suguru read the chat amused while he looked at the viewership on his stream increasing. why? because rottenyn and sixeyesatoru keep edging their fans on their āsituationshipā relationship thing that was going on, and the one and only streamer!satoru was there, in suguruās stream.
suguru initially wanted to do a gameplay, but when he realized that he accidentally invited satoru prior, he realized he might as well profit off this situation his friend finds himself in.
āpay no mind,ā streamer!satoru said. ātheyāve done that in my tiktok and insta comments too.ā
as much as he wanted to deny it and keep it cool in front of the chat, streamer!satoru had to keep his imageādespite the fact that he dms you every night. he managed to get your number and play the occasional game pigeon, play some private 1v1 sessions, and even watch a movie on a discord call twice a weekā¦however it would be preferable to do it in person, but you are just so considerate on getting clipped and taking to consideration streamer!satoruās career. god you really were coolā¦
after sukunaās streamer get-together, his feed went on fire due to the camera showing your interaction in the background. it got clipped all over social media and not to mention, people were now starting to pay attention to how satoru even interacts with your posts, always liking it in minutes and commenting ānonchalantlyā.
and thatā¦that was the best thing to have come out of the stream.
he didnāt want to admit it, but satoru loved the ship names spammed in the chat and even his fans coming up to him and asking about you. he got approached at a popmart store and clipped. then, his timeline went on fire, why? streamer!satoru said popmart was overrated; but who likes to open popmart figures? streamer!yn.
streamer!satoru couldnāt lieāhe found it so funny when his fans asked you about him. because then he would come across clips of the stream on twitter and see how flustered youād get, then give a response with a cute smile on your face. streamer!satoru loved sending those clips and teasing you.
ālmao heās so invested in his phone i bet heās texting yn. yeahhh i think so too.ā suguru laughed, invested in the chat more than on his valorant session. āgot any ship name ideas? how about sato-y/n? or maybe y/n-toru?ā
he frowned. āshut up iām buying something.ā to which suguru leaned over to see. āa zimomo? hmmm interesting. whatādya gotta say about that, chat? personally, i think theyāre fugly as shit but i know a certain someone really likes thoseā¦ā
the ping! of the chat increased linearly, then suguru spoke again. āby the way, our special guest is coming soon. we can play like flee the facility or something.ā
āwho?ā satoru asked, still scrolling on his phone for more trinkets to buy for your next 'unboxing stream'.
ādunno if you know them. but she should beā,ā then the doorbell rang. āah. sheās here.ā
āshe-?āā āget the door, satoru. iām busyā¦ā
satoru hummed, thinking that suguru got a streamer!yn of his own (but youāre totally wayyy better) and gasped when he opened the door. he sure as hell didnāt expect you..but he isn't inherently complaining about it either.
āoh! hey satoru!ā
satoru froze, pouted, and let you in. āwait what the hell? i didn't know you were coming? why didnāt you text meeee? yn?ā
you giggled and kissed his cheekāresulting in his face burning red like a tomato. āsorry toru, iāll let you know next time. thanks for the sonny angels. iāll be sure to shout you out next streamā,ā
"toru, huh?" suguruās gaming chair wheeled back and he cleared his throat. āguys, donāt forget that when youāre on stream, people can hear you. yeah. people have ears. get over here and letās play flee the facility.ā
once you and satoru pulled roblox up on your phones, suguru began laughing. you forgot that suguru was showing his screen so when viewers noticed the two matching roblox avatars next to suguru's customized one, the chat's ding-ing became more apparent.
āawh matching avatars? how cute.ā he mocked.
it was safe to say that your entire feed went on fire with more possible ship names.
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if i were to make another part of this streamer series, what would you guys want to see? vnlinewnelbwlkq (lmao should i make jjk streamer university and add it into this or smt, i say as i'm watching this youtube video essay on how funny streamer university is)
suguru read the chat amused while he looked at the viewership on his stream increasing. why? because rottenyn and sixeyesatoru keep edging their fans on their āsituationshipā relationship thing that was going on, and the one and only streamer!satoru was there, in suguruās stream.
suguru initially wanted to do a gameplay, but when he realized that he accidentally invited satoru prior, he realized he might as well profit off this situation his friend finds himself in.
āpay no mind,ā streamer!satoru said. ātheyāve done that in my tiktok and insta comments too.ā
as much as he wanted to deny it and keep it cool in front of the chat, streamer!satoru had to keep his imageādespite the fact that he dms you every night. he managed to get your number and play the occasional game pigeon, play some private 1v1 sessions, and even watch a movie on a discord call twice a weekā¦however it would be preferable to do it in person, but you are just so considerate on getting clipped and taking to consideration streamer!satoruās career. god you really were coolā¦
after sukunaās streamer get-together, his feed went on fire due to the camera showing your interaction in the background. it got clipped all over social media and not to mention, people were now starting to pay attention to how satoru even interacts with your posts, always liking it in minutes and commenting ānonchalantlyā.
and thatā¦that was the best thing to have come out of the stream.
he didnāt want to admit it, but satoru loved the ship names spammed in the chat and even his fans coming up to him and asking about you. he got approached at a popmart store and clipped. then, his timeline went on fire, why? streamer!satoru said popmart was overrated; but who likes to open popmart figures? streamer!yn.
streamer!satoru couldnāt lieāhe found it so funny when his fans asked you about him. because then he would come across clips of the stream on twitter and see how flustered youād get, then give a response with a cute smile on your face. streamer!satoru loved sending those clips and teasing you.
ālmao heās so invested in his phone i bet heās texting yn. yeahhh i think so too.ā suguru laughed, invested in the chat more than on his valorant session. āgot any ship name ideas? how about sato-y/n? or maybe y/n-toru?ā
he frowned. āshut up iām buying something.ā to which suguru leaned over to see. āa zimomo? hmmm interesting. whatādya gotta say about that, chat? personally, i think theyāre fugly as shit but i know a certain someone really likes thoseā¦ā
the ping! of the chat increased linearly, then suguru spoke again. āby the way, our special guest is coming soon. we can play like flee the facility or something.ā
āwho?ā satoru asked, still scrolling on his phone for more trinkets to buy for your next 'unboxing stream'.
ādunno if you know them. but she should beā,ā then the doorbell rang. āah. sheās here.ā
āshe-?āā āget the door, satoru. iām busyā¦ā
satoru hummed, thinking that suguru got a streamer!yn of his own (but youāre totally wayyy better) and gasped when he opened the door. he sure as hell didnāt expect you..but he isn't inherently complaining about it either.
āoh! hey satoru!ā
satoru froze, pouted, and let you in. āwait what the hell? i didn't know you were coming? why didnāt you text meeee? yn?ā
you giggled and kissed his cheekāresulting in his face burning red like a tomato. āsorry toru, iāll let you know next time. thanks for the sonny angels. iāll be sure to shout you out next streamā,ā
"toru, huh?" suguruās gaming chair wheeled back and he cleared his throat. āguys, donāt forget that when youāre on stream, people can hear you. yeah. people have ears. get over here and letās play flee the facility.ā
once you and satoru pulled roblox up on your phones, suguru began laughing. you forgot that suguru was showing his screen so when viewers noticed the two matching roblox avatars next to suguru's customized one, the chat's ding-ing became more apparent.
āawh matching avatars? how cute.ā he mocked.
it was safe to say that your entire feed went on fire with more possible ship names.
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-
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if i were to make another part of this streamer series, what would you guys want to see? vnlinewnelbwlkq (lmao should i make jjk streamer university and add it into this or smt, i say as i'm watching this youtube video essay on how funny streamer university is)
a/n :: i deadass might make a little part 2 for geto hehe
Satoru wasn't your typical nerd.
He didn't care about math or history, and he definitely didn't care about the syllabus for a single class that didn't involve a keyboard, a computer, or a snare drum. The guy barely scraped by in anything that wasn't music theory or coding, not because he wasn't smart ā he was, annoyingly so ā but because he refused to put in effort for anything that didn't already have his attention. His attention, once caught, was a spotlight. If it hadn't caught you yet, you didn't exist.
He spent his free time exactly three ways: behind his drum kit in Suguru's garage, buried in a Digimon rewatch he'd already seen four times, or three hours deep into a raid with a headset clamped over messy white hair, screaming at Nanami through the mic to actually heal him this time. His dorm room looked like a Best Buy had a baby with a comic shop ā string lights, a wall of figures still in their boxes because "they lose value if you open them," and a corkboard covered in setlists for a band that had, generously, played six shows.
Satoru always knew that if he fell for someone, it would be a nerd. He just never pictured it looking like you.
You met him because of a spilled iced coffee and absolutely nothing more romantic than that.
It was the first week of the semester, campus still humid and overcrowded, and you'd been power-walking across the quad with a garment bag over one shoulder and a stack of sketchbooks under the other arm when a very tall, very loud boy backed directly into you without looking. Your coffee went down his band tee ā some faded shirt with a logo you didn't recognize, letters half peeled off ā and his drumsticks clattered onto the pavement.
"Oh my god," you'd said, mortified, already fishing napkins out of your bag like you kept a small pharmacy in there. Which, to be fair, you kind of did.
"Don't apologize," he said, grinning down at the stain like it was the best thing that happened to him all week. "This shirt was already ugly. You just gave it character."
You blinked at him. He was obnoxiously tall, silver hair falling messily over startling blue eyes, and there was a confidence radiating off him that didn't match the drumsticks or the Digimon keychain clipped to his backpack. He didn't carry himself like the guys you'd catalogued back home ā the shy ones who blushed and stammered over a group project. He looked at you like he already knew the ending of this conversation and thought it was funny.
"I'm Satoru," he said, sticking out a hand like this was a business meeting and not a crime scene of oat milk. "Drummer. Certified genius. Currently drowning in caffeine that isn't mine."
"That's on you for walking backwards."
"I was doing a bit for my friend." He jerked his thumb toward a guy with a long black ponytail standing several feet away, watching the whole thing with the weary patience of someone who had clearly done cleanup duty for Satoru before. "Suguru doesn't think I can walk and talk at the same time. I was proving him wrong."
"You were proving him right."
That got a laugh out of him ā a real one, loud and delighted, like you'd said something far funnier than you meant to. "Okay. I like you." He said it so easily, like liking people was a decision he made in real time and didn't think twice about. "What's your major?"
"Fashion design."
"Perfect." He picked his drumsticks up off the ground, twirling one between his fingers with the kind of muscle memory that only came from years of doing it. "You can redesign this shirt. Character and all."
You should've walked away right then. You had a class in eleven minutes and a stained blouse of your own to deal with. Instead you found yourself saying, "I don't do charity work," and watching his grin widen like you'd thrown down a gauntlet instead of an insult.
"We'll see about that, coffee girl."
You didn't expect to see him again. Campus was big, your circles didn't overlap, and you'd mentally filed him under loud, cute, forgettable the second you sat down in your first lecture. Except campus, as it turned out, was smaller than you thought, and Satoru Gojo was apparently everywhere.
He was in your general ed elective, three seats over, doodling little digital monsters in the margins of notes he wasn't taking. He was at the campus coffee shop your roommate dragged you to, holding court at a corner table with three other guys ā the ponytail one, a stoic blond who looked like he paid taxes for fun, and someone with tattoos creeping up his forearms who kept flicking Satoru in the back of the head every time he got too loud. He was at the party your friend Utahime insisted you go to, standing on top of someone's coffee table doing an impression of a professor that had half the room in tears.
And every single time, he found you first.
"Coffee girl." He'd taken to calling you that instead of your actual name, which you found insufferable and, somewhere you weren't proud of, kind of charming. "Fate keeps throwing us together. I think the universe wants me to fix my fashion sense."
"The universe wants you to stop backing into people."
"Same thing, honestly."
It became a rhythm you didn't ask for and didn't stop, either ā him dropping into the seat beside you before lecture with some ridiculous opener, you rolling your eyes and answering anyway. He asked about your sketches once, actually asked, leaning over your shoulder close enough that you could smell his cologne ā something warm, a little spiced, nothing like the Axe body spray you'd assumed a guy like him wore.
