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operation: get over your childhood crush! — gojo satoru
synopsis. in an attempt to move on from your childhood best friend—who definitely doesn’t see you the way you want—you hatch a series of plans to help you get over him. it doesn't go as planned.
contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, nerd!gojo, college au, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, unreliable narrator, miscommunication, insecurity, dorky references bc u make him go dumb and digimon inaccuracies probably
notes. i did not proofread this monster!! enjoy :P
The hum of the air conditioning fills the room as night settles in, the light from Satoru’s bedside lamp casting a soft glow over his mess of a room. You’re both sprawled out across his bed, limbs entangled like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Because, for the two of you, it is.
Satoru’s Nintendo Switch is balanced on his stomach, hands lazily tapping away as his little Digimon charges into battle on screen. You’re curled into his side, one leg hooked around his and a blanket thrown haphazardly across you both. The half-abandoned textbooks sit at the edge of the mattress, tragically ignored. Another study session: failed. Not that Satoru needed it. He passed everything with flying colors. It was more of an excuse for you to come over.
“Your room still smells like that cheap vanilla air freshener,” you mumble, nose scrunching.
“That’s because you bought it,” he replies without looking up, thumb expertly guiding his character through an attack.
“Because your room would end up stinking with sweat and whatever freaky stuff you do in here.”
“Hey!” He whines. “I shower everyday and you know it. The stink is all you. Have you ever sniffed yourself, princess?”
You swat at his stomach, and he lets out a dramatic grunt. “Rude. I brought that candle to add ambiance.”
“Ah yes,” he deadpans, “nothing like artificial sugar scent.’”
You snort, settling your head back down on his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft beneath your cheek. There’s a long pause before you say, “You know, if we fail our exams, I’m blaming your Digimon addiction.”
He grins. “I’m raising digital warriors, thank you very much. And I’ve never failed an exam, don’t wound me now!”
“They look like mutant toddlers with attitude problems.”
He gasps, clutching his heart. “They’re champions, you monster.”
You laugh, letting the sound dissolve into something quieter as your fingers absentmindedly trace a pattern into the blanket. His hand rests near yours. Not holding it. Not not holding it.
His glasses are tilted again. Of course.
You reach up and straighten them with a sigh. “Honestly, you’d be lost without me.”
“Not true.” He says it reflexively, then pauses. His voice softens. “Okay, maybe. I’d probably just let them slide down until I walked into a wall.”
You smile faintly. “And there’d be no one there to patch you up.”
“Tragic,” he agrees. “Would bleed out on the floor, probably.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“You’re so bossy,” he counters, shooting you a sideways look.
“Admit it,” he says, voice full of faux-smugness, “you’d miss me if I died tragically and left you all alone.”
You hesitate for a second too long before mumbling, “Don’t joke about that.”
It’s quiet. The game music loops in the background as his Digimon wins the battle with a triumphant fanfare.
He doesn’t say anything.
You suddenly feel too warm under the blanket. The joke had been harmless, stupid even.
But something inside you twists, the same something that’s been unraveling lately every time he mentions another girl.
Another type. That’s not you.
“You know,” you say slowly, eyes peeling from the screen to his phone, which lights up with a notification, revealing one of his favorite gravure model’s latest issues as its wallpaper. “You could probably date any girl you wanted. Why do you partake in freak stuff like this? It’s anti-girl repellent.”
He makes a noncommittal sound. “Doubt it.”
“I don’t. You’ve got that whole genius-who-doesn’t-realize-he’s-hot thing going on.”
He glances at you, skeptical. “Is that a thing?”
“It is. Annoying, but effective. Girls love it.”
He hums, clearly amused, cheeks slightly flushed. “Well, good to know I have options.”
You try to laugh, but it catches in your throat.
You shouldn’t ask. You really shouldn’t.
But you’re lying in his bed. Wrapped up in him like you belong here. And some part of you aches to know the answer.
So you pretend it’s a joke. You tilt your head against his shoulder, voice airy, teasing. “Hey, be honest—do you think I’m cute?”
He goes still.
His hand tightens slightly on the Switch. You think you’ve pushed too far, so you try to backpedal before he can respond.
“Not like… like that,” you say quickly. “I just meant, like, in general. Compared to those girls you’re into. Say, Waka Inoue. You know, long legs, shiny hair, cute face?”
His jaw tightens.
You’re still trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m not fishing for compliments. I just—was wondering.”
