall, firm, has a GREAT VOICE FUCK. His eyes were sharp FUCK I DIDNT KNOW WHAT TO DO EVERYTIME HE LOOKED AT ME I WOULD PANIC THE FUCK OUT AND CRINGE AT MYSELF HELP. We liked the same songs and movies and we had the same beliefs on things like wtf?!?!!
Anyway, as I said his personality was what I wanted in a man. I was surprised to have met such a man who is so in line with my type? He is a pure gem that I agonizingly couldn’t have. FUUUUCK I BIBLICALLY NEED HIM
If you have reached this part, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You have been in my headspace for a while. I hope this is met with support. I can’t disclose this with any of my friends and family because they think I’m over reacting and weird. Everytime, I gush about my feelings, they are met by disgust and judgment. But any who, no matter. I just am happy to write my thoughts and calm down.
I am alive but barely. You know when you have a person who you’re willing to give everything to? Who you would risk all your beliefs and principles for? Who you would allow to use you in any way possible? I AM HAVING A MAJOR BRAIN ROT OVER A MAN WHO IS YEARS OLDER, I AM ILL!!! And it doesn’t help that he’s kind and genuine and smart and funny AND HIS VOICE??? THAT HEIGHT??? SIR—
I hope that at least he remembers my face or by some miracle… my name. I hope he remembers. Because I am marked by him and he doesn’t even fucking know IT’S UNFAIR I’M DOWN BAD AND I DON’T WANT TO PART FROM HIM I WANT TO BE WITH HIM EVEN IF I ONLY SEE GLANCES OR SNEAK IN A GREETING… I WANT TO BE IN THAT LIFE OF HIS GOD PLEASE
You swore to yourself that Kageyama Tobio was the bad boy in town. I mean with that sleek, black hair, tall stature, painfully handsome features, and the permanent scowl on his face? He’s the definition of heartbreak.
So when he talked to you for the first time, a stuttering mess and a reddening tomato, you can’t help but wonder if your (and everyone’s) assumptions about him were true.
And as you both walked hand in hand through the aisles of the grocery store, you have never been so sure about your mistake. After years of knowing him and being in a relationship with him, he turned out to be an angel with too much sass and a temper.
“What are you smiling about?” He suddenly asked, leaning on the trolley to level with your height.
“You.” Your lips curved into a mocking sneer.
A scowl appeared on his face but his eyes glimmered in amusement. “What about me?”
“Nothing.”
“Tch.” He rolled his eyes and straightened his posture. “Fine! Keep them to yourself then.”
“I can’t believe I ever thought you were a fuck boy to begin with! You’re such a baby!” You laughed and threw your weight on his side. There was no one in sight so you were free to be all touchy- feely with your man.
His arms automatically wrapped around your waist, securing their grip to keep you both steady. You felt his lips press against your forehead as he laughed, a blush already creeping up his cheeks. “Fuck boy, my ass. I couldn’t even talk to you the first time.”
“Yeah, I remember.” You said wistfully as you continued your way around the store, ticking off the items on your list.
“Tobio, I’ll just go to the women’s section.” You poked his side to get his attention from the milk cartons displayed on the fridge.
“Ah, the woman’s section.” He nodded. “Okay, let’s go.”
“It’s okay. I’ll go by myself. You can go fetch the other items on our list.” You suggested.
To your surprise, he shook his head. Suddenly, big hands engulfed yours as he led you to the rack full of sanitary pads.
“Now, tell me about them.” He cleared his throat while pointing at all the selections.
“Excuse me?” You blinked and looked up at him questioningly. You expected him to be making a joke, which was quite rare, but his once lazy eyes were now hyper focused on the names and brands that were in front of him.
“I want to know about them since you use them. I tried asking my sister but she slammed the door on me.” He chuckled. “There was this one time when you were on your period and you looked like you’re in so much pain. You kept complaining to me that you didn’t have one of these left so you forced yourself up in agony to go to the convenience store. I want to know what you use so that I’ll get them for you next time. I want to know how to take care of you too every monthly visit.” He mumbled nonchalantly.
Fine, long fingers grabbed one package and waved it in front of your face. “I just don’t get it, though? They say the same things but there are so many colors and brands that I get confused. This one also says ‘wings’. The hell does that even do?”
“Oh Tobio.” You can’t help but laugh at his seriousness about the matter but your heart melts just the same.
“It’s going to be a long discussion about my period and—“
“I’m all ears.” He leaned in and gave you a peck on the lips. “Let me learn about you.”
Safe to say that he became an expert on the matter and knew exactly what to do on your monthly visits. He wasn’t at all jittery like he was before. It’s now even at a point where he tracked your cycles better than you ever did (yes, he downloaded an app) and made sure to look after you during those cramp- filled episodes and everything in between.
Kageyama’s just so soft for you and he’d do everything to make you feel safe, relieved, and happy. He can admit that he's a goody-two- shoes only for you.
——
This became longer than I expected but yeah here’s another one for dem Haikyuu boys. I’m so soft for the King of the Court, please! 😩🤚🏻Also, it surprised me how some of my guy friends in college had no idea how menses were?!?!! Anyway, hope y’all research and keep those repro organs healthy and running 😉
Reblogs are appreciated! Love ya! <3
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