"You drew that?" He was looking at a half-finished dress design, all sharp lines and asymmetric draping, like it was something out of a museum instead of the back page of your notebook.
"It's not done."
"It's sick. You're actually insane for this." He said it with none of the performative flirting from before ā just plain, unguarded awe, like he'd forgotten to be cocky about it. "I can't draw a stick figure that doesn't look like it's having a medical emergency."
"I find that hard to believe. Aren't you obsessed with Digimon? Don't you have to draw those?"
"I collect them. Different skill set." He tapped the page. "This is actual art. What I do is scream into a headset until Nanami mutes me."
You found out, slowly and against your will, that he wasn't just loud confidence stacked on top of nothing. He knew music theory cold, could break down a chord progression on the spot, had strong and extremely specific opinions about which Digimon partner was objectively the best (Angemon, he'd argue this until sunrise) and an even stronger opinion about video game soundtracks being "criminally underrated as an art form, coffee girl, I will die on this hill." He talked with his whole body, hands flying, volume climbing, and then every so often ā rare, unexpected ā he'd get quiet. Almost shy. Usually right after he said something too honest.
Like the day he asked if you wanted to come watch his band practice.
"It's just Suguru's garage. It's not glamorous." He rubbed the back of his neck, and for a second the cockiness dropped clean off his face, replaced by something more nervous, more real. "You don't have to. I just ā thought you might want to hear it. Since you've never actually heard us play anything."
You said yes before you'd fully decided to.
The garage smelled like reverb and stale energy drinks. Suguru ā Suguru Geto, you learned, the guy with the ponytail ā was tuning a guitar with the focus of a surgeon, occasionally throwing dry commentary at Satoru that made the whole room laugh. Shoko sat cross-legged on an amp, painting her nails an unbothered black, bass propped against her knee like an afterthought even though she was clearly the best musician in the room. Nanami ā tax-paying-energy Nanami ā adjusted his keyboard stand with military precision and gave you a polite nod that felt like the most normal interaction you'd had all week. And Sukuna, tattooed and terrifying in a way that made you instinctively step half a foot closer to Satoru, sat behind a second guitar looking like he was personally offended by the concept of being in a band.
"This is coffee girl," Satoru announced, flopping down behind his kit like he owned the room, which, in fairness, he kind of did. "She's here to witness greatness."
"She's here because you wouldn't shut up about her," Suguru said, not looking up from his guitar. "For two weeks."
"Slander."
"Documented slander," Shoko added without looking up from her nails. "He has a note in his phone."
Satoru's ears went pink. It was the single most satisfying thing you'd seen all semester.
"Play the song, Satoru," Sukuna said flatly, "before I lose the will to be here."
They played. And you understood, watching him, why he never took his classes seriously ā because this, clearly, was where all of it went. He wasn't just loud behind the kit, he was precise, locked in with Shoko's bass in a way that looked like something they'd built over years, sticks a blur, head bobbing, completely unselfconscious in a way you hadn't seen from him anywhere else. There was no performance in it. No bit. Just him, fully present, grinning like an idiot between songs when he caught you watching.
After, while the others packed up, he sat down next to you on the busted garage couch, sweat-damp and buzzing with adrenaline, close enough that his knee brushed yours.
"So?" He tried for casual. Missed by a mile. "Verdict?"
"You're actually good."
"Actually good, or good-good?"
"Don't push it."
He laughed, and something in his face softened, the cocky mask slipping sideways just enough that you caught the boy underneath it ā the one who kept a note in his phone, who got shy about the things he cared about most, who'd apparently been talking about you for two weeks before he worked up the nerve to invite you here.
"Hey," he said, quieter now, no audience left to perform for. "I know I'm ā a lot. Loud. Whatever. I don't really do subtle."
"I noticed."
"I'm serious about this, though." He gestured vaguely between the two of you, and for once he wasn't smirking. "I don't want this to be a bit."
You should've had a witty comeback ready. You always did, with him ā it was half the fun, the back-and-forth, the way he pushed and you pushed back just as hard. But something about the way he said it, stripped of all his usual bravado, made the words catch in your throat instead.
"It's not a bit," you said instead, quiet. "For me either."
The grin that broke across his face then was different from all the others ā not performing, not for the room, not for a bit. Just for you.
"Good," he said. "Because I already told the guys you're my girlfriend. Retroactively. As of two weeks ago."
"Satoru."
"What? I was manifesting."
You shoved his shoulder, and he caught your wrist on the way, lacing his fingers through yours like it was the easiest thing in the world, like he'd been planning exactly this move since the coffee spilled down his shirt. Across the garage, Suguru caught the two of you and rolled his eyes so hard you were fairly sure it hurt.
"Finally," he muttered.
Nobody in that garage was surprised. Apparently you were the last one to figure it out ā that the loudest, cockiest, most insufferable nerd on campus had quietly, embarrassingly, been falling for you since the first day you soaked his shirt in oat milk latte and told him he deserved it.
You figured it was fair. He'd been sneaking his way into your life for weeks without asking permission for that either.
ļøµ ą³ fluff. you call satoru by his last name in public and he is a bit dramatic about it
the staff meeting at jujutsu high was supposed to be the most boring hour of your week, the kind where yaga talks about statistics and everyone quietly checks how many minutes are left before they can go get lunch.
but you and satoru had gotten into a fight that morning, one of those stupid arguments that starts over something small and somehow spirals into āwell maybe you just donāt think about anyone but yourself,ā and neither of you had really resolved it before you both had to show up to work like functioning adults.
so when he strolled into the conference room fifteen minutes late, blindfold pushed up onto his head, grinning like the whole world owed him a good morning, you didnāt even glance up from your notebook.
āmorning, morning, did everyone miss me?ā he said, dropping into the seat next to yours like nothing at all had happened between the two of you a few hours earlier.
āgojo,ā you said, without looking up, your voice perfectly even, like you were greeting a coworker you barely knew.
the entire room seemed to freeze for a second. not satoru. not babe, not the nickname you swore youād never use in public but absolutely used constantly at home. just gojo, delivered with all the warmth of a weather report.
nanamiās eyebrows climbed so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline. shoko made a small choking sound and had to set her coffee cup down before she embarrassed herself further. even yaga, who had seen a thousand strange things happen in this school, paused his sentence about budget allocations to look between the two of you like heād wandered into the middle of a drama he hadnāt signed up for.
satoru blinked, the smile faltering just slightly at the corners. āhuh?ā
you flipped a page in your notebook and underlined something that absolutely did not need underlining, just to have somewhere to put your hands.
ādid you,ā he started, sitting up straighter now, all his earlier ease draining out of him, ādid you seriously just gojo me?ā
ācan we please get back to the agenda,ā you said, addressing the room in general rather than him specifically.
nanami cleared his throat and tried to steer things back on track. āas i was saying, the eastern district has seen an uptick in curse activity over the pastāā
āshe gojoād me,ā satoru interrupted, loud enough that the whole table heard it, staring at you with the wounded expression of a man who had just watched his house burn down in front of him. āin front of everyone. she used my last name like iām a substitute teacher.ā
you still didnāt look at him. you clicked your pen closed, then open again, then closed, a habit you knew drove him up the wall, and said nothing at all.
āfocus, gojo,ā you said again, watching the way his whole soul seemed to leave his body when you said it a second time was a little more satisfying than youād expected.
āokay. okay, everybody hold on,ā satoru said, raising both hands like he was trying to talk down an actual hostage situation. ānobody move, nobody speak, something has gone horribly wrong here. she just used my government name. in public. on purpose.ā
āthat is your name,ā nanami pointed out, deadpan, not even looking up from his own notes.
ānot to her it isnāt! not in four years has she ever once called me gojo, and now suddenly, out of nowhere, in the middle of a staff meeting, sheās talking to me like iām a stranger she met at the post officeāā he turned to you again, voice climbing with real panic now. āokay, you know what, meetingās over, everyone go home, thank you for coming, weāll rescheduleāā
āthe meeting,ā yaga said flatly, unimpressed, āis not over.ā
āit is for me!ā satoru stood so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor, then leaned across the table toward you, blindfold slipping further down his forehead, genuine desperation creeping into his voice. āwhat did i do. just tell me what i did and iāll fix it. is this about the mission partner thing? itās the mission partner thing, isnāt it. i can undo it. i can un-fix the fixing. i can grovel right here in front of everyone if thatās what this requiresāā
you finally looked up to deliver the final blow with the sweetest, most devastating calm you could manage:
āiām not sure what you mean, gojo. weāre in the middle of a meeting.ā
that was the moment the room completely lost it. shoko was laughing so hard into her coffee cup that she had to set it down entirely, wiping at her eyes. nanami pressed a hand over his face like he was praying for the strength to survive this job for one more day. even yaga, who never smiled during meetings on principle, was clearly biting back one now, badly.
āthatās it,ā satoru said, dropping back into his chair. āfine. thatās fine. be like that. see if i care. i am literally the strongest sorcerer in the world and i am being disrespected in my own place of employment, in front of my own coworkers, by my ownāā he lowered his voice for the last part, leaning toward you like it was a secret, āāgirlfriend, who apparently doesnāt remember that we live together and that i know exactly what cereal she eats and exactly what she looks like withoutāā
āgojo,ā nanami cut in, exhausted, āplease let the meeting continue.ā
āsee! even he can feel that something is deeply wrong here! the temperature in this room actually dropped! shoko, did the temperature just drop or was that just meāā
you allowed yourself the smallest, most private smile, tucked safely behind the cover of your notebook, as the strongest sorcerer alive continued to unravel in real time over exactly one syllable of his own last name, in front of the entire senior staff of jujutsu high, on a random tuesday morning.
by the time you got home that evening, satoru had clearly spent the whole day rehearsing something, because the second you walked through the door he was already there, hovering, almost vibrating with nervous energy like a dog that knows it did something wrong but isnāt sure what.
āokay so,ā he said, following you into the kitchen, āiāve been thinking about this literally all day, and i want to formally apologize, on the record, for the mission partner thing, and also i want to say, for the record, that what you did today was actually kind of terrifying and i need you to never do it again.ā
ādo what,ā you said, setting your bag down like you had no idea what he could possibly mean, even though you absolutely did.
āyou know what,ā he said, sliding an arm around your waist from behind before you could even take your jacket off, chin dropping onto your shoulder. āthe gojo thing. please. iām begging you. never again.ā
āitās your name,ā you said, echoing nanami from earlier, and you felt him groan directly into your shoulder.
āit is not my name when you say it like that,ā he mumbled. āwhen you say it like that it sounds like youāre breaking up with me in front of witnesses. i had to sit there for an entire meeting wondering if this was it, if this was the day my girlfriend decided sheād had enough of me and was breaking the news.ā
you turned around in his arms, biting back a laugh, and he immediately seized the opportunity to rest his forehead against yours, eyes closed like he was bracing for more punishment.
āso you admit you deserved it,ā you said.
āi admit nothing,ā he said, āexcept that i am deeply, deeply sorry, and that i will never again swap your mission partner without telling you first, and that if you ever call me gojo again in public i will actually die.ā
āsay please.ā
āplease,ā he said immediately, no hesitation at all, pulling you in tighter like he was worried you might change your mind and use his last name right there in the kitchen just to torture him further. āplease, please, iāll do anything, iāll even do paperwork, justājust be normal about it. call me anything else. call me an idiot, call me insufferable, i donāt care, just not that.ā
āfine,ā you said, finally letting the smile show. āsatoru.ā
the relief on his face was almost embarrassing, the way his whole body seemed to unclench at once, like youād just lifted some enormous curse off him.
āthank you,ā he said, dramatic as ever, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then finally your mouth. ānever again. i mean it. that was the scariest six words of my entire life and iāve fought curses that wanted to eat my ass.ā
āit was one word,ā you pointed out.
āit felt like six,ā he said, and pulled you into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the breath out of you, laughing into your hair, all traces of this morningās fight forgiven, or at least thoroughly overridden by how badly he never wanted to hear his own last name from you again.