He finally turns to look at you.
His gaze lingers. And for the first time all night, he’s not smiling.
You feel your breath stutter in your throat underneath his gaze.
Then he shrugs.
“…Nah.”
It slices through the air with quiet finality.
Your heart drops. You don’t let it show. Not fully. But it must flicker in your face, because he quickly looks away.
You laugh. It sounds forced.
“Yeah, that’s fair. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a yes or anything.”
He’s silent.
You shift away from him slightly, giving him space. “I should head home soon. We didn’t really get any studying done, anyway.”
“It’s late. Why don’t you stay the night?”
Usually, you’d accept his offer with a smile, but you really wanted to go home and wallow in your own self pity.
“It’s fine, I have something to do anyway,” the lie slips out of your mouth easily as you begin to pack your things.
And you miss the way he watches you—guilt in his eyes, frustration on his tongue.
You knew it was time. Twenty years of hopeless, fruitless pining had done enough damage to your heart.
It had started the day your parents moved next door. Satoru had been the loud, obnoxious, too-pretty-for-his-own-good boy on the playground who shoved candy in your hand and asked if you wanted to be friends.
You’d been doomed since day one.
And to make things worse, you’d both gotten into Japan’s most competitive university—together. Same neighborhood. Same school. Same train route. You weren’t just stuck with him. You were haunted.
But you were young and hot. And allegedly in your prime. You couldn’t keep orbiting around a guy who still thought microwave gyoza was a food group and used your shampoo because it “smelled like you, so why not?”
You were sipping coffee with your two closest friends, and today’s topic was—unfortunately—your love life.
“Honestly, I can’t believe you’ve been stuck on Gojo for this long,” Utahime said, disgusted, as she stirred her latte like it personally offended her. “You could do so much better.”
“It was kind of cute in high school,” Shoko added “but now it’s just sad.”
You sighed, blowing on your drink. “I know, okay? It’s not like I haven’t tried. But he’s literally the only guy I’ve ever been close to. I don’t even talk to guys besides him.”
“That’s because he’s been gatekeeping you since the two of you met,” Utahime said flatly. “I swear, every time someone so much as glanced at you, he pulled that overprotective act.”
You wrinkled your nose. “That doesn’t sound like ’Toru…”
Shoko and Utahime exchanged a look. One of those knowing glances.
Utahime cleared her throat. “It doesn’t matter! What matters is you are hot. You’ve got the face, the body, the grades, the personality. You just need the confidence.”
You peeked up at her, unsure. “You really think so?”
Utahime leaned forward, smirking like she’d just won a war. “I know so. And that’s why I’ve come up with a plan.”
You narrowed your eyes. “A plan?”
She slammed her hands down on the table, eyes alight. “Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru.”
You blinked. “That’s… a long title.”
Shoko blew a slow stream of smoke. “It’s either this or pine until you die and haunt him as a love-sick ghost.”
You stared into your cup, sighing. “Fine. I’m in. What’s step one?”
Utahime grinned.
“Whatcha doing?”
Gojo’s voice drifts lazily over your shoulder, followed by the soft rustle of his hoodie as he leans in. He’s far too close, obnoxiously so, his breath tickling your ear and his chin was nearly resting on your shoulder.
You don’t even glance up. “Studying.”
The two of you are supposed to be studying— finals loom overhead like a guillotine, but as usual, very little academic progress has been made. Mostly because your study partner is a six-foot-something genius who insists on sitting sideways in the booth, long legs tangled in yours under the table like it’s second nature.
He hums, skeptical. “Liar.”
You hum noncommittally, thumbing through the dating app Utahime suggested with vague disinterest. The guys blur together: not tall enough, too cocky, too bland, too not Satoru. One makes a joke suspiciously close to a Gojo classic, and you immediately hit unmatch with a scowl.
“Wait,” Satoru says slowly. “Are you on a dating app?!” He practically yells the last part. Half the cafe turns to glare at the source of the disruption.
You hiss under your breath, mortified, swatting at him. “Keep your voice down, idiot!”
His eyes widen dramatically, hands thrown up like you’ve stabbed him. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you’re already planning a life with someone named ‘Keita, aspiring poet and spiritual healer’? I’m wounded.”
“You weren’t supposed to read that far.”
“I’m a speed-reader,” he says with a smug grin. “It’s part of the whole ‘genius’ thing.”
