The first time you met Satoru Gojo, he insulted you. Not subtly. Not jokingly. Not even in a clever, backhanded way.
“Are you always this… slow?” he had asked during a joint mission, tilting his head like you were an insect he couldn’t bother squashing.
You had nearly thrown your cursed tool at his face.
And so began the most infuriating — and inexplicably magnetic — rivalry of your life.
Satoru had a way of appearing everywhere. In training halls, during field missions, even in the cafeteria, always with a smirk that suggested he knew a secret he wasn’t telling.
He was chaotic, loud, annoyingly skilled, and completely impossible to ignore.
You, on the other hand, prided yourself on discipline, focus, and keeping your cursed energy precise. You didn’t do theatrics. You didn’t do antics. You definitely didn’t do Satoru Gojo.
Yet somehow, every mission you were assigned together, he managed to trip over his own feet, get cursed into hilarious situations, or—worst of all—draw your attention away from the objective with some dumb, distracting stunt.
Like the time he decided mid-battle to dance in a cursed circle just to “see if it really did glow brighter when I do jazz hands.”
You had shouted, cursed, and very nearly facepalmed through the floor.
But somehow… the mission still succeeded.
Neither of you admitted it, of course. But over time, the rivalry developed its own rhythm.
He teased. You snapped back. He tripped on his own ego. You rolled your eyes.
And then there were moments — fleeting, infuriating, and entirely unplanned — when he did something… impressive. Brave. Thoughtful. Like when he shielded you from a cursed spirit with a grin and a quip:
“Don’t look so surprised. I’m good sometimes.”
You wanted to argue, to remind him how reckless he’d been two minutes earlier, but your heart skipped anyway.
Then he would wink.
And you would groan.
It took months for either of you to realize the pattern.
The accidental touches when reaching for the same cursed scroll. The silly arguments that ended in “fine, whatever” but left both of you with racing hearts. The way he laughed at your tactical insights even though he acted like they were stupid.
One rainy day, after a mission that left both of you drenched and muddy, he leaned against a wall beside you, soaked hair sticking to his forehead, and said:
“You know, I think you’re actually… kinda amazing.”
You almost dropped your cursed dagger.
“Excuse me?” you said, voice sharp as lightning.
He smirked, dripping, ridiculous, unstoppable: “Yeah. Don’t get used to it. I only tell the idiots I like them.”
Somewhere deep inside, your chest tightened. You rolled your eyes and muttered, “What a moron.”
“Exactly,” he said.
It wasn’t a grand confession. There were no dramatic sparks or speeches. It was during another field mission, when a cursed spirit lunged at you mid-battle.
You barely had time to react, but he was there, fast and precise, blocking the strike with one hand, grinning like it was just another inconvenience in his day.
“You okay?” he asked, eyes meeting yours in a way that suddenly felt different.
“I’m fine,” you snapped, though your voice lacked conviction.
He tilted his head, ever the annoying genius, and said softly: “Good. Because I’m not letting anything happen to you.”