āāā š£²ā TWENTY WAYS to make a nerd yours ā¹ ą£Ŗ Ė
ą§ ā§āĖ a guide to making š.šššššš yours ā”
ź° š²ą¹ą£ą£ŖĖš·.į Satoru Gojo is the loudest, prettiest boy on campus ā and secretly the biggest nerd you've ever met. You make a list of twenty ways to make him yours. It works better than expected. ź±
į ź° satoru gojo x reader | university au | fluff, crack-ish, mutual pining, 3.4k wc. no real warning, this is pure fluff. art by @/to00fu dividers by @uzmacchiato and @pixopix ą¾ą½²į
Gojo Satoru did not look like a nerd. That was the first thing you had to get past.
He was six-foot-three, white hair that looked like he'd bleached it out of spite, and a jawline that made underclassmen forget how to walk in straight lines. So the first time you sat next to him in Intro to Theoretical Physics and watched him correct the TA's derivation on the whiteboardā politely, cheerfully, in a way that made the TA visibly reconsider their choice of careerā you assumed it was a fluke. A pretty boy who got lucky on one problem set.
It was not a fluke. It happened every single week.
By week four you knew: underneath the sunglasses he wore indoors "for the bit," underneath the easy charm and the way he called everyone "sweetheart" like it cost him nothing, Gojo was the single biggest nerd you had ever met in your life. He annotated his textbooks in four colors. He had a ranked opinion on which university library floor had the best "ambient silence." He once spent twenty minutes explaining the Fermi paradox to a girl at a party who had asked him, literally, where the bathroom was.
And somehow, against every instinct you had about self-preservation, you'd fallen for him anyway.
The problem was that Gojo Satoru was completely, catastrophically oblivious to the fact that you liked him. Not because he was dumbā the man had a 4.0 and could recite pi to sixty digits when he was nervousā but because emotional self-awareness was, apparently, the one subject he'd never taken.
So you did what any reasonable person would do. You made a list.
Not a real list, not at firstā just something you texted your roommate at 1 a.m. after he'd walked you back to your dorm and then said "anyway, goodnight, study buddy!" like a golden retriever who'd just learned the word "goodnight." But it grew. Item by item, week by week, you built yourself a plan. A syllabus, if you wanted to be annoying about it. A plan for how to make a nerdā your nerd, if you had anything to say about itā fall for you back.
Here's what the list looked like, three weeks later, mostly executed and slightly out of order:
1. Ask him to explain something you already understand
Not because you need it explained. Because Gojo lights up like a Christmas tree the second someone asks him a real question, and there is nothing in this world cuter than a six-foot-three man drawing a diagram of quantum entanglement on a napkin at 9 p.m. because you asked "wait, but how does that actually work?" He'll talk for eleven minutes straight. You will not understand half of it. You will not care.
2. Bring him coffee exactly the way he takes it, without asking.
Oat milk, two sugars, andā this is importantā he needs it slightly too hot, because he likes complaining that it burned his tongue and then drinking it anyway. The first time you showed up to your study session with his order memorized, he stared at the cup for a solid five seconds like you'd handed him a diamond instead of a four-dollar latte.
"You remembered," he said, and for once he didn't sound like he was performing anything.
"It's not that hard, Satoru."
"No," he agreed, still staring at the cup. "I guess it's not."
3. Steal his hoodie and never give it back.
This one is less a strategy and more just theft, but the effect is the same. You took it during a group project when the library air conditioning decided finals week was a personal vendetta, and you simply forgot to return it. He noticed. He did not ask for it back. He instead started "accidentally" leaving other sweaters at your dorm, like he was building a small collection of hostages in reverse.
4. Beat him at something. Anything.
Gojo has never lost gracefully in his life. He is aggressively, hilariously competitive about things that do not matter, like Mario Kart, or who can name more moons of Saturn, or whose flashcards are better organized. Beat him onceā just onceā and watch a switch flip behind his eyes. He will demand a rematch. He will demand several rematches. He will, three rematches later, forget that he is supposed to be trying to win and just start trying to make you laugh instead.
5. Notice the thing he's insecure about, and don't make a big deal of it.
Underneath the confidence, Gojo has Opinions about his own eyesā the pale blue, the way people stare, the way strangers sometimes ask invasive questions like he's a museum exhibit. You noticed early that the sunglasses weren't entirely a bit. So you never once commented on his eyes unless it was in passing, the same way you'd mention someone's nice handwriting. Ordinary. Unremarkable. Just a fact about him, not a headline.
He clocked that you'd clocked it. He didn't say anything. But he started taking the glasses off around you more.
6. Let him info-dump. Then remember what he said.
Two weeks after the Fermi paradox incident, you asked himā out of nowhere, mid-lectureā "okay but statistically, if the paradox holds, doesn't that actually support the idea that we're early, not alone?" He turned to look at you like you'd grown a second head. A good second head.
"You remembered that?"
"You explained it for twenty minutes to a stranger looking for the bathroom. Of course I remembered."
7. Make him carry something heavy for you.
Not because you need the help. Because there is a specific, devastating satisfaction in watching Gojo Satoruā who could probably bench-press the entire physics departmentā insist on carrying your grocery bags, your laundry basket, your six textbooks, all at once, while pretending it's nothing, while very obviously flexing about it.
8. Show up to his study group uninvited and stay anyway.
He runs a Tuesday night study group that is, allegedly, "for anyone who wants to come," but somehow the same three terrified freshmen show up every week and leave within the hour because Gojo cannot resist turning every session into a TED talk. You started showing up too. You did not leave within the hour. By the third week, he'd started saving you a seat next to him without being askedā the one by the outlet, because he'd noticed your laptop charger was fraying.
9. Text him something dumb at 2 a.m. and let him overthink his reply.
You know this one works because your roommate is somehow also friends with his roommate, and the intel came back within the hour: Gojo spent eleven minutes composing a response to your "ok but if a vending machine gains sentience is it a philosophical zombie or just annoying" text. Eleven minutes. For a joke. He sent back four different drafts before landing on one, and it was still unhinged.
10. Compliment his handwriting, not his face
He gets told he's hot approximately nine times a day, by everyone, including strangers on the bus. It means nothing to him anymoreā it's just weather. But tell him his lecture notes are genuinely, freakishly beautifulā every equation boxed, every margin annotated in four colors like he's illuminating a medieval manuscriptā and watch him go quiet in a way he never does when someone calls him pretty.
11. Let him see you fail at something.
Gojo doesn't actually want a girl who has it together 100% of the timeā he wants someone real, though it took you a while to realize that. The night you completely bombed a presentation and cried a little in the stairwell after, he didn't try to fix it or hype you up with empty noise. He just sat down on the concrete step next to you in his very expensive jeans and said, "okay, worst professor you've ever had, go," and let you complain until you'd laughed the tears away.
12. Ask about his family. Actually listen.
He deflects hard whenever anyone brings up the Gojo name, the money, the expectations. Most people either fawn over it or pretend it doesn't exist. You did neitherā you just asked, once, gently, "is it heavy? Carrying all that?" and let the silence sit instead of filling it. He didn't answer for a full minute. Then he told you more than he'd told anyone all semester. He told you about his twin.
13. Give him a nickname that isn't about how he looks.
Everyone calls him "Six Eyes" as some ironic school-wide joke about how much he supposedly sees. You started calling him "Professor" instead, low and teasing, every time he got insufferable about a fact nobody asked for. He complained about it constantly. He also, notably, never asked you to stop.
14. Show up to his dumb extracurricular thing
He's in the university's astronomy club, which meets on the roof of the science building at ungodly hours to look at things you cannot see because of light pollution. You went once, mostly out of curiosity, and ended up going every month after, wrapped in his stolen hoodie (see: item 3), while he pointed at smudges in the sky and insisted, with total conviction, that one of them was definitely Saturn.
"That's a plane, Satoru."
"It's Saturn, and I won't be taking questions."
15. Get jealous. Badly. On purpose.
You are not proud of this one, but it worked, so it's staying on the list. A guy from your seminar started sitting suspiciously close to you during group work, and Gojoā usually the most chill, unbothered person aliveā suddenly developed a burning need to sit in on your seminar "for fun." He is not enrolled in your seminar. He does not need to be there. He was there anyway, arms crossed, radiating an aura your professor mistook for academic passion.
16. Take care of him when he forgets to take care of himself.
For someone so smart, Gojo is disastrous at remembering to eat during midterms. You started leaving snacks in his backpack without telling himā protein bars, the specific brand of gum he chews when he's anxious, a note sometimes. He never mentioned it directly. He just started leaving you snacks back, an unspoken little economy of care neither of you would put a name to yet.
17. Let him walk you home even when you don't need it.
It's fifteen minutes out of his way. He does it every time anyway, sunglasses off, hands in his pockets, talking the entire walk about nothing and everything, and you've started timing your goodnights to be a little longer than they need to be.
18. Catch him staring, and don't look away first.
It happened in the library, over a stack of shared notesā you looked up and he was already looking, not at your notes, at you, and for once in his entire dramatic life he didn't have a single word ready. You didn't look away. Neither did he. Somebody's highlighter rolled off the table and neither of you moved to catch it.
19. Tell him, out loud, that you like the nerd version of him best.
Not the flirt. Not the golden retriever performing for a crowd. The version that gets quiet and intense over a whiteboard, that memorizes the digits of pi when he's anxious, that lit up over a napkin diagram because someone finally asked him a real question. You told him this on the roof, under his fake Saturn, and he went so still you thought you'd broken him.
20. Kiss him first.
Because he will never, ever make the first moveā not out of fear, but because some small, stupid, sincere part of him doesn't believe someone like you would actually want someone like him, underneath all the noise. So you have to be the one. You kiss him on the roof, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, his ridiculous fake constellation still glowing faintly behind him, and he makes a sound against your mouth like every ounce of composure he's ever performed just short-circuited at once.
When you pull back he's staring at you the way he stares at a problem he's finally solvedā stunned, delighted, a little smug that he got there at all.
"Say something smart, Professor," you tell him, breathless.
"Give me a second," he says. "You broke my working memory."
you drew them and for some odd reason they donāt like it š§
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a/n: A JJK SMAU???? if you liked it, let me know and i can make them from time to time šāāļø i could also make a master list for it if i were to continue ! thank you to my mom who made choso and higuruma, and my sister who made gojo and sukunaš thank you for reading, i love you (. .*)Ī²
į°.į soft bf!sukuna takes care of you when you come home exhausted
soft bf!kuna hears the distinct beep of the front door keypad and is already on his feet before the lock clicks. the moment the door swings open to reveal your slumped shoulders and tired eyes, something tender and fiercely protective tugs at his chest. he steps into your space immediately, his large hands gently taking your heavy work bag from your shoulder before kneeling down to unlace your shoes for you. "welcome home, brat," he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing rumble as he slides your comfortable house slippers onto your feet.
soft bf!kuna guides you into the kitchen, refusing to let you lift a finger. when you admit you haven't eaten, he gently pushes you into a chair and brings over a bowl of the hearty, steaming meal he spent the last hour perfecting just for you. he sits right beside you, blowing softly on each spoonful before feeding you himself. hearing your sleepy hum of delight and seeing that faint, appreciative smile cross your face makes a rare, genuinely soft smirk play on his lips. "good, right? eat up. you don't have to do a single thing tonight, i'm taking care of you."
soft bf!kuna leads you to the bathroom where a warm bath is already steamed and waiting. there isn't a single shred of hidden agenda as he gently undresses you, his calloused hands surprisingly careful against your skin. as you sink into the water, he kneels behind the tub, his strong fingers working magic into your stiff, corporate-stressed shoulders. he shifts to massage your scalp, letting you lean your head back against him, before taking a warm washcloth and meticulously, gently wiping away the grime and makeup of the day from your face.
soft bf!kuna helps you out of the tub and dries you off with a plush towel as if you're something incredibly precious and fragile. he guides your limbs into your favorite, softest pajamas and even holds your toothbrush for you, guiding it gently until your teeth are clean and you're rinsing your mouth. before your exhausted legs can even think about walking, he scoops you up bridal-style, making you feel entirely weightless against his broad chest, and carries you straight to the bedroom to tuck you beneath the heavy blankets.
soft bf!kuna disappears for a brief moment, only to return holding an armful of your bottles and jars. he sits on the edge of the mattress, having completely memorized the exact order of your complicated skincare routine. he warms the serums between his palms and gently presses them into your skin, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. when you sleepily mumble a soft, heartfelt "thank you, kuna," his chest swells. he presses a lingering, warm kiss to your forehead, pulling the duvet up to your chin. "you worked so hard today, i'm proud of you. good night and sweet dreams, brat."