Before you can argue, he snatches your phone with a level of ease that tells you this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this. He grins like he’s won a prize.
“Satoru!”
“Relax, I’m not texting anyone,” he says, fingers flying across the screen. “Just optimizing.”
Your heart drops. “What are you typing?”
“Nothing~”
You make a grab for your phone, but he effortlessly leans back, holding it above his head with those ridiculously long limbs. You glare at him from across the table, arm outstretched like a furious cat trying to swat at the moon.
“Give it back!”
“Patience.”
“Gojo Satoru—”
“Okay, okay!” he relents with a dramatic sigh, finally placing your phone face-down on the table like he’s done you a huge favor.
You snatch it up immediately, eyes scanning for damage. No weird messages. No unsolicited likes. No new matches.
“…What did you do?”
“I didn’t message anyone,” he assures, too innocent to be trusted. “I’m not that cruel.”
You narrow your eyes, suspicious.
“But,” he adds with a grin, “I didn’t know you were dating.”
“I’m not,” you mutter, clicking your phone off. “Just considering it. Trying. It’s not going well.”
“Good.”
The word comes out too fast. Too sharp. And his face doesn’t match the light tone he’s trying to play off.
You raise an eyebrow. “Good?”
He shifts, leaning back in his seat, suddenly very interested in stirring the foam in his overpriced coffee. “I mean, it’s good you’re not settling. You should be picky. Guys are the worst.”
You snort. “You are a guy.”
“Exactly. I know what we’re like.”
You smile despite yourself, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure you think you’re the exception.”
“I know I am,” he says, winking. Then he sobers slightly, eyes flickering to yours. “I’m just… looking out for you.”
The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You wish it was more than just him being protective in that big-brotherly, annoyingly loyal kind of way.
You take a sip of your coffee to cool your nerves. It doesn’t help. The words come out before you can stop them.
“You know with the way things are going… maybe you should just date me at this point.”
Silence.
It’s a joke. Supposed to be. But the second it leaves your lips, it tastes real.
Gojo freezes.
You panic. “I didn’t mean—like, I was just joking—”
But he turns toward you, eyes unreadable behind the fringe of snowy white hair. “Maybe I should.”
You blink.
And then, with infuriating ease, he grins.
“Anyway,” he says quickly, swiping your phone from the table again before you can stop him, “Yuto here looks like the type to ghost you after three dates and a karaoke duet. You can do better.”
You gape at him, completely thrown off, your heart slamming in your chest.
You don’t even notice what he’s done until later—until you get home and open your app to find that your bio has been changed.
Taken. Mentally married to a nerd since birth.
You want to scream.
Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru?
Yeah. Not going great.
Not at all.
You weren’t sure why you agreed to it.
Maybe it was the look in Utahime’s eyes, so determined and hopeful. Maybe it was Shoko promising she would help you find true love. Maybe it was the quiet part of you that wanted to see yourself through someone else’s eyes. Someone who wasn’t Gojo Satoru.
“Today,” Utahime had declared, curling the last strand of your hair like she was threading a spell, “is the first day of your Gojo-less future”
You laughed nervously, tugging at the hem of your skirt. It wasn’t your usual style—not the dewy makeup you weren’t used to seeing in the mirror, not the new haircut that made your eyes look almost too bright, not the blouse that left your shoulders bare in a way that made you feel strangely noticed.
But when you caught your reflection, your heart fluttered. You looked beautiful.
When you stepped onto campus, the sun was out, the wind teasing your hair. You spotted him immediately—Gojo, slouched against the wall outside your lecture hall, nose buried in his Switch as he muttered something under his breath about evolving stats and attack modifiers.
He didn’t notice you at first.
Then he looked up.
His game froze mid-battle. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like someone had unplugged his brain.
“Wha—” he said eloquently. “Wh—what did you do.”
You blinked. “Hi to you too.”
He stared, unabashed. His glasses were slightly crooked, his ears glowing scarlet. He looked like someone had just told him Digimon was real and living in your shoes.
He blinked. “You look like… like you skipped two evolution stages overnight. Straight to Mega. Like if Angewomon fused with… I don’t know, some kind of rare, limited-release goddess-type Digimon that only spawns on a lunar eclipse.”
You blinked.
Utahime’s voice in your head: You’re hot. Unstoppable. He’s going to be speechless.
And Gojo was. But not in the way you wanted.
You tried to laugh. “So I look like a cartoon?”
