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24 ⚫️Requests are open⚪️

[awkward-walking-potato]

This is my little blog, I have been on tumblr for 13 years now and feel like I’m now part of the furniture!

JJK Masterlist

X-Men Masterlist

Marvel Masterlist

My requests are currently open and I’m pretty much happy to write anything that’s not smut, if you’re unsure just drop me a message I’m always happy to chat

[awkward-walking-potato]

JJK Masterlist

Satoru Gojo

Could anything be this good again - Rockstar AU - He’s the band’s untouchable frontman, living in stadium lights and deafening applause but every time he slips back home in disguise, he’s reminded of the one person who knew him before the fame. In a world that only sees Gojo the superstar, he quietly yearns for the girl who still calls him Satoru.

Seeing clearly for the first time - Nerdjo! - A painfully earnest Gojo falls hard after a chance encounter at a campus optical store, completely unprepared for the way a bright, effortlessly popular girl keeps choosing him.

Is it that sweet? - Sabrina carpenter inspired Frat! Gojo - Campus golden boy Satoru Gojo has never struggled with temptation until the one person who refuses to fall for his charm becomes the only thing he can’t stop craving.

Headcannons

crush giving him a love letter

Suguru Geto

Silk and devotion - A cult leader who is worshipped like a god finds himself undone by something far more intimate than devotion gentle hands in his hair and a gift chosen with quiet care

Don’t trust me - Rockstar AU - By day, you’re half of Hollywood’s most beloved, picture-perfect couple polished, poised, and painfully predictable. But when you start slipping into a hidden downtown bar to meet emo bassist Suguru Geto, stolen kisses in green rooms and reckless late-night secrets make you question whether playing it safe was ever what you really wanted.

Nanami Kento

I’m forever your girl - Rockstar AU - Sent to profile a chaotic rising band, a vibrant journalist never expects to be drawn to their composed, impossibly controlled manager instead. As she pulls him out of the shadows and onto the dance floor, she begins to uncover the man beneath the restraint and realizes he might be the most compelling story of all.

Steady - Nanami doesn’t love loudly he loves practically, memorizing the subtle signs before you even speak and quietly reshaping his world to make room for yours.

When did you get hot? - At your bakery’s grand opening, the quiet dorm boy you once secretly baked for returns as a sharp-suited, broad-shouldered Nanami and the crush you thought you’d outgrown hits all over again.

Tears - Frat!Nanami “I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy”

Headcannons

Crush giving him a love letter

Ryomen Sukuna

In his room - In a room lit by cursed embers, standing too close to something ancient and dangerous feels less like fear and more like temptation. Sukuna doesn’t need to touch you to unravel you he only needs to wait, knowing you’ll come back and choose the monster every time

Mutt - Roomate Sukuna - When fear drives you to ask for protection, you don’t expect the solution to move in with sharp eyes and sharper instincts. But as danger blurs into desire, living with Sukuna becomes less about safety

TDancing with a stranger - You’ve always been the one person Sukuna lets close but when you finally ask for something real, he disappears instead of answering. One reckless night at a crowded club forces him to confront the idea of losing you, and suddenly pretending to be strangers feels a lot more dangerous than either of you expected.

TopLaneGod - Frat!Sukuna - When a routine visit to the frat house exposes Sukuna’s carefully hidden competitive gamer side, you realize the campus’s most intimidating president isn’t nearly as untouchable as he pretends to be.

Lips are like the galaxies edge - A magnetic socialite with dark lipstick and sharper instincts keeps crossing paths with the band’s dangerously unreadable drummer

Toji Fushiguro

Fashion Show - You bring home a tiny rescue dog, and your grumpy roommate Toji makes it very clear he wants nothing to do with it. The problem? The more he claims he hates the thing, the harder it becomes to ignore the way it keeps choosing him.

From the Sidelines - Rugby Player - A photographer just trying to do her job becomes the unwilling target of a shameless rugby captain who treats every match like a personal photoshoot.

Bigger Portions - You’ve mastered the art of stretching dinner and hiding empty cupboards with loud games and bigger portions for Megumi but both he and Toji notice more than you think.

Dirty Diana - Part2 - Toji Fushiguro has never struggled with temptation until the one time it actually matters. When a woman with a dangerous reputation pushes too close, he hesitates in a way he shouldn’t… and the wrong person walks in at the worst possible moment.

Don’t make me look stupid - You and Toji have a habit of breaking up loud fights, bruised egos, jealousy neither of you knows how to handle. He craves attention, you crave reassurance, and neither of you are very good at walking away for good.

Choso Kamo

Headcannons

Crush giving him a love letter

Hiromi Higuruma

Headcannons

Crush giving him a love letter

[awkward-walking-potato]

I’m forever your girl

Band manager! Nanami x Journalist reader

Sent to profile a chaotic rising band, a vibrant journalist never expects to be drawn to their composed, impossibly controlled manager instead. As she pulls him out of the shadows and onto the dance floor, she begins to uncover the man beneath the restraint and realizes he might be the most compelling story of all.

Please read the other band members stories here

You were supposed to be observing.

That was the assignment.

Two weeks embedded with one of the most chaotic rising rock bands in the country, documenting the contrast between their public image and private reality. You expected drama. Ego. Late nights. Questionable decisions.

What you didn’t expect was Kento Nanami.

He wasn’t a musician. He wasn’t even technically part of the act. But somehow, he was the calm center of the storm clipboard in hand, tailored black shirt immaculate even after a twelve-hour rehearsal, blonde hair perfectly in place.

If the band was lightning, he was infrastructure.

You noticed him the first night.

While Gojo flirted with a bartender and Sukuna nearly started a fight over nothing, Nanami was the one settling invoices and making sure no one signed something they shouldn’t.

“You’re not writing about me,” he’d said the first time you pointed your recorder toward him.

“That’s not how this works,” you’d replied brightly. “You’re part of the ecosystem.”

He’d given you a look. Measured. Slightly tired. “I prefer to remain background.”

You grinned. “We’ll see.”

——

By day, you shadowed him as he negotiated contracts and smoothed over conflicts with venue managers. You filled pages with notes about the way he spoke calm, precise, never raising his voice but somehow always winning.

By night, you watched him linger near exits at parties, always aware of who was drinking too much, who might cause trouble, who needed extracting before a scandal erupted.

He didn’t drink much. Didn’t dance. Didn’t linger.

You found that unacceptable.

“You work too much,” you told him on the fourth night of your stay.

“I work the appropriate amount.”

“That’s manager-speak for ‘I haven’t had fun since 2016.’”

He adjusted his cufflinks. “Fun is subjective.”

“Great,” you said, grabbing his wrist. “Tonight, I’m your subject matter.”

He blinked down at your hand.

“You’re not kidnapping me.”

“I absolutely am.”

—

The club was loud, warm, neon-lit and ridiculous exactly your kind of place. You were already laughing by the time you dragged him onto the dance floor.

He looked deeply out of place. Black button-down. Sleeves rolled neatly. Expression unimpressed.

“You don’t have to stand like you’re reviewing a quarterly report,” you shouted over the music.

“I’m assessing the environment.”

“It’s a dance floor.”

He sighed faintly.

“You’re studying the band,” he said. “Not me.”

“You’re the most interesting one.”

That made him pause.

You stepped closer.

“Relax,” you urged. “No one’s watching you.”

“That’s statistically unlikely.”

You laughed. “You’re impossible.”

But you didn’t let go of him.

You moved first — swaying, carefree, letting the music carry you. You danced like no one had ever told you to tone it down. Arms up. Head back. Smiling at strangers.

He watched.

At first, his expression was the same controlled neutrality he wore everywhere.

Then you caught it the shift.

A softness.

A curiosity.

“You don’t analyze every moment,” he observed.

“I’d be exhausted if I did.”

“You’re not worried about how you look?”

“Should I be?”

He considered that.

“You look,” he said slowly, “like you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I am.”

You grabbed his hands suddenly.

“Now you.”

“I don’t dance.”

“That’s tragic.”

“It’s efficient.”

“Efficiency is boring.”

You tugged him closer.

“Just try.”

He hesitated, just a fraction of a second, and then something surprising happened.

He moved.

Not stiffly.