PREMISE : sukuna ryomen is the university's undefeated boxing star, but his reputation might cost him the career he's been fighting for. youāre 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 goneā¦ 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
PREMISE : sukuna ryomen is the university's undefeated boxing star, but his reputation might cost him the career he's been fighting for. youāre 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 goneā¦ 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
you spend the entire morning convincing yourself that meeting sukuna ryomen is not going to be a big deal.
which is funny because it very obviously is.
not because you're nervous about interviewing him. you've done this before. you've sat across from students who treat a club presidency like a seat in parliament. you've listened to professors spiral so far off topic that your original question becomes a distant memory. you've dealt with people who think answering three questions for a student article entitles them to a full fledged feature.
people are people. you can handle people. that's kind of the entire point of journalism. you listen, you observe, you find the story underneath whatever version of themselves someone wants the world to see.
the problem is that sukuna ryomen already has too many versions.
the athletics department sees an undefeated boxer with an incredible future ahead of him. the students on campus see someone intimidating enough that his name is usually followed by a warning. the forums see a debate. half the comments praise him like he's the greatest athlete TJ university has ever produced. the other half make it sound like talking to him is a personal safety hazard.
which is exactly why this feature exists. behind the win. not just the victories or the medals but rather for the person behind them.
and unfortunately for you the person behind them is sukuna ryomen.
you're standing outside the boxing facility with your phone in your hand, notes app open, staring at your prep list for probably the hundredth time. you're not even reading it anymore. you're just looking at it because somehow appearing prepared makes you feel more prepared, which isnāt real, but fake confidence is confidence nonetheless. technically.
your eyes land on the last bullet point.
public perception.
you've gone through old interviews, match clips, campus discussions, everything. and somehow every piece of information only makes you more curious because the weird thing about sukuna ryomen is that everyone talks about him and nobody actually seems to know him. they know the boxer and his reputation, not the person.
and maybe that's why you're excited about the assignment.
not that you'd admit that out loud. admitting you're interested in a story is one thing. admitting you're interested in a person who has a reputation for being difficult is something else entirely.
the moment you walk inside the facility you realize you imagined it wrong.
you expected chaos. loud voices and people moving around with too much energy, the kind of place where everyone is trying to prove something. instead it's controlled, focused, almost calm. the sound of gloves hitting bags echoes through the room. someone calls out instructions near the ring. a few athletes move around quietly.
and then you see him.
you understand immediately why people notice him and the strange part is that he's not trying to be noticed at all. he's not looking around to see who's watching, not putting on a performance for the room. he's just training. completely focused, like the entire world could disappear and he'd still be doing the exact same thing.
which is honestly a little annoying.
you had prepared yourself for arrogance, for someone who knows he's talented and wants the whole room to know it too. you hadn't prepared yourself for someone who is simply, quietly good at what he does.
"ryomen"
the coach's voice pulls his attention. sukuna looks over and then his eyes move toward you.
you understand the intimidating part immediately. it's not that he looks angry. he doesn't. he just looks like he notices everything, like he's quietly cataloguing the entire room without needing to say a single word about it.
"i know" he says.
you blink. "you know?"
his expression doesn't change.
"wow" you say. "very welcoming."
his eyes narrow slightly. "you're here to write."
you glance down at your notebook then back up at him. "yes. that's usually what writers do."
the room falls silent. he responds with nothing. you smile a little because apparently you are already trying to make a man with the personality of a locked door react and this is going to be a very long semester.
the interview starts a few minutes later. you sit across from him with your notebook open while he leans back slightly, looking completely at ease with silence in a way that most people aren't. most people hate silence during interviews. they fill it, they rush, they start explaining things they never intended to say.
sukuna does the opposite. he lets silence exist like it doesn't bother him at all. which makes every question feel like it matters more and that is exactly the kind of pressure you did not need.
"your record speaks for itself," you start, looking down at your notes. "but something that gets mentioned almost as much as your wins is your reputation." you look up. "do you think people misunderstand you?"
for a moment he says nothing.
then he speaks "depends."
"on what?"
"whether they're actually trying to understand."
you hate that answer. not because it's bad because it's actually good. you had prepared yourself for something defensive, something easy to write around. instead he gives you something complicated.
"so you think people judge you unfairly?"
"no." the answer comes instantly.
you pause. "no?"
"people judge what they see."
you look at him for a second longer than you mean to because that answer doesn't sound like someone arguing against criticism. it sounds like someone who has already accepted it, made peace with it, moved on. you write it down. not just the words but the feeling underneath them.
you move on. "do you think your reputation affects opportunities outside boxing?"
something in his expression shifts. not much but enough.
"you came here expecting a certain answer," he says.
you look up. "did i?"
"yes."
you almost laugh. "you're very confident."
"you're very obvious."
that catches you off guard because he's managed to insult you and make it sound like a calm observation which is somehow worse. "you always analyse people like this?"
"that's literally my job."
"sounds exhausting."
"trust me," you say, "interviewing you is making it worse."
and there it is. the smallest thing. not a smile but something close to one. a tiny crack in the completely serious expression.
you notice. you immediately wish you hadn't.
by the time the interview ends your notebook is fuller than you expected which is a problem because your original plan was simple. observe him, write about him, finish the feature, move on.
except sukuna ryomen is not what everyone described. he's blunt, yes. difficult, also yes. but he's not careless. and that is so much more interesting than careless.
you're packing your things and heading for the door when you remember.
"wait" you stop. he looks over. "i'll need to contact you if i have follow-up questions."
"use athletics communications," he says immediately.
you stare at him. of course. because directly contacting the person you're writing about would be too convenient. "i would," you say, "but they take forever to reply."
sukuna looks at you for a second. completely unimpressed. "not my problem."
"unfortunately," you say, adjusting your bag, "your entire season is my problem now."
for a moment he just looks at you. then he pulls out his phone. "your number."
you pause because that was not the reaction you expected. "wow."
his eyes lift. "what."
"nothing. i just didn't think you were capable of a normal solution."
"are you giving me your number or not?"
you smile slightly. "you are genuinely terrible at conversations."
"i've heard."
you type your number into his phone.
you glance at his screen before handing it back. just your name. no nickname, no comment, nothing else. of course.
you open your own contacts on the walk out.
sukuna ryomenš„
you know the emoji is unnecessary but you're not removing it.
your phone buzzes a few minutes later.
sukuna : send the remaining questions
you stare at the message. no hello. no introduction. nothing.
y/n : do you always text like you're assigning tasks?
the reply comes after a few seconds.
sukuna : do you always talk this much
you look at the screen and give a quiet chuckle out there on the pavement by yourself.
somehow that's the first actual conversation you've had with sukuna ryomen. and somehow you already know it's the beginning of your problem.
music and feelings. crush! nanami kento x fem! reader
synopsis: the romance between Nanami, the quiet blond boy in your class, and you.
content: The story takes place in the 2000s, Reader and Nanami are shy, Nanami has an emo aesthetic, and is way too cute
a/n: Iāve never written so much without smut. I hope you enjoy it! Nanami and the reader are so cute! I love innocent romances like this.
words: 9.3k
You have a stupid crush on Nanami.
The quiet blond, the one who always wears headphones around his neck even in class, who dresses in black and grey as if the world were too bright for him.
Nanami, the one who listens to Tokio Hotel on repeat, his head resting against the bus window, his gaze lost somewhere outside.
You don't even know why you like him so much. You've barely ever spoken to him, just a few polite words when you cross paths in the hallway or at the library.
And yetā¦ it's there. That stupid thing that makes your heart beat faster the moment you catch a glimpse of him.
Was it love at first sight? You're not sure. Love at first sight is supposed to be violent, immediate, like an explosion. This is softer. Slower. As if you'd been struck by something silent and deep.
You saw him one morning, sitting alone at the back of the room, the grey light from the window falling on his slightly-too-long blond hair, and something simply clicked.
Since then, you notice him everywhere. The way he walks slowly, hands in the pockets of his oversized hoodie. The way he lightly bites his lower lip when he's concentrating on his notes. That small crease between his brows when he takes out an earbud to answer a teacher.
You don't understand what draws you to him so much. He's handsome, yes, but not in a flashy way. It's a quiet beauty, almost melancholic. As if he carried an invisible weight on his shoulders, and it made him even more magnetic.
You picture him in the evenings, in his room, dim light, listening to Tokio Hotel or Deftones on repeat, eyes closed, completely elsewhere. And you catch yourself wanting to be in that elsewhere with him.
You don't dare talk to him properly. Every time you tell yourself today I'm going to say something to him, you lose your nerve at the last second. You settle for smiling at him shyly when your eyes meet, and he returns your smile.
Just a small movement of the lips, quiet, almost timid, as if he wasn't used to being noticed. And that simple gesture is enough to make you melt for the rest of the day.
Sometimes you wonder what he's thinking. Has he noticed you too? Does he listen to his music to escape because the world is too loud, or because he feels lonely?
You want to ask him all these questions, but you stay there, watching him from afar, with this stupid crush that grows a little more each day.
And the worst part? You don't even know if you want it to stop. Because even silent, even distant, Nanami makes your days a little less ordinary.
One day, you decide it can't go on like this. This stupid crush has been eating away at your mind for too long. So you take the plunge. No established plan, just a small, timid attempt to get closer.
It's at the end of class, in the hallway leading to the exit. Nanami is there, leaning against the wall near the lockers, one earbud in his ear, the other hanging over his shoulder.
He's looking at his iPod, his thumb sliding slowly over the silver click wheel, probably choosing the next Tokio Hotel song. His blond hair falls slightly in front of his eyes, and he pushes it back with a distracted gesture.
Your heart pounds in your chest. You take a deep breath, grip your bag strap a little too tightly, and approach.
"Heyā¦ Nanami?" Your voice comes out smaller than expected, almost swallowed by the noise of the other students.
He slowly raises his head. His eyes, a light brown almost golden in the fluorescent light, settle on you. No exaggerated surprise, just that calm, slightly neutral expression, with the small crease between his brows that appears when he's focused.
He removes his earbud in a fluid motion and waits for you to continue. You feel your cheeks heat up. Damn, why is this so hard? You carry on anyway, trying to smile: "Iā¦ I've seen you a lot with your headphones. What are you listening to right now? Tokio Hotel, right?"
He blinks once, as if he wasn't expecting that question. A second that feels endless. Then he slowly nods.
"Yeahā¦" he replies simply, his voice low, slightly husky.
Silence falls again. Not awkward for him, evidently. For you, though, it's torture. You shift slightly in place, searching for what to add.
"I likeā¦ Monsoon. It's the one I heard once when you'd left your earbud a bit too loud, in philosophy class."
You immediately regret it. Too specific. It says I've been watching him for weeks. But Nanami doesn't seem to find it strange. On the contrary, a very slight smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
"Ahā¦ sorry about the volume. I often put it too loud." He glances down at his iPod for a second, then looks back up at you. His gaze is a little softer this time. "What do you listen to?"
The question catches you off guard. You stammer: "Uhā¦ a bit of everything. But not really this styleā¦ I've never really tried Tokio Hotel properly. Maybe I should."
Nanami looks at you for a moment, as if weighing his words. Then he slowly reaches for his second earbud, detaches it, and holds it out to you, palm open.
"Here. Listen to this one."
You freeze for a second, your heart doing a somersault. His fingers barely graze yours as you take the earbud. The contact is so brief, yet it passes right through you.