“A beautiful cartoon,” he said, serious now. “Like the kind of boss character they only show for two frames because animating her costs too much.”
Your heart stuttered. It was the sort of compliment only Gojo could give: clumsy and dorky, yet brilliant in its own way.
But the moment passed.
He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, sunglasses slipping slightly as he muttered, “You just… you look different. That’s all.”
Different.
Not better. Not prettier.
Just different.
You swallowed. “Yeah, well. Thought I’d try something new.”
“I didn’t say it was bad,” he added quickly, but the words felt unsure. Flimsy.
“I should… use the restroom,” you mumbled, turning before he could say anything else.
In the bathroom, you stared at your reflection. Your lipstick looked too bold now. Your lashes too heavy. Despite the change, you were still painfully you— the you Gojo teased during study sessions, the one he let borrow his hoodie when it rained, the one who sat next to him during endless all-nighters. And maybe that was the problem. You weren’t like those girls on the magazines.
What you didn’t see, what you couldn’t see, was Gojo still standing outside the lecture hall, staring after you, Switch forgotten, game over screen blinking on the screen.
He didn’t even notice.
“You good, Satoru?” Shoko asked, walking by.
He blinked. “I think I just saw my best friend… and my final boss… and my future wife… all at once.”
Shoko snorted. “You’re a dork.”
Gojo just sighed, shoulders slumping as he muttered, “I’m so doomed.”
It’s a mild Friday evening when you meet him—Kazuya, the guy from your psychology class. He’s polite, articulate, and kind of cute. The kind of guy who asks if you prefer cats or dogs before ordering his drink, and actually listens when you answer.
Utahime and Shoko had insisted you say yes. “A change of pace,” they called it. “You need a baseline. Not every guy is going to be Gojo Satoru.”
Exactly. That was the point.
You’re sipping a matcha latte and nodding along as Kazuya explains his thesis on cognitive development when a very familiar voice cuts through the air.
“Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here.”
Your stomach drops. You look up, and sure enough—
Satoru.
In all his tall, obnoxiously eye-catching glory, wearing a white t-shirt that was inside out and a grin like he just won the lottery. He's holding a bottle of ramune and standing directly next to your table, like he’s been there the whole time.
You blink. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugs. “Thirsty. Wanted a drink.”
“At this café? On this side of campus?”
“Yeah,” he says, tone innocent. “Weird coincidence, huh?”
Kazuya offers a polite smile. “You’re her friend, right? Gojo?”
“Oh, best friend. Lifelong. Practically her shadow.” He plops into the empty seat beside you without asking, casually tossing his ramune onto the table. “What’s your name again? Kaname?”
“…Kazuya.”
“Right, right. I always mix those up. You look like a Kaname, though. Or maybe a Yusuke.”
You stare at him, incredulous. “Satoru—”
But he’s already leaning over, squinting at the book tucked under Kazuya’s arm. “Ooh, Piaget. Bold move. Love that for you.”
Kazuya blinks. “Do you… like developmental theory?”
“I like being correct,” Gojo says with a cheeky smile. “Also, [Name] hates Piaget. She called him ‘the Freud of toddlers’ last semester.”
Kazuya turns to you in mild surprise. “Really?”
“I—I mean, yeah,” you mumble. “Sort of.”
Gojo beams. “Told you.”
Kazuya makes a valiant effort to steer the conversation back to safe, neutral ground.
“So, you mentioned you're interested in behaviorism, right?” he says, offering a gentle smile. “I thought Dr. Takeda's lecture on conditioned responses was kind of fascinating—”
“Oh, riveting,” Satoru cuts in, lounging back in his chair like he owns the café. “Nothing like bonding over Pavlov’s dogs to spark romance. Did she tell you she cried during Inside Out because the depiction of core memories was ‘psychologically resonant’? Real charmer, this one.”
You shoot Satoru a look. “I was twelve!”
Kazuya blinks, trying not to smile. “I actually thought that was pretty moving, too.”
“Wow,” Satoru deadpans. “A match made in neuroscience.”
Kazuya laughs politely and continues, undeterred. “So, uh, any research plans after graduation?”
You open your mouth to answer, but Satoru beats you to it again.
“She used to want to be a vet. Cried when she had to dissect a frog in middle school. Tragic day.”
“Is that true?” Kazuya turns to you, amused now.
“Technically, yes,” you mutter into your drink.
