you hit different // ep 10 : after the bell
PREMISE : sukuna ryomen is the university's undefeated boxing star, but his reputation might cost him the career he's been fighting for. you’re just a student trying to write the article that could make your name, until he offers you a deal : fake date him.
he gets the image he needs. you get the story of a lifetime.
it's supposed to be temporary. just an arrangement. just for appearances. but when the season ends and the cameras are gone… what happens when they have to figure out what's real?
PAIRING : boxing!sukuna ryomen x fem!reader
GENRES / TAGS / WARNINGS : modern college au, athlete!sukuna, boxer!sukuna, fake dating, senior sukuna, slow burn, enemies to lovers, banter, fluff, angst, smut, lots of jealousy, mutual pining, smau with written chapters, emotionally constipated sukuna, reader who talks back, competitive tension, campus drama
series masterlist song of the ep : double take by dhruv
Victory looked different up close.
On social media, it came packaged in dramatic highlight reels and shaky videos filmed from the bleachers. By now, TJU Athletics had probably already posted something with enough fire emojis to qualify as a public safety hazard. By tomorrow morning, half the university would be arguing over which round had been the best and by next week, everyone would have moved on.
Real victory looked significantly less glamorous.
It looked like athletic tape abandoned on locker-room benches and students stumbling out of the arena, still riding the high of watching twenty-two-year-olds willingly punch each other for fun.
Mostly, though, victory looked like you standing outside the building because Ryomen Sukuna had texted you exactly two words : wait there.
No explanation or no punctuation.
Not even the courtesy of pretending it was a request rather than a command.
You could have left. You probably should have left.
Instead, you found yourself leaning against the metal railing outside the arena, checking your phone every few minutes as though that would somehow speed things up.
Embarrassing behavior, honestly.
The night air had cooled by the time the doors finally swung open. Sukuna emerged a few moments later, gym bag slung over one shoulder and his hoodie thrown on carelessly, the fabric still dark around the collar where his hair hadn't quite dried. Fresh out of the shower and no longer under the harsh lights of the ring, he looked different somehow.
Because without the gloves and the cheers and the title of TJU's undefeated champion hanging over his head, he looked exactly like what he was : a twenty-two-year-old guy leaving practice on a Thursday night.
"You survived," you said as he approached.
He adjusted the strap of his bag. "Barely," he replied.
"Interesting. From where I was sitting, the other guy seemed to be having a much worse time," you added.
"You sound awfully confident."
Sukuna shrugged. "I've hit people harder."
"That is somehow the least reassuring thing you've ever told me."
"I can definitely do worse."
"I know. I've interviewed you." The corner of his mouth twitched.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then he nodded toward the road ahead.
The question caught you off guard.
You stared at him. "Wait. That's why you made me stand outside in the cold? You're hungry?"
"I'm not the one whose stomach was growling ten minutes ago."
You nearly tripped over your own feet.
"My stomach did not growl."
"You're imagining things."
"You got punched in the head for two hours. Your hearing's probably damaged."
He laughed quietly, shaking his head. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
The two of you started walking.
Campus had settled into that strange nighttime version of itself, where the pathways were emptier and conversations drifted from open dorm windows. Somewhere in the distance, music played loudly enough to irritate at least three professors.
You shoved your hands into your pockets.
"You know, normal people celebrate after winning."
"By kidnapping a journalism student?"
"You're here voluntarily."
Sukuna glanced at you. "You could've left."
The response came so quickly that you almost missed it. But you didn't.
Because the annoying thing was that he wasn't wrong. You could have left. Instead, you'd waited.
Like some deeply pathetic Victorian woman waiting for her husband to return from war rather than a university student lingering outside a boxing arena because a guy with commitment issues had texted her.
God, you hated that comparison immediately.
The restaurant he took you to was tucked between a pharmacy and a convenience store just outside campus. It wasn't fancy by any means. Plastic chairs scraped against the floor, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead and the menu looked as though it had survived several economic crises.
"You eat here often?" you asked, sliding into the seat across from him.
He shook his head. "Usually by myself."
You looked up from the menu.
There was something oddly sad about that answer.
Not devastatingly sad. Sukuna would probably rather walk barefoot across broken glass than admit to loneliness.
A waiter appeared beside the table. Sukuna ordered almost immediately. Meanwhile, you spent an embarrassing amount of time staring at the menu.
He looked up. "You've been reading the same page for five minutes."
"I'm considering my options."
"You're panicking" he said amusingly.
"You absolutely are." Sukuna said, not even bothering to hide the smug look on his face.
You sighed dramatically and slid the menu across the table. "Fine. You order."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're trusting me with your dinner?"
"I survived your boxing match. This feels like the logical next step" you replied, leaning back in your chair.
"You made me wait forty minutes. The least you can do is feed me."
Sukuna snorted softly. “I never asked you to stay that long."
You stared at him. "You literally texted me wait there."