Not awkwardly.

Confident.

Measured at first, but then looser. Shoulders rolling subtly with the rhythm, hips shifting in controlled sync with the bassline. He wasn’t flashy, but he had presence. Intent.

You blinked at him.

“Excuse me?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Problem?”

“You said you don’t dance.”

“I said I don’t usually.”

“Nanami,” you breathed, laughing, “you’re good.”

He stepped closer close enough that your laughter faded into something quieter.

“I don’t do things halfway,” he said simply.

Oh.

The music swelled around you, but suddenly it felt smaller. More intimate.

You hadn’t expected this the way his hand rested at your waist, steady but firm. The way his eyes held yours without wavering.

“You’re full of surprises,” you admitted.

“You assume too quickly,” he replied.

“Occupational hazard.”

He guided you into a small turn smooth, practiced. You nearly stumbled, too caught off guard to anticipate it.

“You’ve done this before,” you accused.

“A long time ago.”

“Why stop?”

His gaze shifted briefly, something thoughtful flickering there.

“I had responsibilities.”

“And you still do,” you said softly. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t get to live.”

The music shifted into something slower.

He didn’t step away.

Neither did you.

For once, he wasn’t scanning exits. Wasn’t checking his phone. Wasn’t watching the band from a distance.

He was just there. With you.

“You’re going to write about this,” he said quietly.

“Maybe.”

“You’ll exaggerate.”

“I never exaggerate.”

He almost smiled.

“You’re trouble.”

“And you’re wound too tight.”

“Someone has to be.”

“Not all the time.”

You rested your chin briefly against his shoulder, breath warm against his collar.

“For tonight,” you murmured, “you’re just nanami.”

Not manager. Not fixer. Not responsible for anyone else.

Just him.

His hand tightened slightly at your waist.

When the song ended, neither of you moved right away.

And for the first time since you’d started this assignment, you wondered if the story you were writing wasn’t about the band at all:

But about the man who kept them standing.

[awkward-walking-potato]

I’m gonna be honest with you I’ve never really been a nanami girl but lately I’ve been writing for him and let’s just say…I’ve been converted

[awkward-walking-potato]

Could anything ever be this good again?

He’s the band’s untouchable frontman, living in stadium lights and deafening applause but every time he slips back home in disguise, he’s reminded of the one person who knew him before the fame. In a world that only sees Gojo the superstar, he quietly yearns for the girl who still calls him Satoru.

Read about the rest of the band here

Satoru Gojo had always loved the spotlight.

He loved the way it swallowed him whole. The way the crowd roared before he even sang the first note. The way cameras flashed like artificial lightning every time he tilted his head just right. He loved the noise, the spectacle, the performance of it all.

He was built for it.

White hair catching stage lights like a halo. Voice that carried across arenas without strain. Smile sharp and effortless.

People wanted him.

Or wanted to be him.

They screamed his name like it belonged to them.

But there was only one person who had ever said it softly.

Satoru.

Not Gojo.

Not the lead singer.

Just him.

——

He wore a cap low over his eyes and dark sunglasses even though the sun was already setting. The neighborhood hadn’t changed much quiet sidewalks, tidy hedges, the smell of someone cooking dinner through open windows.

It felt smaller than he remembered. Or maybe he was just larger now.

He parked two streets over out of habit. Walked the rest of the way with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets.

The kindergarten playground came into view first bright plastic slides, chalk drawings on the pavement, small shoes abandoned near the sandbox.

He stopped at the fence.

There you were.

Kneeling to tie a little girl’s shoelace, hair pulled back loosely, cardigan slipping off one shoulder as you laughed at something a boy had shouted. Your smile was easy. Real.

Unrehearsed.

He hadn’t seen you in almost a year.

Not properly.

Not without cameras lurking.

You straightened and glanced toward the gate like you felt him there.

He almost ducked instinctively.

You tilted your head, squinting And then your eyes widened just slightly.

You knew.

Of course you did.

You always knew.

——

You didn’t say anything when he walked in. Just waved goodbye to the last of the parents and dusted chalk from your hands.

“You’re terrible at disguises,” you said lightly.

He grinned despite himself. “I’m in a hat.”

“Congratulations.”

He pulled off the sunglasses, hooking them into the collar of his shirt.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

You’d grown into yourself in a way that made his chest ache. Softer around the edges, maybe. More certain. The girl who used to sneak out to watch his band practice in his parents’ garage was still there just steadier now.

“You’re in town?” you asked.

“For two days.”

“World tour schedule slow down for once?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

You smiled, but it was gentler than before.

“How’s the chaos?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Loud.”

“Always.”

You walked toward the small bench near the sandbox and sat down, patting the space beside you like you used to when you were teenagers.

He sat and for a moment, he wasn’t Gojo.

He was sixteen again, knees scraped from skating too fast, fingers raw from learning guitar chords just to impress you.

“You look tired,” you said quietly.

He blinked.

“I just flew in.”

“No.” You studied him. “You look lonely.”

That hit harder than any review ever had.

He leaned back against the bench, staring up at the sky.

“I’m not lonely,” he said automatically.

“You have thousands of people screaming your name every night.”

“Exactly.”

Silence settled between you.

You’d been there before all of it. Before the label deals. Before the interviews. Before stylists and managers and bodyguards.

You were there when his voice cracked mid-song at a dive bar with maybe ten people inside. When the speakers buzzed and the lights flickered and you sang louder than anyone else just to make him laugh.

You were there when he got his first tattoo and panicked because it hurt more than he expected.

You were his first kiss. Behind the bleachers at seventeen, both of you pretending it wasn’t terrifying.

You never asked for anything from him.

That was the problem.

“I miss it,” he admitted finally.

“Miss what?”

“When it was small.”

Your fingers curled in your lap.

“It can’t be small anymore, Satoru.”

He hated how gently you said it.

“I know.”

A group of kids ran past, laughing loudly. One of them grabbed your hand and tugged.

“Miss Y/N! Watch this!”

You stood immediately.

“I’ll be right there,” you told them.

And he watched you go.

You fit here.

In sunlight and chalk dust and scraped knees.

Not backstage in leather and smoke.

He stayed until the sky turned fully pink. Until the kids were gone. Until it was just the two of you and the quiet hum of suburban evening.

“You’ll come to the show?” he asked.

You hesitated.

“I don’t know.”

“Please.”

He didn’t beg for anything.

Not sponsors. Not fans. Not radio time.

But this?

This he asked for.

You sighed softly. “Okay.”

——

The arena was sold out. Thirty thousand people. The roar was deafening.

Gojo stood backstage, guitar strap slung over his shoulder, heart pounding with familiar adrenaline.

He thrived here.

He belonged here.

The lights dropped. The crowd exploded. He stepped out. And Gojo took over.

He moved like electricity teasing the crowd, leaning into the mic, letting his voice soar over the crashing drums and screaming guitars.

He didn’t think.

He performed.

Song after song blurred together in heat and noise.

Then came the breakdown.

Drums building. Guitar solo climbing.

He stepped back from the mic, letting Choso’s guitar scream into the night while Sukuna’s rhythm pounded like a second heartbeat.

And he looked out at the crowd.

Thousands of phone lights swaying.

Strangers crying. Singing. Reaching.

And for a split second, He didn’t see them.

He saw a tiny venue with sticky floors and broken speakers.

He saw you in the crowd, hair wild from dancing, screaming every lyric even when you were off-key. Jumping up and down like the world had already decided he mattered.

Ten people.

One of them was you.

He swallowed.

The vision faded.

The arena came back.

The noise.

The fame.

The distance.

You were out there somewhere tonight. Maybe in a seat too far back for him to find. Maybe already gone. Maybe realizing you didn’t belong in this version of his life.

He stepped back up to the mic.

The final chorus hit. His voice didn’t crack. It never did anymore.He gave them everything. The lights flared. The crowd screamed his name.

Gojo.

Gojo.

Gojo.

And he smiled like he always did.

Even though somewhere beneath the noise, beneath the applause, beneath the legend—

Satoru still wished it could have stayed small. But small doesn’t survive stadium lights.

And he knew, as the last note rang out and the band bowed, that he couldn’t have both.

He could have the world. Or he could have you.