By the time your cup is empty, you realize you’ve laughed more at Satoru’s interjections than you have at anything Kazuya’s said. Not because Kazuya wasn’t interesting—he was. He was calm, thoughtful, well-read, and clearly trying. But next to Satoru, whose entire presence seemed impossible to ignore, Kazuya didn’t stand a chance.
Still, to his credit, Kazuya maintains a steady, if slightly strained, expression as he sets down his cup and finally says, carefully,
“So… is Gojo your boyfriend?”
The question hangs awkwardly.
You and Satoru answer at the same time.
“No,” you say quickly.
“Yes,” he says with a smile.
You both turn to stare at each other.
“I mean—no,” he corrects, waving his hands. “Just a joke. Hah. Obviously.”
Kazuya blinks. “Right.”
You can’t meet either of their eyes. Your drink is finished, your palms are damp, and the café is suddenly too warm, too small. You push back your chair and stand.
“I should go. Early lab meeting tomorrow.” It’s the weakest excuse, but neither of them calls you on it.
Kazuya stands too, polite as ever. “Thanks for meeting up. You seem like a really cool person.” He hesitates, then adds, gently, “I just think maybe you’ve already got someone.”
You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it again. There’s nothing to say.
Outside, the cold air kisses your cheeks like a reminder. It stings a little, or maybe that’s just the confusion burning in your chest.
Satoru’s already waiting for you. Of course he is. He’s leaning against the lamppost, silver hair catching in the wind. But his eyes are downcast, trained on the sidewalk.
He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you.
You exhale, watching your breath curl white in the air. “You didn’t have to crash it, y’know.”
“I didn’t crash,” he replies without looking at you. “I was invited.”
“By who?”
“Fate. Karma. The gods of poor decision-making.” He shrugs.
You roll your eyes, but it tugs a laugh from you anyway. Stupid, annoying, charming Gojo.
“So,” he says after a beat, nudging your arm gently with his elbow, “how’d it go?”
You glance at him. He still won’t meet your gaze. His lips are pursed like he’s holding back a hundred words and none of them are funny.
“He was nice,” you admit. Despite being rudely interrupted by the white haired idiot beside you.
“Nice is boring,” he mutters, kicking at a loose stone on the pavement.
You laugh, soft and tired. “You’re the worst.”
He finally looks at you then, lips quirking into that smug, too-knowing smile. “But you like me anyway.”
You look away, cheeks burning, heart thudding like a traitor in your chest.
You don’t answer.
You don’t have to.
Despite Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru failing in every imaginable way, things were starting to feel bearable.
Almost good, even.
Satoru still hovered a little too close, always with that same half-smile like he knew something you didn’t. And maybe, just maybe— his constant sabotage, the teasing, the jealousy, the way he looked at you like he was about to say something important but never did. Maybe it all meant something.
You let yourself believe it, just a little.
And that was your first mistake.
It happens quietly, without fanfare or warning. Just a throwaway line between sips of lukewarm coffee and the soft shuffle of paper. You’re both at your usual spot in the library, surrounded by open notebooks and highlighted packets, pretending to study more than you actually are.
You’re halfway through underlining a term in your psychology notes when Satoru leans back in his chair, stretches like a cat, and says far too casually:
“So, guess who asked me out?”
You hum absentmindedly. “Who?”
“Ayane.”
The name hits you like a slap.
You freeze, highlighter paused mid-sentence. “…Ayane? From the biochem track?”
“Yeah,” he says, practically glowing. “You know her, right? She's in your study group sometimes.”
You do know her. Of course you do. Everyone knows her.
She’s beautiful, with this effortless, clean kind of elegance—long legs, perfect posture, and that quiet, poised confidence that makes professors adore her and guys fall over themselves. The kind of girl who posts one blurry bookshelf photo and still racks up a thousand likes. The kind of girl Gojo always jokes about marrying.
But he’s not joking now. He’s beaming.
“She asked me out to dinner this Friday. She’s so smart, too. I didn’t even have to pretend to know what quantum entanglement was. It’s wild.” He laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. “I thought she’d never go for a guy like me, y’know?”
You force a laugh. “A guy like you?”
“Yeah. I dunno. Too much, I guess? But she said I was ‘refreshing.’” He grins.
Your stomach sinks.
This is what you thought you wanted—for him to move on, so you could finally do the same. For Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru to succeed, for real this time.
But now that it’s happening, it feels like someone’s slowly pulling your ribs apart.