"Didn't think you'd actually listen,” he admitted with a shrug.
For some reason, that answer landed strangely.
Sukuna seemed to realize what he'd said a second too late because he looked away almost immediately, drumming his fingers against the table while pretending to be very interested in the condensation sliding down his glass.
Thankfully, the waiter returned before your brain could embarrass you any further.
Over the next hour, you learned several things.
Firstly, Ryomen Sukuna was apparently incapable of respecting the concept of personal property. Despite ordering his own food, he kept reaching across the table to steal fries from your plate with the confidence of a man who paid your tuition.
Secondly, his music taste was genuinely horrific.
You'd discovered this after making the mistake of asking what he listened to while training, only for him to shove one earbud into your ear and subject you to something that sounded suspiciously like construction equipment fighting for its life.
"You voluntarily listen to this?" you asked, horrified.
Sukuna barely looked up from his food. "You're being dramatic."
"I think I'm being remarkably restrained."
"Funny. Usually you struggle with that."
"Oh, shut up." The corners of his mouth twitched.
And that, unfortunately, led to the third thing you'd learned that evening.
Outside the gym, away from the ring and the constant noise that seemed to follow him everywhere, Sukuna laughed more than you'd expected.
Enough that you started to understand why his friends put up with him despite his deeply irritating personality.
At one point, you laughed so hard at one of his stories that your elbow caught your drink, sending it dangerously close to the edge of the table. Sukuna caught it before it could spill.
"You're a disaster," he muttered, setting the glass back down.
You leaned back in your chair. "You invited me out. This feels like a problem of your own making."
"Trust me, I'm starting to realize that."
"Liar," you replied, pointing an accusatory fry at him.
That earned you something dangerously close to a smile.
Not one of those fake, polite smiles people gave out of obligation. No, this one was small and fleeting, gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
You hated the effect it had on you. The conversation drifted after that. It became all about classes, professors and the collective incompetence of TJU's administration.
You told him about the time you'd accidentally submitted a blank assignment and spent twenty minutes convincing your professor that it had been corrupted during upload. Sukuna, looking entirely too pleased with himself, admitted that he'd once been suspended in his first year for punching someone who'd insulted his boxing coach.
You stared at him. "You're actually insane."
"I've heard that before," he said with a shrug.
"Repeatedly, I'd imagine."
"Someone has to do the difficult jobs."
He snorted softly into his drink.
The worst part was how easy all of it felt. Because this wasn't supposed to happen.
This entire arrangement had started with an article assignment and a fake relationship that had somehow spiralled spectacularly out of control. You were supposed to interview him, observe his practices, maybe write something vaguely inspirational about athletic dedication.
You were not supposed to be sitting across from him at nearly midnight, arguing over whether cereal counted as dinner.
‘And yet’ as he always remarks.
By the time the two of you stepped back outside, campus had gone quiet. Most dorm windows were dark, save for the occasional poor soul cramming for an exam or making catastrophically bad life choices. Not like you could be the judge of that, anyway.
The walk back to your dorm felt shorter than it should have. You stopped outside the entrance, adjusting the strap of your bag.
"Thanks for dinner," you mentioned.
Sukuna shrugged. "You would've starved otherwise."
"Please, I would've survived" you almost rolled your eyes.
You narrowed your eyes. "You sound weirdly concerned."
"I'm protecting my investment," he replied.
You frowned. "Investment?"
The answer shouldn't have bothered you. After all, the article was the entire reason any of this had started in the first place.
It was the reason you'd spent weeks following him around campus, sitting through practices and interviews and pretending that the extra time together existed solely for academic purposes.
Still, disappointment settled somewhere in your chest before you could stop it. Sukuna shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and took a step backward.
"I'll see you next week."
"Try not to hospitalize anyone before then."
"You talk too much," he replied, though there wasn't much bite behind the words this time.
Your room was dark when you pushed the door open. You dumped your bag onto the floor, changed into the oldest T-shirt you owned and opened your laptop with every intention of being productive for at least an hour.
The article draft stared back at you.
For weeks, your notes had been painfully straightforward. Statistics, records and all the professional things. Now, though, they'd become cluttered with details that had absolutely no business being there.
The fact that he skipped breakfast before morning practice. The way he stayed behind after everyone else left.
How he got quieter after bad training sessions and somehow more unbearable after good ones.
None of those things belonged in a sports profile. And yet, you'd written them down anyway.
Your cursor blinked impatiently. You glanced at the clock.
Then, against your better judgement, your hand drifted toward your phone.
Because you'd seen him less than twenty minutes ago.
Because you were supposed to be working.
Because none of this was supposed to mean anything.
And yet, somewhere between the interviews and the arguments and whatever tonight had been, something had shifted.
The truly horrifying realization wasn't that you'd just spent three hours with Ryomen Sukuna.
It was that, over the course of those three hours, you hadn't asked him a single interview question. And, even worse, you hadn't wanted to.
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