The crowd roared again, He lifted his arms.

And let Gojo take the stage.

[awkward-walking-potato]

Wanna play guitar hero?

I really hope you like this little world I am making and I am very open to any name suggestions for the band !!!

Please click on the below links to read!!!

⟡ Gojo (Lead Singer) — The center of the band and the spotlight incarnate, Gojo commands every stage with effortless charisma. Everyone either wants to be him or be with him, and he knows it ,grinning through the chaos like the world was built for his performance.

⟡ Geto (Bass) — The quiet gravity behind the noise, Geto plays bass with hypnotic precision, watching more than he speaks. There’s something unreadable in his gaze, the kind of intensity that makes people lean closer without realizing they’re already caught.

⟡ Choso (Lead Guitarist) — Quiet, reserved, and almost impossible to read, Choso lets his guitar speak for him. Not much is known about him offstage, which only deepens the intrigue when his solos cut through the noise and steal the room without warning.

⟡ Sukuna (Drums) — Sharp-tempered and relentless, Sukuna turns rhythm into controlled violence. He thrives on tension and challenge, meeting every stare head on like he’s daring someone to test him.

⟡ Nanami (Manager) — Always just behind the scenes, Nanami keeps the band grounded and out of disaster. Calm, calculated, and unwavering, he’s there to make sure they’re safe and to clean up whatever mess they leave in their wake.

[awkward-walking-potato]

Lips are like the galaxies edge

Drummer! Sukuna x Socialite! Reader

⟡ A magnetic socialite with dark lipstick and sharper instincts keeps crossing paths with the band’s dangerously unreadable drummer

Please see the rest of the band here

You didn’t walk into rooms.

You arrived.

That was the difference.

Private rooftop party. West side. Velvet ropes, champagne towers, models draped over balconies like décor. The city glittered beneath you and you glittered above it, black silk dress cut low in the back, slit high enough to make photographers nervous. Dark lipstick. Diamonds at your throat. Money in your posture.

You never chased.

You were chased.

Across the terrace, behind his drum kit set up for the band’s set later that night, sat Sukuna.

Leather jacket. Rings. Scuffed boots resting on the kick pedal like he owned the stage before he even touched it. A girl in something tight perched on his knee, laughing too loudly at something he barely said.

He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at you. You didn’t break eye contact.

Instead, you adjusted the strap of your dress slowly, deliberately. A subtle shift. Controlled. He noticed.

Of course he did.

He leaned back, one arm draped lazily around the girl’s waist like she was an accessory. But his eyes dragged down the length of you measured, slow, appreciative.

You tilted your chin slightly.

A challenge.

He smirked.

Cat and mouse.

It had been like this for months.

Fashion galas. Afterparties. Charity auctions. Underground gigs. Always in the same orbit. Always circling.

He’d appear with someone new on his arm.

You’d arrive in something impossible.

He’d stare too long. You’d let him.

But neither of you ever closed the distance.

Not fully.

He liked the chase.

You liked the control.

——

Later that night, when the band started their set, the crowd surged forward. You didn’t.

You stayed back near the VIP railing, one gloved hand curled around a glass of something expensive, watching.

Sukuna didn’t just play the drums.

He dominated them.

Each strike was sharp, precise, violent in a way that felt intentional. Sweat dampened the dark strands of his hair as the tempo built, his jaw tight, shoulders flexing under the stage lights.

But his eyes kept flicking toward you Between songs, During fills.

You were the only still thing in a moving crowd.

And he couldn’t stop looking at your mouth.

You could see it.

The way his gaze lingered.

The dark lipstick. Matte. Deep wine.

When you finally smiled at him, slow, knowing, he hit the snare harder than necessary.

——

After the set, he found you. Back near the bar, alone for once.

“Enjoy the show?” he asked, voice low and rough from adrenaline.

You took a measured sip before answering. “You looked tense.”

“Tense?” He leaned closer, one hand braced against the bar beside you. “That what you call it?”

“I call it distraction.”

His gaze dropped to your lips again.

“You wore that on purpose.”

“Wore what?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

“The lipstick,” he said finally.

You smiled slightly. “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you keep staring.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

You stepped closer, just enough that your perfume reached him expensive, dark, intoxicating.

“You’ve got someone waiting for you,” you murmured, glancing toward the cluster of women near the stage.

“They’re not waiting,” he said flatly. “They’re hovering.”

“Semantics.”

“And you?” he asked. “Anyone hovering for you tonight?”

You let your fingers trail lightly down the front of his jacket. Not possessive. Just curious.

“Maybe,” you said. “But they’re not interesting.”

His hand caught your wrist gently. Not forceful. Just enough.

“You think you’re untouchable.”

“I know I am.”

For a second, something sharp flickered in his expression. Not anger. Interest.

He leaned in close enough that his breath brushed your cheek.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmured.

You turned your head slightly so your lips were just inches from his ear.

“I don’t lose,” you whispered.

Then you stepped away.

Left him there.

Watching.

——

The next morning, the rooftop was empty except for the cleanup crew and the band loading equipment.

You weren’t supposed to be there but there you stood Sunglasses on. Hair pulled back. Same dark lipstick.

Sukuna rounded the corner carrying a cymbal case and stopped dead.

The front of his bass drum.

Covered.

Lipstick marks.

Deep wine smudges, layered and deliberate across the white surface. Different shapes. Different pressures. Like a signature written over and over.

He stared at it. Then slowly looked up. You were leaning against the railing, sunlight catching the diamonds at your throat.

“Good morning,” you said sweetly.

His eyes dropped back to the drum, then to your mouth.

“You’re insane,” he said quietly.

“And yet,” you replied, pushing off the railing and walking toward him, “you’re smiling.”

He wasn’t aware that he was.

You stopped in front of him, close enough that the scent of last night still lingered between you.

“You couldn’t stop looking,” you said softly.

His hand came up, thumb brushing lightly against your lower lip. Testing. Smudging.

“Now it’s on my drum,” he muttered.

“Consider it branding.”

His eyes darkened slightly.

“You think this is yours?”

You stepped back just slightly.

“I don’t claim things,” you said. “I leave impressions.”

The air between you felt electric. For the first time, he didn’t look amused. He looked intrigued and maybe, just maybe

Hooked.

[awkward-walking-potato]

Don’t Trust Me

Musician!Suguru x Actress!Reader

By day, you’re half of Hollywood’s most beloved, picture-perfect couple polished, poised, and painfully predictable. But when you start slipping into a hidden downtown bar to meet emo bassist Suguru Geto, stolen kisses in green rooms and reckless late-night secrets make you question whether playing it safe was ever what you really wanted.

Listen to 3oh3! Don’t trust me to really immerse yourself and find out about the rest of the band here

——

The first rule was simple:

No one could know.

Not your publicist.

Not your co-stars.

And definitely not your boyfriend the golden boy of Hollywood, the one you’d been photographed beside for three years straight, smiling at premieres like a perfectly curated fairytale.

America’s sweetheart couple.

Vanilla.

Predictable.

Safe.

You were so bored you could scream.

Which is how you ended up pushing open the back door of a dive bar in the worst part of downtown, wearing a black dress that would’ve sent your stylist into cardiac arrest and sheer tights that made you feel like someone else entirely.

Someone dangerous.

Inside, the bass was loud enough to rattle your ribs.

On stage, under harsh white lights, stood Suguru Geto.

Black jeans, boots, chains at his belt, long dark hair falling over one eye as he tuned his bass like he wasn’t aware half the room was watching him breathe.

He didn’t smile much.

That was part of the appeal.

He spotted you immediately.

Of course he did.

His eyes tracked you through the crowd like you were the only person there. Slow. Appreciative. Knowing.

You slipped behind the bar and down the narrow hallway toward the green room like you belonged there.

Like you hadn’t snuck out of your high-rise apartment wearing a hoodie over your dress so paparazzi wouldn’t recognize you.

He followed five minutes later. The door clicked shut behind him. For a second, neither of you spoke.

The room smelled like cheap cologne and stale beer. His bass leaned against the couch, forgotten.

“You’re late,” he said calmly.

“You weren’t on yet.”

His gaze dragged over you from your hair, down your bare shoulders, to the hem of your dress.