He presses play. The intro guitar of Durch den Monsun begins softly, then Bill Kaulitz's voice fills your ear. Nanami watches you while you listen, saying nothing, just present.
When the chorus arrives, you dare to look up at him. His expression is more open than before. Less closed off.
"It'sā¦ beautiful," you say softly, handing his earbud back. "A little sad, but beautiful."
"Yeah," he replies simply. "It often is."
He takes the earbud back, puts it around his neck. For a second, you both stand there in the emptying hallway. You feel this is the moment to say something more, or to leave before you ruin everything.
So you go for it, voice a little shaky: "If somedayā¦ you want to make me listen to more songs, I'm up for it."
Nanami looks at you for a long time. He seems to think it over, or maybe he's just savoring the moment. Then he nods, very slowly. "Okay."
That's all. A simple okay. But in his mouth, it sounds like a quiet promise. Not much, but to you, it's huge.
He puts his earbud back in his ear, gives you a small nod of his head, and starts to walk away down the hallway. Before turning the corner, he looks back one last time.
And this time, his smile is a little more visible.
Two days later.
You're sitting on the small wooden bench near the school exit, the one half-hidden by the big oak tree. It's a little cold, the sky is pale grey, typical of those autumn days when everything seems to slow down. In your bag, you've slipped your old pink iPod after spending hours in front of your slow computer adding songs.
You don't even know if Nanami will come this way today. You only exchanged a glance yesterday in maths class, and a small smile from him that had made you miss an entire line of equations.
But today, you've mustered up your courage. On your iPod, you've created a small playlist transferred from your slow PC with Tokio Hotel songs and softer music.
You see him coming from far away.
Nanami walks slowly, as always, hands in the pockets of his black oversized hoodie. One white earbud is already in his right ear, the cable hanging down to the iPod clipped to the waistband of his baggy jeans. He looks at the ground, lost in his thoughts, until his eyes land on you.
He stops for a second. Then he slightly changes direction and comes toward you.
"Hey," he says as he reaches you.
"Heyā¦" You shift over a little on the bench. "Do youā¦ want to sit down?"
He hesitates half a second, then sits down beside you, leaving a small space between you. Not too close. Not too far.
You break the ice before you lose all your courage: "I listened to the song you made me discover the other day again. I liked it. Really. So I made a little playlistā¦ if you want to listen."
You take out your pink iPod and your earbuds. Nanami turns his head toward you, his gaze curious for the first time.
"Let me hear it," he murmurs. You hold out one earbud. He takes it, a warm and brief contact that makes you shiver, then puts it in his ear. You put in an earbud too and start the playlist.
Monsoon begins. The soft guitars, then the voice. Nanami closes his eyes for a second. You watch him from the corner of your eye: his jaw slightly relaxed, his blond lashes contrasting with his pale skin, the way he tilts his head slightly to one side.
When the chorus arrives, he opens his eyes and looks at you. "You put that one first." You smile shyly. "Yeahā¦ it's the one that left the biggest impression on me."
He nods slowly. Silence falls again, filled only by the music. Then, against all odds, he speaks a little more: "I often listen to this song when it rains. It makes everythingā¦ more bearable."
His voice is calm, almost confidential. You feel your heart tighten. You want to ask him why things need to be more bearable, but you hold back. Not now.
The playlist continues. You added lighter tracks afterward: a few Linkin Park songs you had on a CD, a Simple Plan track, and even an acoustic version of Durch den Monsun found on a forum and transferred the night before.
With each new song, Nanami reacts in his own way: a small nod, an eyebrow that rises slightly, or a glance toward you when a passage catches his ear.
At one point, he takes out the earbud and holds it out to you. "That oneā¦ it's good. The acoustic version. Less loud, but moreā¦ intimate." You take the earbud back, cheeks a little warm. "I thought you might like it."
He stays silent for a moment. Something softer in his expression, as if the quiet barrier he usually keeps had slightly cracked.
"Thank you," he finally says. "It's rare for someone to make me listen to things. Most of the timeā¦ I'm alone with my music."
A small warmth spreads through your chest. You dare a little more: "If you wantā¦ we can do it again. Another day. Or even after school, if you have time."
Nanami looks at you for a long time. He runs a hand through his hair, pushes it back. Then he nods, very slowly. "Yeah. That works for me."
He stands up, puts his bag back on his shoulder. Before leaving, he turns around one last time. "Tomorrow then? Same time, same bench?"
You nod, unable to hold back the smile rising to your lips. "Tomorrow."
He gives you that small nod of his head, almost shy, and walks off down the path. You watch him leave, heart light, your iPod still warm in your hand.
The next day, you arrive at the bench a little early. Each minute feels long. You wonder if he'll really come, if he hasn't changed his mind, if your crush hasn't made you imagine the whole conversation.
Then you see him.
Nanami walks down the path, always at the same slow pace, black oversized hoodie, blond hair falling slightly in front of his eyes. This time, he only has one earbud in his ear. When he sees you, he doesn't change direction. He comes straight toward you.
He stops in front of the bench, looks at you for a second, then sits down in the same spot as the day before.
"Hey," he murmurs.
"Hey," you reply with a smile. You decide not to wait: "I brought more tracksā¦ if you want. I added some things I like."
He nods without a word, takes out his earbud and holds out his hand. Your fingers brush, and that small contact is enough to make you blush. You start the playlist.
This time, you began with something calmer, copied from a CD the night before. Nanami closes his eyes, his head slightly tilted. You watch him: his regular breathing, the way his fingers tap very lightly on his knee to the beat of the music.
After two songs, he opens his eyes. "That's not bad," he says. "Calmer than what I usually listen to."
You smile, relieved. Then, for the first time, he speaks at greater length: "When I listen to musicā¦ it's as if everything else moves further away. Classes, people who talk too loudly, teachers who ask questionsā¦ all of it disappears."
His voice is low, almost intimate. He looks straight ahead, toward the trees lining the path. Then he turns his head toward you. "What about you? Why do you listen?"
You think for a second. "Toā¦ feel less alone, I think. Or sometimes just to dream of something else."
Nanami slowly nods. His gaze stays on you a little longer than usual. The silence returns, filled only by the music.
When a Tokio Hotel song comes on, the one he'd made you listen to the very first time, a very slight smile stretches his lips.
"You know this one by heart, don't you?" you ask softly.
"Yeahā¦ I've listened to it hundreds of times." He takes out the earbud for a second, spins it between his fingers, then puts it back in.
"Thanks for putting it in."
Your heart leaps. You dare a little more: "If you wantā¦ I can burn you a CD with all of this. So you can listen to it at home."
Nanami looks at you for a long time. He runs a hand through his hair. "I'd like that," he replies simply.
Time passes too quickly. When the playlist reaches the end, he stands up slowly, puts his bag back on his shoulder.
Before leaving, he turns toward you.
"Tomorrow? Same time?"
You nod, smile impossible to hold back.
"Tomorrow."
You've now fallen into a habit, without ever really saying it out loud, of seeing each other every end of afternoon after school. You meet at the same bench near the big oak tree.
Sometimes he arrives first, sometimes it's you. You don't talk much at the beginning: just a murmured "hey," then a shared earbud. The music does the rest.
But little by little, the silences fill up.
Today, the sky is clearer, almost pale blue. You arrive and Nanami is already there, sitting, legs slightly apart, his bag at his feet. He has both earbuds in, but when he sees you approaching, he immediately takes one out.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey."
You sit down beside him, a little closer than the first time. The space between the two of you has shrunk over the days, without either of you really noticing. You take out your earbuds. He holds out his hand without a word.
You start a new playlist: more Tokio Hotel, mixed with other artists like The Used, My Chemical Romance, and some songs found on a second-hand CD.
After two tracks, Nanami speaks without looking at you right away: "You put in darker stuff this time."
"Yeahā¦ I figured you might like it." He nods slowly.
"I do. Thanks."
It's simple, but coming from him, it sounds like a real compliment. Later in the playlist, a slow song arrives. The guitar is soft, the voice almost broken. Nanami tilts his head to the side, as if letting the music wash over him completely.
At the chorus, he murmurs, almost to himself: "I love when it's like thatā¦ when the song says what I can't manage to say."
You dare to answer softly: "Me too. Sometimes I feel like the lyrics understand better than the people around me."
He turns his head toward you. His eyes look at you properly, without looking away. "Yeahā¦ People talk too much. You, you talk just the right amount."
Your cheeks heat up. You don't know what to say, so you smile, a little embarrassed but happy. Toward the end of the playlist, Nanami takes out his earbud and stays sitting, his hands resting on his knees. He says, after a moment: "It feels good. Coming here. With you."
It's the first time he's admitted it clearly. You feel a wave of warmth in your chest. "For me too. I was a little worried at first that you'd find it weird."
He lets out a very slight laugh, almost silent, just a breath. "At first, a little. But nowā¦ no."
He runs a hand through his hair. The light breeze moves a few strands. He looks at you again, longer this time. "Do you want to go somewhere different one day? Not always here. Maybeā¦ after school, we could walk a bit. Or go to the old basketball court behind the school. There are fewer people."
Your heart does a somersault. It's the first time he's suggested something that feels like a real moment together, outside of the bench. "Yes," you say without hesitating. "I'd really like that."
He nods, satisfied, and stands up. Before leaving, he looks at you one last time. "Tomorrow, then."
"See you tomorrow!" You watch him walk away, a smile glued to your lips.
The next day, you're now walking side by side along the path that borders the old basketball court. The place is quiet, almost deserted.
Only a few birds and the distant sound of cars disturb the silence. Nanami has his hands in the pockets of his black jeans, his bag softly bumping against his hip with each step.
At first, you say nothing. It's become your rhythm: silence first, then music, then sometimes words. But today, something is different. The air feels heavier, as if all those small shared moments had built up a sweet and invisible tension.
"Do you come here often?" you ask to break the ice.
"Yeah. When I want some peace. The others go to the shopping centre or McDonald's. Meā¦ I prefer it here. Less noise." He continues, after a small pause: "Before, I used to come alone. I'd shoot hoops by myself, it cleared my head."
You picture the scene: Nanami, blond hair in the wind, under the rusty hoop, his playlist blasting in his ears.
"And now?" you dare to ask.
He glances at you from the corner of his eye. A smile passes over his lips, almost shy.
"Nowā¦ I come with you. It's better."
You look down at your shoes to hide your smile. The path turns, and you arrive near the court. Nanami pulls an old slightly deflated basketball from behind a stone bench. He bounces it, the dull sound echoing in the cool air.
"Do you know how to play?" asks Nanami, looking at you.
"Not really. I even miss the simplest shots." you say, laughing, your face slightly flushed with embarrassment.
"I'll help you."
He stands behind you, not too close, just enough to guide you. His hands barely graze your shoulders to show you the right position.
"Knees bentā¦ look at the hoopā¦ and release." You throw the ball, it hits the backboard and bounces far away. Nanami runs to get it without a word, throws it back to you.
His patience is endless, he never mocks you, just gives small calm pointers: a little higher, breathe before.
After about ten shots, the ball passes through the net with a small perfect swish. You jump up and down with a big smile, looking at Nanami. "I did it! Did you see!?"
Nanami looks at you, and this time his smile is more visible, more real. He claps slowly. "Yes I saw. Not bad."
You play a little longer, then sit down on the stone bench, side by side, closer than ever. Nanami takes his earbuds out of his pocket. This time, he doesn't wait for you to suggest it. He holds one out to you directly.
The CD you'd burned for him has been playing in his head for several days, he told you with a smile. Durch den Monsun begins, then a slower song by The Used. He closes his eyes, his head leaned back against the bench. You do the same, letting the music wrap around you both.
After a few tracks, he speaks, his voice almost covered by the music: "I told you I listened to this so everything would feel further awayā¦ But since we've been doing this togetherā¦ it's different. It's as if the world is still far away, but you are closer."
You open your eyes and turn your head toward him. He still has his eyes closed, as if he were afraid to look at you while saying that.