“You shouldn’t wear that,” he murmured.

“Why?”

“Because I’m trying to behave.”

You laughed softly. “You’ve never behaved.”

He stepped closer.

You didn’t move back.

“You look different when you’re not pretending,” he said.

“Pretending?”

“Innocent.” His fingers brushed lightly against your waist. “Good.”

You swallowed.

It wasn’t that you were unhappy in your public relationship. It was just… rehearsed. Scripted. Carefully posed.

Suguru wasn’t careful. That was the problem.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” you whispered.

He tilted his head slightly. “You came here.”

True.

His hand slid up your arm, slow and deliberate, like he was learning the texture of you.

“You know your boyfriend’s fans would riot if they saw this,” he murmured.

“You think I care?”

His mouth twitched faintly.

You reached up first. That was the other rule.

In public, you were untouchable. Polished. Graceful. In here?

You grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him down to you.

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was teeth and heat and weeks of tension crammed into something reckless. His hand moved to your hip, gripping tighter than necessary, like he was reminding himself you were real.

You felt alive. Not posed. Not staged. Just wanted.

He backed you toward the couch, breaking the kiss only long enough to breathe.

“You’re trouble,” he muttered against your mouth.

“You like trouble.”

“I like you,” he corrected quietly.

That made your heart stumble in a way you didn’t expect.

Before you could respond, the green room door burst open.

“Suguru, you’re on in—”

Gojo froze mid-sentence.

White hair. Smug grin. Keyboard slung over his shoulder. His eyes flicked between you, Then widened dramatically.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, this is messy.”

You straightened slightly, smoothing your dress like that would make this less incriminating.

Suguru didn’t move away from you.

Gojo leaned against the doorframe, grinning like a menace. “Her boyfriend is absolutely gonna have beef with you.”

Suguru adjusted his rings casually.

“It’s alright,” he replied smoothly. “I’m a vegetarian, so I ain’t scared of him.”

You burst out laughing.

Gojo cackled. “You’re insane. I love it.”

“Get out,” Suguru said flatly.

Gojo saluted and disappeared down the hall, still laughing.

The music outside swelled the crowd chanting the band’s name.

Suguru looked back at you. For a second, the teasing edge softened.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” he said quietly. “Sneaking around.”

You searched his face.

“What, and go back to red carpets and coordinated outfits?”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“You deserve something real.”

“Is that what this is?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

Your pulse jumped.

Outside, the crowd roared louder.

He pressed one more kiss to your mouth slower this time, less frantic, more intentional.

“You’ll stay?” he asked.

“In the back.”

“Good.”

He picked up his bass, slinging it over his shoulder.

At the door, he paused and looked at you over his shoulder.

“You look better in black than you ever did in white,” he said quietly.

Then he walked out to the stage. The lights hit him the crowd screamed.

And you sat in the dim green room, heart pounding, knowing full well that if the world ever found out about your little secret, it would implode.

But for the first time in years?

You didn’t feel bored.

[awkward-walking-potato]

Hello hello! :-)

Would a uni!/frat!Nanami x reader with POTS be on the table perchance? I have a little headcanon that he’d be very caring towards someone who dizziness/fainting/dysautonomia issues like I have, and your writing is so awesome; I feel like your style would suit this kind of thing very well ^^ Much love! :-D

Steady

I also have a chronic illness so I hope I have done this justice!

Nanami wasn’t loud about the way he cared.

That was the first thing you learned.

He didn’t hover. He didn’t fuss in public. He didn’t make you feel fragile. But he noticed everything.

You’d only been dating a few months when he memorized the exact look on your face before a dizzy spell hit the way your blinking slowed, how your shoulders stiffened just slightly, how your hand unconsciously searched for something to steady yourself against.

He caught it before you even spoke.

“Sit,” he’d say calmly, already stepping closer.

Not urgent. Not panicked. Just certain.

The first time he saw you faint was outside the campus library. You’d stood up too fast after a long study session, brushing it off when the room tilted.

“I’m fine,” you’d insisted.

You weren’t.

He caught you before you hit the ground. After that, things quietly changed.

—

He started carrying a separate pouch in his bag.

You didn’t notice at first.

Then one afternoon in the quad, when the sun was too bright and your heart was racing in that uncomfortable, wrong way, he was already unzipping it before you could say anything.

A sports drink. Two salted granola bars. Electrolyte tablets.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you’d murmured, embarrassed.

“I know,” he replied simply, handing you the drink.

He’d also started keeping one of his hoodies in his bag even on warm days.

“For when you need to lie down somewhere,” he said, like it was obvious. “Campus floors are disgusting.”

You tried not to melt over that.

—

Nanami had a reputation for being the responsible one.

He didn’t drink much. He didn’t hook up carelessly. He handled budgets, insurance forms, alumni emails. The others joked that he was forty in a twenty-year-old’s body.

But with you, that steadiness became something softer.

He learned your triggers without making you list them.

Long lines. Overheated rooms. Standing too long at events. Back-to-back lectures without sitting breaks.

So he adapted.

If there was a frat party, he made sure there was a quiet room upstairs where you could sit if needed. He never announced it he just casually steered you there if your grip tightened on his sleeve.

If you had a long lab, he’d walk you halfway across campus and then double back to his own class, even if it made him late by five minutes.

“You don’t need to escort me everywhere,” you’d said once.

“I’m aware,” he replied evenly. “But I prefer to.”

That was it no drama just preference.

—

The schedule thing happened after midterms.

You’d pushed yourself too hard three all-nighters in a week, caffeine on top of dehydration, pretending you were fine.

You weren’t.

He found you half-asleep at your desk, pale and trembling. He didn’t scold you. He just pulled your chair back gently and crouched in front of you.

“You’re overdoing it,” he said quietly.

“I can handle it.”

“That isn’t the point.”

He brought you back to his place that night. Fed you actual food instead of vending machine snacks. Made you drink water. Sat beside you while you napped with your legs propped over his lap to help circulation.

The next morning, he opened your planner.

You blinked at him. “What are you doing?”

“Reorganizing.”

“You can’t just—”

“I can. Watch me.”

He moved assignments around, breaking large projects into smaller tasks. Scheduled mandatory rest blocks. Built in buffer days for when your body decided to betray you.

“You’re scheduling naps,” you accused.

“Yes.”

“That’s so embarrassing.”

“No, it’s responsible.”

You stared at the page, It looked… manageable. Less suffocating.

“I don’t want to fall behind,” you admitted quietly.

“You won’t,” he said, not even hesitating. “Not while I’m here.”

There was no arrogance in it. Just fact.

—

He never treated you like a burden. That was the part that undid you.

When you apologized for needing to sit down mid-grocery trip, he just adjusted the cart and leaned against it with you.

When you got dizzy at a formal and had to slip off your heels to sit on the venue steps, he took off his suit jacket and folded it under you without a word.

When people asked if you were okay, he answered smoothly before you had to.

“She just needs a minute.”

Not pitying. Protective. Steady.

—

One afternoon, you felt a wave of dizziness coming on while walking back from class. Your heart was pounding too hard, vision tunneling slightly.

You hated that feeling. The loss of control. Before you could say anything, Nanami’s hand slid to the small of your back.

“Bench,” he said quietly, steering you without making it obvious.

You sat.

He crouched in front of you again, like he always did eye level, not looming.

“Water,” he prompted gently.

You drank.

“Salt?”

You nodded. He handed you a snack from his bag. His thumb brushed lightly over your knee grounding, not possessive.

“Breathe slower,” he murmured.

You focused on him. On the calm in his voice. On the steadiness in his posture. Your heart gradually settled.

“I hate this,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I feel weak.”

His jaw tightened slightly at that.

“You are not weak,” he said firmly. “Your nervous system misfires. That is a mechanical issue. Not a character flaw.”

You almost laughed through the lingering fog.

“You sound like you’re explaining it in a board meeting.”

“If necessary, I will make a presentation.”

That got a real smile out of you. He softened when you smiled, Always.

—

The first time you realized how deeply he’d internalized your condition was during a frat meeting.

One of the guys joked about you “always needing breaks.”

Nanami didn’t raise his voice. He just looked at him and the room went quiet.

“If you have a problem,” he said evenly, “you can address it with me.”

No one did, after that nobody made comments.

—

Late one evening, you were lying on his couch, head resting on his thigh, legs draped over the armrest. He was reading something for class, one hand absently tracing slow patterns over your shin to keep circulation moving.

“You do a lot,” you murmured sleepily.

He didn’t look up from his book. “So do you.”

“I mean for me.”

A pause.

He closed the book carefully and set it aside.

“Your body requires accommodations,” he said. “So we accommodate it.”

You blinked up at him.

“We?” you asked softly.

“Yes.”

Like it was obvious, like it had always been obvious. Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

“You don’t have to make this your responsibility.”

“It isn’t a responsibility.”

His hand moved gently to your cheek.

“It’s you.”

That was it.

No grand speech. No dramatic declarations.Just steady, unwavering presence.

And somehow, that kind of love quiet, practical, fiercely consistent felt stronger than anything loud ever could.

[awkward-walking-potato]

Can you please write frat!sukuna that secretary is a nerd x reader please

Top Lane God

You had expected noise when you came to the fraternity house.

Music. Shouting. Something breaking.

You had not expected furious, muffled yelling from behind a closed bedroom door on the second floor.

You stood in the entryway for a moment, clutching your planner against your chest while one of the freshmen scurried past you carrying a case of cheap beer. The place smelled faintly like cologne and carpet cleaner, an obvious attempt to make it presentable for the upcoming joint social between your sorority and their house.

“I’m here to see Sukuna,” you said.

The freshman winced slightly. “He’s upstairs.”

There was a tone there. Something like… hesitation.

You frowned but thanked him anyway, making your way up the stairs. The sound grew clearer the closer you got.

“Why would you rotate now? I said freeze the wave.”

A pause.

“No, don’t ping me. You’re the one who—”

Silence.

Then the violent clicking of keys.

You stopped in front of his door. It was cracked open just enough for blue light to spill into the hallway.

Curiosity tugged at you.

You pushed it gently.

And froze.

Sukuna Ryomen, president of the most intimidating fraternity on campus, six-foot-plus of muscle and quiet menace, was hunched forward in a desk chair, headset on, shoulders tense beneath a fitted black t-shirt. The glow of his monitor reflected faintly against the thin metal frames perched on his nose.

Glasses.

He was wearing glasses.

The sight alone would have been shocking enough, but what truly rooted you to the floor was the screen in front of him.

League of Legends.

He leaned forward, jaw tight, one hand moving with precise, aggressive confidence across the mouse while the other hovered over his keyboard with startling speed.

“I am not bailing you out again,” he muttered, voice low and dangerous. “You die, that’s on you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

This man, who negotiated sponsorships and managed campus politics with cold efficiency, was arguing with strangers online about lane management.

He adjusted his glasses with a quick flick of his finger.

Your heart did something odd.

You didn’t mean to make a sound but your shoe shifted slightly against the floor.

His movements stopped.

Slowly, without turning off his mic, he tilted his head just enough to glance over his shoulder.

Red eyes locked onto you.

The headset slid down around his neck in one smooth motion.

“How long,” he asked evenly, “have you been standing there?”

You folded your arms, trying very hard not to look amused. “Long enough.”

He studied you carefully, as if calculating damage control.

“You needed something.”

It wasn’t a question.

“We were supposed to go over the budget breakdown for next week’s social,” you replied, stepping into the room fully now. “But I didn’t realize I was interrupting something… intense.”

His gaze sharpened.

“I wasn’t yelling.”

“You absolutely were.”

He clicked once more, finishing whatever fight was happening on-screen, and then the familiar victory banner flashed across the monitor.

You caught sight of his username.

TopLaneGod.

You raised an eyebrow.

He noticed.

His jaw flexed slightly. “Don’t.”

“Top Lane God?” you repeated slowly. “That’s what we’re going with?”

“It’s ironic.”

“It doesn’t seem ironic.”

He leaned back in his chair, removing his headset completely now. Up close, the glasses softened him in a way that felt almost unfair. Less frat president, more devastatingly attractive computer science major who stayed up too late perfecting something pointless and obscure.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he said.

“And you’re not supposed to be addicted to League.”

“I’m not addicted.”

“How many hours?”

Silence.

You stepped closer to the desk, glancing at the corner of his screen.

You blinked.

“That’s… that’s a lot of skins.”

“They’re limited.”

“You spent money.”

He didn’t answer.

A strange warmth crept up your neck. You weren’t sure why this felt so intimate seeing him like this. Focused. Unfiltered. Not performing for a room full of frat brothers or campus administrators.

Just him.

You leaned lightly against the edge of his desk. “I didn’t take you for the competitive gamer type.”

His gaze drifted over you slowly, deliberately. “You don’t know everything about me.”

Something in his tone shifted. Lower. Weighted.

The air felt different suddenly.

You swallowed. “Clearly.”

His eyes flicked to the screen, then back to you.

“Why are you still standing?”

“Excuse me?”

“You came to talk about the event.” His voice remained steady, but there was something sharper beneath it. “Talk.”

You opened your planner, launching into details about guest limits and security coordination, but you could feel his attention drifting.

Not to his screen.

To you.

Every time you shifted your weight, his gaze followed. When you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his jaw tightened slightly. When you leaned forward to show him a number on the page, he went very still.

You noticed.

And you didn’t know what to do with that.

“You’re not listening,” you said softly.

“I am.”

“What did I just say?”

“That you’re limiting plus-ones to keep the ratio even.”

You blinked.

He was listening.

Of course he was.

He always listened.

You closed your planner slowly. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you play?”

“Because it’s irrelevant.”

“Or because it ruins your scary frat king image?”

His lips twitched faintly. “You think glasses ruin it?”

“I think they make it worse.”

His eyebrow arched. “Worse?”

“For me.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Silence stretched between you.

His gaze darkened slightly.

“Explain.”

“You look…” You hesitated. “Focused.”

“And that’s bad?”

“No. It’s—” You exhaled softly. “Distracting.”

The room felt smaller now.

He stood up.

Slowly.

The movement forced you to straighten instinctively. He was tall before, but now, standing this close, you were painfully aware of the size difference.

He removed his glasses with deliberate care, folding them once before setting them on the desk.

“Distracting how?” he asked quietly.

Your pulse jumped.

“I just meant—”

“You don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”

He stepped closer. Not touching. Just enough that you could feel his presence.

“You walk into my room,” he continued evenly, “you watch me play, you tease me about it… and then you call me distracting.”

His voice dropped half a tone.

“You think I don’t notice?”

Your breath felt shallow.

“Notice what?”

“The way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”

Your stomach flipped.

“That’s—”

He stepped even closer.

“You hovered behind me,” he said softly. “Close enough that I could feel you. You think that didn’t affect my game?”

Your face burned.

“You’re blaming your death on me?”

“I didn’t die after you sat down.”

The implication landed heavy.

You exhaled slowly. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he murmured, leaning slightly closer, “you’re still here.”

There it was.

The tension you’d been pretending not to feel for months. The problem with Sukuna wasn’t just that he was intimidating. It was that he was observant. Calculating. He picked up on details other people missed. Like the way you lingered when meetings ended. The way you defended him in sorority discussions. The way your voice softened when it was just the two of you, his hand lifted slowly. For a moment, you thought he was going to touch you. Instead, he reached past you, grabbing his glasses again and sliding them back on. The barrier returned.

“I have another game,” he said calmly, sitting back down.

You stared at him.

“That’s it?”

“You came here for business.”

Your heartbeat was still uneven.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I know.”

He put his headset back on, but before he did, he glanced up at you one more time.

“Stay.”

Your breath caught.

“Why?”

He smirked faintly.

“I play better when you’re watching.”

And somehow, that felt far more dangerous than anything else he’d said all night.

[awkward-walking-potato]

room mate toji!! y/n gets a dog and he acts like he hates it (but grows to love the dog so much) so much so, he buys it outfits!!

Please enjoy it!

Here

[awkward-walking-potato]

I want to write college AU!!!