"Nanamiā¦" you murmur. He finally opens his eyes. His light brown irises are soft, almost vulnerable in the grey afternoon light.
"I don't really know how to say thingsā¦ I don't talk much, you've seen that. Butā¦ I like it when you're here. I like your voice when you talk to me about songs. I like that you don't try to make me talk more than I want to."
He pauses, runs a hand through his windswept hair.
"Before, I was fine alone with my music. Nowā¦ I'm better with you. I feel better."
The words hang suspended between you. You gently rest your hand on the bench, right next to his. Your fingers slowly, shyly intertwine. His hand is warm, a little rough from the basketball.
"Me too," you finally say. "I love these moments when we listen together, without pressure."
Nanami squeezes your hand a little tighter. Not hard, just enough to say 'I'm here'. The wind sends a few leaves swirling around you. The music continues in your ears.
You stay like that for a long time, hand in hand. Nanami's silence is no longer empty: it is filled with everything he can't quite yet say, but that you're beginning to understand.
When the sun begins to set, he stands up slowly, without letting go of your hand right away. "Tomorrowā¦ do we come back here? Or go somewhere else? Whatever you want."
You smile, your heart full. "Yes! It's nice here."
The days that followed slipped by in a sweet and silent routine. Every end of afternoon, you would meet either on the bench or on the old court. Sometimes you walked, sometimes you played basketball. You were slowly improving, thanks to his patience.
The silences grew longer but words came more easily. Your hands found each other more often, without it ever feeling forced.
Then came Halloween week.
The school was buzzing: orange and black decorations in the hallways, paper pumpkins on the windows, everyone was talking about parties and costumes.
You'd been thinking about it for several days. The idea of spending Halloween with Nanami, even simply, made you smile to yourself.
That day, you're sitting on the stone bench at the court. The wind is cold, leaves crunch under your feet. You've just finished listening to a playlist he'd prepared. You take a deep breath. "In two days it's Halloween. Are you doing anything?"
He turns his head toward you, an eyebrow slightly raised, and takes out his earbud. "Not really. I usually stay home. Why?"
You smile, a little nervous, playing with your hoodie sleeve. "I was thinkingā¦ what if we dressed up? Nothing big, right. Just something simple. We could meet here or at mine, listen to music, maybe watch a horror filmā¦ That'd be nice, wouldn't it?"
Nanami stays silent. He looks at the rusty basketball hoop, then at the ground. "I don't knowā¦ Costumesā¦ they're not really my thing. I feel a bit stupid in them. And I'm not very comfortable with parties either."
Your smile fades slightly. You try to keep your tone light: "Ohā¦ okay. It was just an idea. We can do the usual, no problem."
But inside, you feel silly. You're angry at yourself for suggesting it, for maybe having been too enthusiastic. The rest of the evening passes in a slightly heavier silence. When he walks you to the exit, you give him a small forced smile.
"See you tomorrow," you say simply.
"Yeahā¦ see you tomorrow."
That evening, at home, you feel a little disappointed. Nanami is like that: quiet, he doesn't like things like Halloween. You should have known.
The next day, you arrive at the court with a little apprehension. But Nanami is already there, sitting on the bench. He watches you approach and, for once, he speaks first.
"Hey."
"Heyā¦"
You sit down beside him. The silence lasts a few seconds. Then he takes out his earbuds, but doesn't put them in. He spins them between his fingers.
"About yesterdayā¦" he begins softly. "I thought more about your suggestion." Your heart gives a small jump.
"Oh?"
He runs a hand through his hair, looking a little awkward, which is rare for him. "I'm not super into costumesā¦ They make me uncomfortable. Butā¦ I don't want you to be disappointed. If it's important to you, we can do something simple. Not a full costume, justā¦ a small detail. A mask or a hoodie with a skull on it, something like that. And we stay here or at yours, just the two of us." He looks up at you, his gaze softer than usual. "If you still want toā¦ I'm in."
The disappointment from the day before vanishes in an instant. You smile, sincerely this time, and place your hand on his. "Really? Are you sure? I don't want to force youā¦"
"You're not forcing me," he replies calmly. "I just thought about it. I'd rather be with you, even if it's a little strange for me, than see you disappointed. And besidesā¦ Halloween with music and a horror film could be cool. As long as we stay chilled."
You gently squeeze his hand. "Okay. So we keep it simple: one small detail each. I can wear horns or light makeup, and youā¦ whatever you want. We meet here after school and then go to mine. My parents won't be home."
A very slight smile at the corner of his lips.
"Works for me."
He holds out an earbud. You listen to a calm song, shoulder to shoulder, while the wind sends leaves swirling around the court. For the first time since yesterday, you feel really good.
Halloween was approaching, and even if Nanami wasn't the type to dress up with enthusiasm, he had made an effort. Just for you. And that made this moment even more precious.
Halloween evening finally arrives.
You meet at the court after school. The wind is cold, dead leaves whirl around. You've both kept your word: nothing over the top.
You're wearing a simple headband with small black horns and a smudge of makeup under your eyes. Nanami is wearing a dark grey hoodie with white skulls he drew on the front himself with a marker the night before, clumsily, and that makes you smile.
He's also ruffled his hair a bit so it looks more "tired ghost." It's minimalist, almost timid, but he did it. For you.
"You'reā¦ cute like that," you say as you come up to him.
He shrugs, a little embarrassed, but the corner of his lips lifts slightly. "You too. The horns suit you."
You walk to your place. The streets are full of kids in costumes, but you stick to the quieter pavements, away from the noise. From time to time, your hands brush.
Once at yours, the house is empty. You turn on a small lamp in the living room and a few orange candles. The atmosphere is cosy, a little spooky without being oppressive. You settle onto the sofa.
"What do you want to watch?" you ask, pulling out a few DVDs. Nanami looks at the cases, then shrugs slightly. "Whichever one you want."
You choose The Ring. You turn off the main light, only the candles and the screen light the room. You sit side by side, a blanket over your legs.
The film starts. At the beginning, you comment a little, mostly you. Nanami listens in silence, with that calm concentration.
But as the film goes on, the scenes become more and more oppressive. When the famous TV scene arrives, you jump violently and instinctively move closer to Nanami.
"Godā¦ I'd forgotten how terrifying this was."
Nanami doesn't say anything right away. He feels your movement and, without a word, gently puts his arm around your shoulders slowly, carefully, as if giving you time to pull back. But you don't pull back. You snuggle a little closer against him. His hoodie smells faintly of laundry detergent and that warm scent that is justā¦ him.
"You okay?" he asks in a low voice, close to your ear. You nod, your face half-hidden against his shoulder.
"Yeahā¦ I'm a little scared. It's silly, isn't it? It's just a film."
He tightens his arm slightly, his fingers gently stroking your shoulder in a slow, reassuring movement. "It's not silly. It's Halloween. You're allowed to be scared."
With every tense scene, he draws you imperceptibly closer. He doesn't mock you, he doesn't laugh. He just stays there, calm and protective. At one point, you bury your face against his chest. You feel his heart beat, steady, a little faster than usual.
"Kentoā¦" you murmur.
"I'm here," he replies simply.
The film continues, but you pay less and less attention to the screen. Your awareness is entirely turned toward him: the warmth of his body, the slow rhythm of his breathing, the way his fingers keep tracing small soothing circles on your shoulder.
When the credits begin, neither of you moves. The room is bathed in semi-darkness, lit only by the flickering candles. His arm is still there. You remain nestled against him, the blanket wrapped around you both.
Silence settles in, soft and charged.
You slowly raise your head toward him. Your faces are very close. His light brown eyes look at you, more intense than ever. His blond hair falls slightly over his forehead. There is a new tension in the air, something that makes your heart beat faster than during the film.
Nanami swallows slightly. His free hand rises slowly to your face. His fingers brush your cheek, push back a strand of hair with an endearing clumsiness. He tilts his head slightly, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second.
Your breath catches. Your noses almost touch. You half-close your eyes, your heart hammering.
But at the last moment, Nanami stops. He stays there, a few centimetres away, breathing softly against your skin. His voice comes out in a husky murmur, almost inaudible: "Iā¦ I don't want to go too fast."
He presses his forehead against yours, eyes closed. You stay like that, foreheads together, breaths mingled, in the trembling glow of the candles. It's almost a kiss. Not quite, but so close that you already feel the echo of what might soon come.
"It's okay," you murmur, your voice trembling but happy. "I like it like thisā¦ slowly. With you."
He imperceptibly nods, his forehead still against yours. His hand stays on your cheek, warm and reassuring. You stay like that for a long time, nestled under the blanket, the candles going out one by one.
Halloween continues outside, distant laughter, doorbells, but here, in the dark living room, there is only the two of you, this almost-kiss suspended in the air, and this connection that grows gently, day by day.
The evening drifts on slowly, the candles almost all extinguished. Only one small flame still flickers on the coffee table. The credits of The Ring have been finished for a long time, but neither you nor Nanami has moved. You're still nestled together under the blanket, his forehead against yours, your breathing calm and intertwined.
You glance discreetly at the wall clock. Already past midnight. The streets have gone quiet again, the last costumed kids have been home for a while. Nanami lives on the other side of town, a twenty-minute walk away, and the last bus left long ago.
You sit up slightly, without leaving his arms. "Nanamiā¦ it's really late. It's dark outside, and I'm a little worried."
He slowly opens his eyes, his irises still a little hazy from the closeness. He looks at you without saying anything, as if weighing your words.
You continue, your voice soft: "My parents aren't back until tomorrow morning. You canā¦ sleep here? On the sofa, or in the guest room. Whatever you want."
A very slight smile stretches the corner of his lips, with that rare small dimple of his. He nods, almost shy. "Yeahā¦ okay. If it doesn't bother you."
"Of course not. I'm happy, even." You give him an old oversized black t-shirt of your father's and a pair of joggers. When he comes back from the bathroom, his hair slightly ruffled and the large t-shirt hanging from his shoulders, he looks even softer, almost vulnerable.
You settle back onto the sofa, side by side, the blanket over your legs. The small flame of the last candle dances between you. Neither of you feels like sleeping. It's as if the night had given you a special permission.
"You knowā¦ I've always found it a little mysterious that you listen to Tokio Hotel all the time. What do you like so much about them?"
Nanami looks at the candle for a moment, then speaks, his voice low. "Becauseā¦ it sounds like what I feel sometimes. Bill sings as if he's screaming things nobody else dares to say. Loneliness, feeling differentā¦ even when you're surrounded by people. At home, it's often noisy. My parents talk all the time, they want me to be more sociable, to go out more. But meā¦ I just like being in my room, with my headphones. It calms me down."
He pauses.
"Before I knew youā¦ I thought I was just weird. That nobody understood why I kept to myself. But with youā¦ it's different. You don't ask a thousand questions. You share music without forcing it."
You rest your head against his shoulder, and he slides his arm around you. The conversation drifts to everything and nothing. You talk about classes, he hates maths but loves philosophy because it makes you think without all the noise. He talks about his vague dreams, his loneliness even when surrounded by people.
Around three in the morning, his voice becomes even lower: "Sometimesā¦ I feel a little alone. Even with my friends. And yes I have friends but they always want to do loud things, parties, mess around. Me, I prefer to stay in my bubble. I've never really had someone toā¦ just be with. Without pressure. You're the first person who makes me want to step out of that bubble a little. Not all the time. Justā¦ sometimes. Like tonight."
You look up at him. His eyes are fixed on the nearly extinguished candle, but there is a new softness on his face. You place your hand on his.
"I'm glad you're telling me that. I'm not super comfortable with big parties either. I love these quiet moments. With you."
He turns his head toward you. Your faces are close again, the tension returning, softer still. He slowly strokes the back of your hand with his thumb. "Thank you for suggesting I stay. I wouldn't have wanted to go home. Not tonight."
You keep talking, about everything and nothing. At one point, you both laugh softly when you clumsily act out a scene from the film to make him smile. He really laughs, a rare, low sound that makes you melt.