Please send in your requests I want nerdjo! Emoguru, plug!choso and all the boys and girls!!!!

send in your requests I am by my computer ready to type

[awkward-walking-potato]

Fashion Show

Toji x reader

— You bring home a tiny rescue dog, and your grumpy roommate Toji makes it very clear he wants nothing to do with it. The problem? The more he claims he hates the thing, the harder it becomes to ignore the way it keeps choosing him.

“You did what?”

You stood in the doorway holding the tiniest creature Toji had ever seen.

“It’s a rescue,” you said defensively. “They said he’s a mix.”

“That’s not a mix,” Toji replied flatly. “That’s a dust bunny with eyes.”

The dog barked.

It was high-pitched.

Embarrassingly small.

You gasped. “Don’t insult him in his own home.”

“To be clear,” Toji said, leaning back on the couch, “this is our apartment.”

“Correction,” you snapped. “It’s our apartment. And his now.”

The dog wiggled in your arms.

Toji squinted at it.

“I’m not walking it.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I’m not cleaning up after it.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I’m not bonding with it.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

He pointed at the dog.

“If it touches my stuff—”

“He won’t.”

The dog immediately wriggled free and sprinted (badly) toward Toji’s shoes.

Toji stared down at the tiny animal gnawing on his laces.

“…I hate him.”

—

Toji did not hate him. He just… refused to acknowledge him. For the first week. If the dog climbed onto the couch next to him, Toji would slowly stand up and move.

If the dog barked, Toji would sigh dramatically. If the dog followed him to the kitchen, Toji would mutter, “Go away, parasite.”

The dog followed him anyway. Specifically him. Not you. You’d call, “Come here!” and the dog would glance at you then continue trotting after Toji.

“You see?” you’d say smugly. “He likes you.”

“He has poor judgment.”

—

One night you came home late from work.

Toji was in the living room. On the floor. The dog sprawled on his chest. Toji was scratching under its chin. You froze in the hallway. He didn’t notice you yet.

“…You’re still ugly,” he muttered to the dog.

The dog licked his jaw, Toji didn’t move it away.

“You’re not sleeping in my room,” he added.

The dog wagged its tail. You cleared your throat. Toji jolted slightly and immediately removed his hand.

“It climbed on me,” he said.

“Of course,” you replied calmly.

You absolutely did not mention the way the dog looked blissfully content.

—

Then it escalated,

You woke up one morning to find the dog missing from his bed. Panicking you rushed into the living room.

Toji was asleep on the couch, The dog tucked into the crook of his arm like it had always belonged there. You took a picture, For blackmail.

—

“You’re getting attached,” you teased later.

“I’m not.”

“You let him nap on you.”

“He was heavy.”

“He weighs six pounds.”

“Exactly.”

You rolled your eyes.

“He likes you.”

“He has no survival instincts.”

The dog waddled over and climbed onto Toji’s foot, Toji didn’t move.

—

The breaking point? You came home with a small shopping bag, Inside was a tiny sweater Yellow with little ducks on it.

“Toji,” you called excitedly. “Look!”

He stared in horror.

“No.”

“He’ll look so cute.”

“No.”

“He gets cold!”

“He has fur.”

“It’s winter.”

You put the sweater on the dog anyway the dog waddled around in it proudly. Toji stared, Expression unreadable.

“…He looks stupid.”

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous of a dog.”

You grinned.

-

The next week, a package arrived Addressed to Toji,You blinked.

“You ordered something?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t elaborate you opened it curiously, Inside?

A tiny black hoodie with a miniature zipper and a little skull embroidered on the back, You turned slowly.

“Toji.”

He crossed his arms.

“It was on sale.”

“You bought him clothes.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

The dog barked excitedly. You held up the hoodie.

“It matches your gym hoodie.”

“That’s coincidence.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“You’re obsessed.”

“I’m not obsessed.”

“You bought him a skull hoodie.”

“So he doesn’t look soft.”

“He’s six pounds.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed. He took the hoodie from you and crouched down.

“Come here,” he muttered.

The dog immediately ran to him. Traitor.Toji carefully slipped the hoodie over its head adjusted it and zipped it up.Then leaned back slightly to admire his work.

“…Yeah. That’s better.”

The dog wagged its tail proudly, You stared.

“You said you hated him.”

“I do.”

The dog climbed into his lap Toji rested a hand on its back automatically.

“…He’s just tolerable.”

You smirked.

“So when are you buying the matching raincoat?”

Toji shot you a look.

“Don’t push it.”

But later that night you caught him online Browsing “small dog winter boots.”

[awkward-walking-potato]

From the sideline

Rugby player!Toji x reader

Pure teasing

I would love to write more for them

You had one job.

Photograph the team.

Get clean action shots.

Deliver them to the local paper before deadline.

That was it.

You did not sign up to be harassed by the team’s captain.

Toji Fushiguro was a problem in human form.

Broad shoulders, scar across his lip, thighs that looked engineered in a lab and the confidence of someone who knew exactly how distracting he was.

You adjusted your lens as the whistle blew.

The team had just qualified for the championships, so today’s game was celebratory. High energy. Big crowd. Perfect lighting.

Perfect….

Toji looked straight at your camera mid-sprint and winked.

You lowered it slowly. Oh no.

He scored the first try of the match.

The crowd erupted.

Instead of high-fiving his teammates like a normal person, he turned toward the sideline.

Toward you.

You kept the camera up, determined to remain professional.

He slowed his jog.

Then deliberately he grabbed the hem of his shorts and tugged them slightly higher on his thigh.

Flexed.

Just enough to show off the muscle. Your camera clicked before you could stop it.

His smirk widened.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered.

The next time he tackled someone, he made sure to roll onto his back dramatically stretching his arms over his head like he was in a photoshoot instead of a rugby match.

Click.

You glared at him over the lens.

He flexed his bicep. On purpose.

You mouthed, Stop it.

He mouthed back, Make me.

Your eye twitched.

At halftime, he jogged over for water.

You pretended to scroll through your shots.

His shadow fell over you.

“Getting my good angles?” he asked casually.

“I’m documenting the team,” you replied flatly.

“Funny. You’ve only been following me.”

“I follow whoever has the ball.”

“That’s me.”

You finally looked up at him. Big mistake.

Sweat sliding down his neck. Jersey clinging to his chest. Breathing heavy from exertion.

“You’re insufferable,” you said.

He leaned down slightly.

“And yet,” he murmured, “you keep aiming the camera at me.”

You stepped back.

“I’m doing my job.”

“Do it harder.”

Your jaw clenched.

“Go back to the field.”

He laughed low, amused and jogged off.

Second half.

He got worse.

After scoring again, he ran past your side of the field and flexed both arms like he was in a bodybuilding competition.

The crowd thought it was hilarious. You did not.

You snapped the photo anyway.

Then he blew you a kiss. You visibly recoiled.

His grin turned feral. Oh. He liked that.

He liked that you were annoyed.

Every irritated glare? Fuel.

Every tight-lipped sigh? Encouragement.

By the final play, he was practically performing.

He broke through the defensive line and scored the winning try.

Instead of celebrating with the team, he jogged straight toward you again.

You lowered the camera before he could pose.

“I swear if you flex one more time”

He stopped directly in front of you. Breathing hard. Smiling like a menace.

“What? You don’t like the show?”

“I’m trying to take professional photos.”

“Those were professional.”

“You pulled your shorts up.”

“For aerodynamics.”

You stared at him. He didn’t even try to look serious.

“You’re acting like a child,” you said.

“And you’re blushing.”

Your face heated instantly.

“I am not.”

He leaned slightly closer.

“You get this mad at all your subjects?”

“Only the ones who won’t behave.”

“Then maybe you should tell me how to behave.”

Your breath hitched, just slightly.

He noticed. Of course he did.

He straightened up, smug.

“See you at the championships,” he said, backing away. “I’ll practice new poses.”

“If you flex, I’m cropping you out.”

He barked a laugh.

“You wouldn’t.”

You lifted your camera again.

“Try me.”

He jogged back to his teammates, still grinning.

You looked down at your camera screen.

Half the shots were perfect action captures brutal tackles, powerful strides, the winning try frozen mid-air.

The other half?

Him staring straight into your lens like you were the only person in the stadium.

You groaned. He wasn’t flirting. He was provoking. And the worst part?

It was working.

You scrolled. Paused. Zoomed in. There. A frame from the second half.

Right after he’d overcommitted to a tackle and gotten shoved sideways. His face mid-impact. Mouth slightly open. Hair falling weirdly across his forehead. One eye half-squinted. Thighs still massive, unfortunately, but the expression?

Tragic. You stared at it. Then you smiled slowly.

Professional? Yes. Balanced coverage of the team? Of course.

Front-page solo glamour shot of Toji Fushiguro flexing for your camera?

Absolutely not.

—

The next morning, Toji walked past the local convenience store on his way to training.

He wasn’t thinking about you. Definitely not.

He wasn’t thinking about the way you’d glared at him or the way you’d blushed or the fact that he’d never had someone resist reacting to him like that.

Nope. Not at all.

He reached for the door.

Then paused.

There, taped in the window next to the register, was the sports section front page.

“LOCAL TEAM ADVANCES TO CHAMPIONSHIPS.”

Below the headline: A large, crisp photo of him. Mid-tackle. Face scrunched. Mouth open like he’d just yelled something unintelligible. Hair a mess. Looking Unhinged.

Toji stared at it.

Long. Very long.

The shop owner glanced at him. “Good game yesterday.”

He didn’t respond. His eye twitched.

She didn’t use the scoring shot. She didn’t use the flex. She didn’t use the victorious pose. She used that one.

A slow grin spread across his face instead of anger.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered.

He stepped inside, bought a copy, and flipped through it.

The rest of the team had solid, flattering action shots.

Balanced. Strong. And him?

Looking like a feral animal mid-collision.

He huffed a laugh.

Oh. Oh, she thought she was funny.

He folded the paper under his arm.

Guess he’d have to give her better material at championships. Or worse.

Whichever got her more irritated.

Because if she thought that picture would embarrass him?

All it did was make him want to see that annoyed expression on her face again.

And this time he’d make sure she had to photograph him up close.

[awkward-walking-potato]

Can I request headcanons for JJK Choso, Hiromi Higuruma, Satoru Gojo, and Kento Nanami would think about his shy gender neutral crush giving him a love letter before leaving quickly please?

🩸 Choso

* He would freeze.

* Not metaphorically. Literally just stand there holding the letter, staring at the direction you ran off in.

* His heart would start pounding so hard it almost feels like battle adrenaline.

* He’s not used to gentle affection. He understands loyalty, devotion, protection… but a shy love letter? Written feelings? For him?

* He would read it once.

* Then again.

* Then a third time, slower.

* If you signed it, he would softly trace your name with his thumb.

* The fact that you ran away would make him oddly protective.

“They were nervous… because of me?”

* He would immediately want to find you not to confront, but to reassure you.

* When he finally sees you again, he’s surprisingly gentle:

> “You didn’t need to run. I would never reject you cruelly.”

* If he likes you back, he’ll be very sincere and direct. No games. No teasing.

> “If these feelings are true… I would like to understand them better. With you.”

* Expect intense eye contact and a quiet, protective devotion from that point on.

---

⚖️ Hiromi Higuruma

* He would be genuinely caught off guard.

* He’s used to reading people. Used to arguments, deception, logic.

But a shy, worded confession left in his hands? That’s different.

* He’d adjust his tie or rub the back of his neck before opening it.

* He would read it very carefully. Analyzing wording. Tone. Hesitation between the lines.

* He’d notice the parts where you tried to downplay your feelings.

* The fact that you ran off? He’d find it endearing.

* He wouldn’t chase you immediately. He’d give you time to breathe.

* Later, he’d approach you calmly:

> “You presented your feelings and fled the scene. That’s a bold legal strategy.”

* Slight teasing. Very soft expression though.

* If he reciprocates, he’ll respond thoughtfully:

> “I don’t take confessions lightly. If I accept this… I intend to take you seriously.”

* He’d likely write you a reply letter back. Structured. Honest. Slightly awkward but heartfelt.

---

🔮 Satoru Gojo

* Oh he SAW you coming.

* He absolutely noticed the nervous energy.

* Probably teased you lightly right before you shoved the letter at him.

* When you bolt? He grins.

> “Aww~ running away already?”

* He’d open it immediately.

* And surprisingly… he’d go quiet while reading it.

* Gojo gets flirted with constantly. But a shy, sincere letter? That hits differently.

* If your handwriting is messy from nerves? He thinks it’s adorable.

* He’d reread certain lines with a softer smile.

* Then he absolutely teleports or speed-walks to catch you before you can spiral into embarrassment.

* He’d appear behind you:

> “You didn’t even wait for the verdict?”

* If he likes you back, he won’t make you suffer:

> “Good thing I like you too. Otherwise you’d have passed out from stress by now.”

* Then he’ll gently flick your forehead and grin but his voice will be softer than usual.

* He’d keep the letter. 100%. Probably tucked somewhere safe.

⏱️ Kento Nanami

* He would blink.

* Then look at the envelope.

* Then at where you ran off.

* A small sigh.

* Not annoyed, just processing.

* He’d wait until he’s alone to open it.

* He reads it once. Very seriously. Very carefully.

* His expression wouldn’t change much, but his grip on the paper might tighten slightly.

* The shyness in your words would affect him deeply.

* He respects courage. And writing a letter despite fear? That’s courage.

* He would not chase you immediately. He’d consider his response first.

* The next time he sees you, he’d speak calmly:

> “Running away after a confession is inefficient.”

* But his tone would be gentler than usual.

* If he reciprocates:

> “I do not treat relationships casually. If I respond positively, understand that I mean it.”

* He might hand you a neatly written reply note instead of saying everything out loud.

* And he would absolutely keep your letter somewhere organized and safe.

[awkward-walking-potato]

hi!! can you write a funny imagine where y/n, toji, and megumi go through a day to day broke? just barely getting by but it’s still silly.

Bigger portions

You were very good at math.

Specifically:

“How to stretch one pack of chicken into three meals.”

It was a skill. A talent. An Olympic sport, honestly.

You plated dinner like you were on a cooking show.

Big portion.

Medium portion.

Tiny “I’m not that hungry anyway” portion.

Guess who always got the big one?

Megumi sat at the table, swinging his legs slightly.

“Why is mine bigger?” he asked one night.

“Because you’re growing,” you said immediately.

He looked down at it.

“…You’re taller than me.”

“Not for long,” you replied confidently.

From the couch, Toji snorted. You ignored him.

You played games with Megumi constantly.

Cards. Board games. “Who can hold their breath the longest.” (You always lost on purpose.)

You made it loud. Fun. Distracting.

Because if things were fun, then things were normal.

And if things were normal, then nobody would notice that the fridge had more condiments than food.

Toji noticed. Of course he did. He just didn’t say anything. Yet.

—

One night he comes home like he owns the world.

He kicks the door shut and tosses an envelope on the table.

“Pack it up,” he says.

You blink. “We’re being evicted?”

He rolls his eyes. “No. I won.”

“Oh.”

You immediately straighten. “Like legally?”

He gives you a look.

“…Zoo tomorrow,” he says instead.

Megumi freezes mid-sip of water.

“The zoo?” he repeats carefully.

“Yeah. They’ve got lions. Big ones.”

Megumi tries to stay calm. Fails. You grin. Toji pretends not to look pleased about it.

—

The zoo is chaos in the best way.

Megumi is suddenly a tour guide.

“That’s a snow leopard.”

“That’s a capybara.”

“Penguins mate for life.”

Toji chokes on his drink at that one.

“Don’t look at me,” you say, hands up.

At the food stand, Megumi orders a small vanilla ice cream. You wave off your own.

“I’m not hungry.”

Toji’s eyes narrow.

“You’ve said that eight times today.”

“Because it’s true.”

He makes a noise that suggests he does not believe you.

You all sit on a bench. Megumi takes two dramatic bites of his ice cream.

Then he pauses. Looks at you. Looks at the ice cream.

“…You can have half.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s yours.”

He frowns.

“You always say that.”

Your eye twitches.

“I just—”

“You give me the bigger pieces of chicken,” he continues calmly. “And more rice.”

You go still.

Toji slowly turns his head toward you.

“…Oh?” he says.

You glare at Megumi. Betrayed. Megumi holds out the cup.

“It’s fair,” he says simply.