Around five in the morning, tiredness sets in. You lie down on the sofa, still nestled together, the blanket pulled up to your shoulders. His arm around your waist, his chin resting on top of your head.
"Good nightā¦ or good morning," he breathes, with that small quiet smile.
You close your eyes, your heart full.
"Good night, Kento."
The last candle goes out. The house is silent. Halloween was over, but this white night had sealed something deeper between you.
The grey morning light filtered through the living room curtains, soft and a little cold. You open your eyes first. Nanami is still there, his arm around your waist, his face buried in your hair.
His breathing is slow, steady, and you feel the warmth of his body through the old oversized t-shirt he's wearing. For a long minute, you don't move.
You just enjoy this moment: his scent, the light weight of his arm, the way his blond hair falls over his forehead.
He stirs slightly. His lashes flutter, then his light brown eyes open. He looks at you for a moment, as if wondering whether this is a dream.
"ā¦Morning," he murmurs in a husky, sleepy voice.
"Hey," you reply with a gentle smile.
Neither of you moves right away. You stay there, faces close, watching each other in the morning light. He finally slowly withdraws his arm. "I slept well," he admits simply. "Better than usual."
You sit up a little, your hair in a mess, still wrapped in the blanket.
"Me too. Even if the sofa is a little hard."
A very slight smile stretches his lips. He runs a hand through his hair to put it back in order, without success. He looks cute like that, still half asleep, without his usual shell.
You finally get up. The house is quiet, troubled only by the ticking of the clock. It's almost 9:30.
"Are you hungry?" you ask. He nods. "A little."
You go to the kitchen. You take out bread, Nutella, jam, and put the kettle on for tea (you know he doesn't like coffee much). Nanami stays leaning against the worktop for a moment, arms crossed, watching you while you prepare everything. He ends up coming closer to help: he takes out two mugs, finds the sugar without you telling him where it was.
You sit down at the small kitchen table, facing each other. The sun comes in timidly through the window. You spread your toast in silence at first, but it's no longer an awkward silence. It's comfortable.
"Thank you again for last night," he suddenly says, biting into his toast. "For everything. The filmā¦ staying over. I didn't want to go home." You smile, cheeks a little warm. "I didn't want you to leave either. It wasā¦ good. Really good."
He looks at you for a long time over his cup of tea. His eyes are softer than usual. "Yeah. It was good."
You talk a little more. Nothing too serious: the playlist he wants to make you listen to soon, a teacher who annoys him in biology class, that old basketball that probably needs pumping up again. From time to time, your knees brush under the table and neither of you pulls away.
You're laughing softly at one of his dry remarks about a noisy student when the front door suddenly opens.
"Y/N? We're back!" Your mother's voice echoes in the hallway. You freeze, eyes wide. Nanami immediately straightens up, back upright, expression neutral but ears slightly red.
Your parents appear in the kitchen doorway, travel bags in hand. They stop dead at the sight of Nanami sitting at the table, in joggers and an oversized t-shirt, a cup of tea in his hand.
A three-second silence. Very long.
"Ohā¦" says your father, raising an eyebrow. Your mother looks at you, then at Nanami, then at you again. An amused smile begins to appear on her face.
"Good morning," says Nanami politely, half-rising from his seat. His voice is calm, but you see his hand grip the edge of the table a little too tightly. "I'm Nanami Kento. Sorry for theā¦ impromptu visit."
You stand up too, red to your ears. "Uhā¦ Nanami slept on the sofa. It was really late after the Halloween film andā¦ there were no more buses."
Your mother sets down her bag and crosses her arms, clearly not angry, more curious. "Ah, so this is the famous Nanami you've been mentioning for a few weeks without ever giving any details?"
"Mom!" you groan, mortified. Your father observes Nanami for a moment. Nanami holds his gaze without looking away, even if he's clearly embarrassed. Finally, your father nods.
"Well thenā¦ nice to meet you, Nanami. Would you like another cup of tea? We brought croissants from the station."
Nanami blinks, surprised by the relaxed reaction. He slowly sits back down. "Uhā¦ yes. With pleasure. Thank you."
Your mother throws you a small conspiratorial look as she passes behind you to put the croissants on the table. You sit back down too, your heart pounding. Under the table, you feel Nanami's fingers brush yours for a second, as if to say "it'll be okay."
The conversation resumes, a little awkward at first. Your parents ask light questions: what he wants to do with his life, whether he listens to music, whether he likes basketball. He answers calmly, without overdoing it.
At one point, your mother asks you to go and get something from the living room. When you come back, you see Nanami quietly helping your father put the bags away in the hallway. They exchange a few words in low voices. You can't hear them, but Nanami looks a little less tense when he comes back.
Once alone in the kitchen while your parents go upstairs to unpack, Nanami leans slightly toward you. "They'reā¦ nice," he murmurs. "I was scared they'd kick me out straight away."
You laugh softly. "Me too, a little. But I think they like you."
He looks at you, a real small smile on his lips this time. "Good. Because I don't want to stop coming hereā¦ or seeing you."
You place your hand on his, just for a second, before your mother comes back downstairs.
Breakfast ends in a strangely warm atmosphere. Nanami eventually says he should head home. You walk him to the door.
In the hallway, out of sight, he stops for a second. He looks at you, hesitates, then leans in and places a very light, almost shy kiss on your cheek. Just at the corner of your lips.
"Tomorrow, at the field?" he breathes.
You nod, your face burning after his almost-kiss. "Tomorrow."
He gives you his usual small nod of the head, the one that makes you melt, and sets off down the still-wet street. You close the door, a dopey smile plastered on your face.
The days following Halloween slipped by in an almost unreal sweetness.
You fell back into your usual rhythm: the old basketball court after school, the bench near the oak tree when it rained too hard, sometimes a short silent walk to the bus stop.
The looks lasted longer, the smiles came more easily, and your hands found each other naturally, as if they had always been meant to be there.
Yet nothing went further. Nanami remained true to himself: slow, cautious, almost fearful of going too fast.
A kiss on the cheek from time to time, his forehead against yours when the music was particularly beautiful, an arm around your shoulders when the wind grew cold. Nothing more.
And strangely, this suited you. Each small gesture took on an enormous importance. You loved this slowness. It made every moment precious, like a song you listen to on repeat and never skip.
The weeks passed. The dead leaves gave way to the dry cold of November, then to the first frosts of December. You shared longer and longer playlists, confidences murmured between two songs, silences that no longer weighed anything.
Sometimes, after a particularly tiring day, Nanami would simply rest his head on your shoulder for a few minutes, eyes closed, as if recharging his batteries near you.
Christmas is approaching.
The school decorates itself with slightly tacky fairy lights, the air smells of cinnamon and warm crepes full of Nutella near the exit. Everyone is talking about the holidays, family gatherings, gifts.
You try not to think about it too much, for fear of being disappointed. Nanami isn't the type to do things in a big way, you know that.
One evening in mid-December, the sky is already dark at 5 pm. You're sitting on the stone bench at the court, wrapped up in your hoodies and a thick scarf you lent him the week before.
The day's playlist plays softly in your ears: calmer tracks, almost wintry, with acoustic guitars and hushed voices.
Nanami has been quieter than usual for a while. He's spinning the earbud between his fingers, his gaze lost toward the frost-covered rusty basketball hoop.
You finally ask gently: "Are you okay? You seemā¦ elsewhere."
He turns his head toward you. The distant light of a street lamp makes his light brown eyes shine with an almost golden hue. He hesitates, runs a hand through his blond hair peeking out from his black beanie.
"Yeahā¦ I'm fine." A pause. "Actuallyā¦ no. Not really. Well yes, butā¦" He sighs, a small breath visible in the cold air. Then he goes for it, his voice lower than ever: "My parents want us to do a family thing on the 24th in the evening. Like every year. But on the 25thā¦ they're going to my aunt's until the evening. Me Iā¦ I didn't want to go."
He looks at you properly, this time. His fingers find yours under the sleeve of your coat. "I was thinking thatā¦ maybeā¦ you'd want to come to mine? Just the two of us. No big party. No costume or anything. Justā¦ a tree, some music, and maybe a film. If your parents are okay with it, obviously."
His thumb gently strokes the back of your hand. You can see how nervous he is: the small crease between his brows is there, more pronounced than usual.
"I know it's not much," he goes on. "But I want to spend Christmas with you. Without anyone else around. Justā¦ like we usually do, but at mine. In my room. With my slightly naff posters and my playlists."
He looks down for a second, almost embarrassed at having said so much. "If you don't want to, it's fine. I'd understand."
You squeeze his hand tighter, your heart swelling with a warmth that contrasts with the December cold. A tender smile stretches your lips. "Yes, I'd love to. I want to spend Christmas with you."
On the evening of December 25th, the doorbell rings at your place right on time. You open the door and your heart gives a jolt. Nanami stands on the doorstep, hands in the pockets of his black coat, a grey scarf around his neck and his hair slightly ruffled by the cold wind.
His cheeks are pink from the cold, and he looks at you with that small quiet smile that always makes you melt. "Heyā¦ I came to pick you up," he murmurs simply. His voice is low, a little husky from the cold. "Ready?"
You nod, beaming. Your parents quickly say hello from the living room, and he replies politely, a little shy. A few minutes later, you're walking side by side down the street lit up by the neighbours' fairy lights.
Your hands brush, then naturally intertwine. The silence between you is soft, comfortable.
When you arrive in front of his house, it's even more impressive than you'd imagined: large, modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a perfectly manicured garden. Nanami shrugs, almost embarrassed.
"It'sā¦ a lot. My parents like luxurious thingsā¦ they work in finance and architecture but anyway. My room is more normal, you'll see. Come in."
Inside, warmth wraps around you at once. A large understated Christmas tree glows in the living room with warm white lights. Nanami guides you straight to the kitchen.
"My parents left loads of things, butā¦ I want us to cook something together. If you'd like."
You happily agree. You take off your coats and get to work. Nanami takes out simple ingredients: fresh pasta, cream, smoked salmon, spinach and cheese.
You cook side by side, shoulder to shoulder. He shows you how to make the sauce, you give him little hip bumps when he cuts the vegetables too slowly. You laugh softly when he overcooks the pasta the first time.
At one point, he passes behind you to reach something and places his hands on your hips for a second, just long enough to make your heart race.
"Sorry," he says softly near your ear.
"It's nothing, it's nothing!" you reply quickly and try not to blush.
The meal is ready about twenty minutes later. You carry your warm plates upstairs, to his room. It's exactly as you'd imagined: dark grey walls almost black, Tokio Hotel posters, a shelf full of CDs, a guitar in the corner, and a small lamp casting soft golden light.
You settle on the floor on a big cushion, leaning against the bed, plates on your laps. Music plays in the background, a calm playlist he prepared for this evening.
The meal is simple, but delicious. You eat while talking quietly, about everything and nothing. From time to time, your gazes linger on each other longer than usual.
After meal, Nanami gets up and goes to fetch a small bag hidden behind his desk.
"Do we exchange gifts now?" he asks, suddenly more nervous.
"Yes, wait, I'll get my bag." you say, your heart beating with anxiety. Imagine if he doesn't like the gifts you made, you'd be devastated.
He opens the CD you spent hours putting together first. His eyes widen as he discovers the tracklist: rare and old Tokio Hotel versions, demos, forgotten live recordings, B-sides, and little-known solo tracks from Bill, mixed in with other artists he loves. He slowly runs his fingers over the sleeve you decorated by hand.
"ā¦You really did this for me?" he murmurs, his voice moved. "It's the most beautiful gift anyone's ever given me."
Then he discovers the black jumper you personalised. His fingers stroke the embroidery: "Even in silence" on the sleeve and the small drawing of the basketball court and the bench under the oak tree on the chest. He stays silent for a long moment, then immediately pulls it on over his t-shirt. The jumper fits him perfectly.
"It's usā¦" he breathes, looking at you, his eyes glistening. "It represents us."
His turn, he holds out his gifts to you. You open the fine silver bracelet first. The small music note charm shines softly. Inside, you discover the engraving: "Durch den Monsun". Your eyes begin to sting with emotion.