Toji lets out a short laugh.

“Kid’s got you figured out.”

You cross your arms. “I was not starving.”

“You watered down soup,” Toji says flatly.

“That was called broth.”

“That was called sadness.”

Megumi nods seriously. “It was very watery.”

You gasp. “I cannot believe I’m being bullied right now.”

Toji crouches in front of Megumi.

“You sharing?” he asks.

Megumi nods.

Toji ruffles his hair. “Good.”

Then he looks at you.

“You. Eat.”

You narrow your eyes. “Make me.”

He leans closer.

“Don’t tempt me.”

Your face heats up instantly. Megumi looks between you both.

“…Are you guys fighting?”

“No,” you both say at the same time.

Megumi shoves the spoon toward you.

“Eat,” he orders.

You stare at him. He stares back. Toji crosses his arms.

“Yeah,” he adds. “Eat.”

You take a bite dramatically.

“There. Happy?”

Megumi nods and leans against your side.

Toji stands, resting his hand on the top of your head.

“You’re not allowed to shrink,” he mutters.

“I’m not shrinking.”

“You are a little,” he says.

“I am not.”

Megumi looks up at you.

“You are kind of.”

You gasp again. “Why is this a roast session?”

Toji smirks faintly.

“You don’t carry everything alone,” he says more quietly now. “Got it?”

You glance at him. He’s still teasing.

But his hand hasn’t moved from your head.

Warm. Solid. Present.

Megumi leans fully into you both.

“Next time,” he says, “we all get the same size.”

Toji huffs.

“Fine.”

You sigh dramatically.

“Okay. Equal chicken for everyone.”

Megumi smiles. Toji squeezes the back of your neck lightly.

“And if you try that watery soup again,” he adds, “I’m cooking.”

You grin up at him.

“That’s a threat.”

“Yeah.”

But for once the fridge won’t be empty. And neither will your plate.

[awkward-walking-potato]

When did you get hot?

At your bakery’s grand opening, the quiet dorm boy you once secretly baked for returns as a sharp-suited, broad-shouldered Nanami — and the crush you thought you’d outgrown hits all over again. When he catches you (and your cake) in his arms, you can’t help but wonder when exactly he became this devastating.

You’d always baked when you were nervous.

Final exams? Cookies.

Dorm homesickness? Banana bread.

Crush on your best friend’s tall, quiet roommate?

…Endless sandwiches and pastries you claimed were “extras.”

Opening your own bakery felt like the scariest, proudest thing you’d ever done.

The windows were strung with warm fairy lights, glass displays polished until they gleamed. The smell of vanilla and caramelized sugar filled the air. Your name hand-painted above the door still didn’t feel real.

You’d invited everyone.

Old dorm friends. Neighbors. Suppliers.

And, of course, Haibara.

He’d always been your biggest supporter, loudly bragging about your baking skills to anyone who would listen back at university.

You still remember the way he used to burst into your dorm kitchen.

“Got anything new? Nanami didn’t eat again.”

Nanami.

Back then he was all long limbs and hunched shoulders. Messy blond hair that fell into his eyes. Band tees. Earphones permanently around his neck. Quiet, observant, intimidating in that broody way.

You never handed him food directly.

You’d wrap sandwiches carefully and shove them at Haibara.

“Give this to him,” you’d say casually. “He forgets to eat.”

Haibara would grin like he knew something you didn’t.

—

The bell above your bakery door chimes.

You glance up.

And your brain short-circuits.

Haibara steps in first, as bright and cheerful as ever.

But behind him is not the lanky dorm boy you remember.

It’s a man.

Tall. Broad shoulders filling out a perfectly tailored suit. Hair neatly parted instead of falling into his eyes. A clean, sharp undercut replacing the old emo fringe.

And glasses.

A sleek, intelligent pair resting on a face that has sharpened with age.

Your stomach flips.

Haibara beams. “Hey! Look at this place!”

You wipe your hands on your apron, trying to regain control of your expression.

Then he steps aside slightly.

“Oh, do you remember my friend?”

Nanami’s eyes meet yours.

Calm. Steady. Assessing.

You almost drop the tray in your hands.

“Of course I remember,” you say, a little too quickly.

His voice is deeper now.

“Yes. We used to live in the same dorm building.”

Used to. Like it was no big deal.

Like you didn’t once stay up until 3 a.m. frosting cupcakes because Haibara mentioned Nanami liked chocolate.

You laugh softly. “You’ve… changed.”

One of his brows lifts slightly.

“So have you.”

You swear your cheeks warm.

Haibara looks between you both, delighted.

“I’m grabbing drinks,” he announces, clearly sensing something. “You two catch up!”

And then you’re alone.

For a second neither of you speaks.

He looks around the bakery, taking in every detail.

“You built this from nothing?” he asks.

You nod. “Been planning it for years.”

His gaze lingers on you longer than necessary.

“It suits you.”

Simple words. Delivered calmly.

But something about the way he says it makes your heart skip.

—

Flashback

Dorm kitchen at midnight.

You in oversized pajamas, flour on your cheek.

Haibara leaning against the counter while you cut sandwiches.

“Why don’t you just give it to him yourself?” he teased.

You scoffed. “Because that’s embarrassing.”

“He’d probably like it.”

“Stop talking.”

You wrapped the sandwich carefully, smoothing the napkin like it mattered.

Haibara took it with a grin.Nanami never said anything.

But he always ate them.

—

Back in the present, the bakery is buzzing.

Customers laugh. Music hums softly in the background.

You carry out a tall cake you’d spent hours decorating white buttercream with delicate gold accents.

As you step toward the display table You notice a woman near Nanami.

She’s laughing, touching his arm lightly.

Too lightly.

Too comfortably.

Nanami stands there politely, expression neutral. Hands in pockets.

Your chest tightens.

Ridiculous.

You haven’t seen him in years.

You shouldn’t care.

But you do.

You glance away too quickly your foot catching on the corner of the rug.

Your body tilts.

The cake wobbles.

Your stomach drops.

But before gravity wins a strong hands catch you.

One arm secures your waist firmly. The other steadies the cake with precision.

It doesn’t even tilt.

You blink.

You’re pressed against him.

Chest to chest.

The scent of something clean and expensive replaces vanilla and sugar.

His grip is solid. Protective.

“I’ve got you,” he says quietly.

Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

The woman who’d been flirting with him awkwardly steps back.

“Careful,” Nanami murmurs, eyes scanning you quickly. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head, breathless.

The cake is perfectly upright in his other hand.

Not a single decorative curl disturbed.

“How did you—”

“I have good reflexes.”

His mouth almost curves.

You’re still in his arms.

You become very aware of it.

His muscles under the suit jacket. The steady warmth of his hand at your waist.

Your brain catches up too late and you step back, flustered.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says gently.

You look up at him properly now. Really look.

The boy from university is gone.

In his place is someone composed. Confident. Solid.

“When did you…” you start, then laugh nervously. “When did you get like this?”

His gaze softens just slightly.

“When did you?”

You blink.

“What?”

“You used to hide behind the kitchen door when you gave Haibara those sandwiches.”

Your entire body freezes.

He knew?

He adjusts his glasses calmly.

“You always wrapped them neatly. Too neatly for them to be random.”

You can’t breathe.

“I didn’t want to embarrass you,” he continues. “You were… very thoughtful.”

Your cheeks burn.

“You never said anything.”

“I wasn’t very good at talking back then.”

He pauses.

“I am now.”

The implication hangs there.

Warm. Heavy.

Haibara reappears, grinning wildly.

“See? I leave you alone for five minutes”

Nanami hands him the perfectly intact cake without breaking eye contact with you.

“Make sure this gets to the table,” he says calmly.

Haibara takes it, stunned.

You’re still standing there, heart racing.

Nanami steps slightly closer.

“Congratulations,” he says softly. “I’m proud of you.”

The words hit deeper than you expect.

“And,” he adds after a beat, “I’d like to take you to dinner. Properly this time. Without intermediaries.”

You laugh, shy and overwhelmed.

“No Haibara delivery system?”

“Preferably not.”

You nod before you can second guess yourself.

“Okay.”

For the first time all night, Nanami smiles fully.

And it’s devastating.