"So you remember our first real conversation every time you wear it," he says softly.
There's also a soft ultra-cosy grey oversized hoodie with a tiny musical score embroidered near the heart, and a small pink iPod shuffle already loaded with a playlist titled simply "For you."
"Thank you, Kentoā¦ thank you." You throw yourself into his arms, moved. He holds you against him, his chin resting on your head.
When you pull apart, the atmosphere has changed. The music still plays softly. The golden light of the lamp caresses his face. Nanami is sitting very close to you, his knees against yours.
He looks at you as if seeing you properly for the first time. His light brown eyes are softer than ever, almost vulnerable. He runs a trembling hand through your hair, brushes a strand behind your ear with infinite tenderness.
Your heart beats so fast you're sure he can hear it. "Can Iā¦ kiss you?" he murmurs, his voice husky and hesitant. "Really. Not just on the cheek. I've wanted to for a long time."
You answer in a breath: "Yesā¦ of course!"
Nanami moves closer slowly. His forehead touches yours, as it has so many times before. You stay like that for a moment, breaths mingled, the world reduced to that small space between you two.
Then he gently tilts his head. His lips brush yours with infinite gentleness, almost shyly. The kiss is slow, warm, filled with everything he doesn't always manage to say.
His hand caresses your cheek, his thumb tracing small tender circles on your skin. He kisses you as if you were something fragile and precious, with an emotion that makes you melt completely.
He pulls back just barely, just enough to press his forehead against yours, eyes closed, a small happy smile on his lips. His hand stays on your cheek, as if he never wants to let you go.
"Iā¦ I really appreciate you, Y/N. Truly andā¦ I wanted to tell you. I think I'm in love with you. I know it's probably too soon by most people's standards but I mean it sincerely. Will you be my girlfriend?" he says quickly, his cheeks red with shyness, but he looks you straight in the eyes.
"Yes, yes! I want to be your girlfriend!" You throw yourself against him and kiss him again, harder this time, full of a happiness that overflows. He lets out a small sigh of relief against your lips before returning your kiss with the same tender wonder.
"I've been in love with you for a whileā¦ that's why I approached you that day in the hallway. I started developing feelings for you even though we didn't know each other well. You made my days more beautiful just by being yourself."
Nanami closes his eyes for a moment, as if engraving your words inside himself. When he opens them, they shine with a new joy. He holds you tighter in his arms, his face buried in your neck.
"I still can't believe itā¦" he breathes against your skin. "I thought I was the only one with this stupid crush."
You stay in each other's arms for a long time, sitting on the floor against the bed, exchanging soft kisses, shy smiles, and hesitant caresses. The playlist still turns softly, the small Christmas tree fairy lights blink gently in the room.
Later, you slip under the duvet. Nanami holds you against him, your back against his chest, his arm around your waist as if he wants to keep you there forever. He places a last tender kiss in your hair and murmurs close to your ear:
"Good night, Y/N. Merry Christmas."
You smile in the darkness, the bracelet he gave you around your wrist and the warmth of his body against yours.
"Good night, Kento. Merry Christmas andā¦ I love you."
PREMISE : sukuna ryomen is the university's undefeated boxing star, but his reputation might cost him the career he's been fighting for. youāre 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 goneā¦ 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
you spend the entire morning convincing yourself that meeting sukuna ryomen is not going to be a big deal.
which is funny because it very obviously is.
not because you're nervous about interviewing him. you've done this before. you've sat across from students who treat a club presidency like a seat in parliament. you've listened to professors spiral so far off topic that your original question becomes a distant memory. you've dealt with people who think answering three questions for a student article entitles them to a full fledged feature.
people are people. you can handle people. that's kind of the entire point of journalism. you listen, you observe, you find the story underneath whatever version of themselves someone wants the world to see.
the problem is that sukuna ryomen already has too many versions.
the athletics department sees an undefeated boxer with an incredible future ahead of him. the students on campus see someone intimidating enough that his name is usually followed by a warning. the forums see a debate. half the comments praise him like he's the greatest athlete TJ university has ever produced. the other half make it sound like talking to him is a personal safety hazard.
which is exactly why this feature exists. behind the win. not just the victories or the medals but rather for the person behind them.
and unfortunately for you the person behind them is sukuna ryomen.
you're standing outside the boxing facility with your phone in your hand, notes app open, staring at your prep list for probably the hundredth time. you're not even reading it anymore. you're just looking at it because somehow appearing prepared makes you feel more prepared, which isnāt real, but fake confidence is confidence nonetheless. technically.
your eyes land on the last bullet point.
public perception.
you've gone through old interviews, match clips, campus discussions, everything. and somehow every piece of information only makes you more curious because the weird thing about sukuna ryomen is that everyone talks about him and nobody actually seems to know him. they know the boxer and his reputation, not the person.
and maybe that's why you're excited about the assignment.
not that you'd admit that out loud. admitting you're interested in a story is one thing. admitting you're interested in a person who has a reputation for being difficult is something else entirely.
the moment you walk inside the facility you realize you imagined it wrong.
you expected chaos. loud voices and people moving around with too much energy, the kind of place where everyone is trying to prove something. instead it's controlled, focused, almost calm. the sound of gloves hitting bags echoes through the room. someone calls out instructions near the ring. a few athletes move around quietly.
and then you see him.
you understand immediately why people notice him and the strange part is that he's not trying to be noticed at all. he's not looking around to see who's watching, not putting on a performance for the room. he's just training. completely focused, like the entire world could disappear and he'd still be doing the exact same thing.
which is honestly a little annoying.
you had prepared yourself for arrogance, for someone who knows he's talented and wants the whole room to know it too. you hadn't prepared yourself for someone who is simply, quietly good at what he does.
"ryomen"
the coach's voice pulls his attention. sukuna looks over and then his eyes move toward you.
you understand the intimidating part immediately. it's not that he looks angry. he doesn't. he just looks like he notices everything, like he's quietly cataloguing the entire room without needing to say a single word about it.
"i know" he says.
you blink. "you know?"
his expression doesn't change.
"wow" you say. "very welcoming."
his eyes narrow slightly. "you're here to write."
you glance down at your notebook then back up at him. "yes. that's usually what writers do."
the room falls silent. he responds with nothing. you smile a little because apparently you are already trying to make a man with the personality of a locked door react and this is going to be a very long semester.
the interview starts a few minutes later. you sit across from him with your notebook open while he leans back slightly, looking completely at ease with silence in a way that most people aren't. most people hate silence during interviews. they fill it, they rush, they start explaining things they never intended to say.
sukuna does the opposite. he lets silence exist like it doesn't bother him at all. which makes every question feel like it matters more and that is exactly the kind of pressure you did not need.
"your record speaks for itself," you start, looking down at your notes. "but something that gets mentioned almost as much as your wins is your reputation." you look up. "do you think people misunderstand you?"
for a moment he says nothing.
then he speaks "depends."
"on what?"
"whether they're actually trying to understand."
you hate that answer. not because it's bad because it's actually good. you had prepared yourself for something defensive, something easy to write around. instead he gives you something complicated.
"so you think people judge you unfairly?"
"no." the answer comes instantly.
you pause. "no?"
"people judge what they see."
you look at him for a second longer than you mean to because that answer doesn't sound like someone arguing against criticism. it sounds like someone who has already accepted it, made peace with it, moved on. you write it down. not just the words but the feeling underneath them.
you move on. "do you think your reputation affects opportunities outside boxing?"
something in his expression shifts. not much but enough.
"you came here expecting a certain answer," he says.
you look up. "did i?"
"yes."
you almost laugh. "you're very confident."
"you're very obvious."
that catches you off guard because he's managed to insult you and make it sound like a calm observation which is somehow worse. "you always analyse people like this?"
"that's literally my job."
"sounds exhausting."
"trust me," you say, "interviewing you is making it worse."
and there it is. the smallest thing. not a smile but something close to one. a tiny crack in the completely serious expression.
you notice. you immediately wish you hadn't.
by the time the interview ends your notebook is fuller than you expected which is a problem because your original plan was simple. observe him, write about him, finish the feature, move on.
except sukuna ryomen is not what everyone described. he's blunt, yes. difficult, also yes. but he's not careless. and that is so much more interesting than careless.
you're packing your things and heading for the door when you remember.
"wait" you stop. he looks over. "i'll need to contact you if i have follow-up questions."
"use athletics communications," he says immediately.
you stare at him. of course. because directly contacting the person you're writing about would be too convenient. "i would," you say, "but they take forever to reply."
sukuna looks at you for a second. completely unimpressed. "not my problem."
"unfortunately," you say, adjusting your bag, "your entire season is my problem now."
for a moment he just looks at you. then he pulls out his phone. "your number."
you pause because that was not the reaction you expected. "wow."
his eyes lift. "what."
"nothing. i just didn't think you were capable of a normal solution."
"are you giving me your number or not?"
you smile slightly. "you are genuinely terrible at conversations."
"i've heard."
you type your number into his phone.
you glance at his screen before handing it back. just your name. no nickname, no comment, nothing else. of course.
you open your own contacts on the walk out.
sukuna ryomenš„
you know the emoji is unnecessary but you're not removing it.
your phone buzzes a few minutes later.
sukuna : send the remaining questions
you stare at the message. no hello. no introduction. nothing.
y/n : do you always text like you're assigning tasks?
the reply comes after a few seconds.
sukuna : do you always talk this much
you look at the screen and give a quiet chuckle out there on the pavement by yourself.
somehow that's the first actual conversation you've had with sukuna ryomen. and somehow you already know it's the beginning of your problem.
How I Ache for You | Yearning Heian!era Sukuna x Reader
credit:divider by @/muerdida
wc; 0.6k
an: this will be a series! And i already have a work posted intended to be the prequel/backstory to this universe.
here
Never in your years of courtship did you consider the possibility of Ryomen Sukuna writing love letters to you when he was away.Ā
And yet now, when he had only found the courage to ask for your hand only days prior in fear of your family, he was sent away on some foreign affairs concerning land settlements. And he had sent you a letter.
You pause by your vanity. You stand in your nightgownā made of a splurge of lotus silk sukuna intended on spoiling you withāas you had been preparing for sleep only moments prior before his letter came. Curiosity freckled inside of you, and the heavy force resting upon your eyelids slowly diminished.Ā
Running one finger over the rogue coloured wax sealācompelete with Sukunaās own stampāyou gently run the edge of your fingernail under the glue, and open the envelope.
The parchment inside was still fresh, and the ink gleamed in the firelight as if it had just dried. Unfolding the paper, you begin to read.Ā
My beloved,
That is how Uraume suggested i begin this letter. Since our engagement she has seemed awfully keen in my business around youāfor personal entertainment i suppose. Its no matter.
I feel you are upset at my abrupt my departure, to which i apologise. Duty has been avoided for as long as i could hope. But please, do not sit there with that furrow in your brow as you read this letter frustrated with me.Ā
I am confident you sit there with a small smile on your face now, the lines of your joy etching into your face. Beautiful. ...I suppose what i mean to say is i wish i was there with you. I donāt know how to write these foolish letters of loveāthough nothing is foolish for youābut i hope you understand.
I miss you. Horribly. My heart aches for you in a way i do not understand. These foreign ministers cannot see basic reasoning, i assume even you could see better before you met me. I listen to endless conversations, bargaining, and arguments. Itās unnecessary.
I wish to escape this soon, to see my betrothedās face. I enjoy referring to you as that. Im afraid it may be a week and a half before i may see you again, and the thought alone drives me insane.Ā
I must go now, before i dig myself into a hole of misery thinking of what it would be like there with you. You in your ruffled nightgown gown. Yes i can imagine. Close your eyes now dear, rest plenty before writing me backĀ Ā after the next rise of the sun.Ā
Yours,
Ryomen Sukuna, King of Curses.
A soft laugh crinkles the side of your eyes, and you set the letter down on your drawing desk of a great mahogany to remind yourself to take write back the following morning.Ā
Curling under the sheets, you shut your eyes, and let the curtains of sleep draw close behind them.