“Oh,” you manage, smiling like you’ve practiced it. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”
He doesn’t notice the way your voice cracks on happy. He just keeps talking, rambling about restaurant reservations and how she likes contemporary poetry and used to live in France. You nod in all the right places, but your thoughts are already slipping away.
Because it isn’t just that he’s going out with someone else.
It’s that he chose her.
Her with her flawless skin and quiet charm and the kind of beauty that doesn’t need to try. Her, with everything you’re not. And more than that, it’s that he made you believe you could have meant more to him, when really, he’d been searching for someone else all along.
You excuse yourself early, mumbling something about laundry.
He doesn’t follow.
You don’t cry until you’re halfway home, the cold air biting at your cheeks as your vision blurs.
For the first time in years, you don’t text him goodnight.
You don’t wait for a meme. Or a dumb joke. Or his usual, “Hey, genius. Sleep.”
You go silent.
And when he texts the next day, you don’t reply.
You skip your library meet-up. You don’t sit next to him in class. You even duck into the stairwell when you see his ridiculous white hair from across campus.
It’s not because you’re mad. It’s because you’re heartbroken.
And you can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter.
You weren’t just losing your best friend.
You were losing the love of your life.
And he didn’t even notice.
It takes him three days to notice you’re gone.
Well—no. That’s a lie.
He notices immediately. The moment your usual seat in the library stays empty. When your laugh doesn’t echo in the café line. When your name doesn’t pop up on his screen at 2AM with some stupid meme captioned, “this reminded me of you, idiot.”
But he tells himself you’re busy.
Midterms, right? Stress. Coffee. You get like this sometimes, and he gets it. He really does.
So he waits. Tells himself not to be clingy.
But then Friday comes.
And he's sitting across from Ayane in some expensive, quiet restaurant where the napkins are folded like origami cranes and the water tastes filtered. She’s telling him about her research internship in Osaka, about enzymes and international grants, and all he can think is—
You’d be making fun of me right now.
You’d be kicking him under the table. Whispering some dumb pun about digimon. You’d be pulling faces every time he tried to pronounce the items on the menu. You’d be you.
Ayane is lovely.
But she doesn’t laugh when he says something stupid. She just smiles politely.
She doesn’t ask about why his glasses are always crooked (it’s so you could fix them). Doesn’t tease him for double-knotting his laces like a paranoid grandma. Doesn’t call him “Sato” like it’s some private joke only the two of you get.
He walks her home. Thanks her for a nice evening.
Then he goes to the convenience store. Alone.
And he sees your favorite snack on the shelf and buys two out of habit.
He stares at his phone the entire train ride back.
No new messages.
Just the last one you sent days ago:
“Laundry. Rain check?”
And nothing since.
He waits. Another day. Then two.
You don’t show up to class again.
You don’t like his latest meme.
You don’t comment on the Digimon pun he texted you out of desperation.
You are silent.
And Satoru Gojo—brilliant, blind-sighted, the golden boy of theoretical physics, always five steps ahead realizes, too late, that he’s been a fool.
That he didn’t just lose a study partner.
He lost the one person who knew him better than he knew himself.
The one person he couldn’t replace with rare Digimon pulls, half-solved physics equations, or overly sweet desserts.
And for the first time since he was a kid—
He’s afraid.
It’s been a little over a week.
A little over a week since Gojo Satoru has heard your voice. Since you shoved your coffee at him without asking, muttering “too sweet for me” when you really meant “I got this for you.” Since you poked fun at his stupid sock choices, or knocked your foot against his under the table like it was nothing.
And Satoru is suffering.
He's tried everything. Showed up to your house with excuses too weak to be called plans (“Hey, I brought your favorite snacks. I just... figured maybe you forgot you liked them?”). Waited outside your lecture hall until a security guard asked if he was lost. Took detours between classes hoping to catch a glimpse of your ponytail, your laugh, anything.
But you were always one step ahead.
You stopped answering his texts. Blocked him on that stupid dating app (which—ouch, even though you hadn’t used it seriously). You didn’t even show up to the library anymore. And even Shoko started looking at him with thinly veiled pity and a you really fumbled the bag look in her eyes.
Gojo Satoru is just tired.
Miserable.
So when he finally finds you—not because he’s chasing you down this time, but because he’s walking the long way home, and there you are, sitting on the old swings at the park where you first met—it knocks the wind out of him.
You don’t look surprised to see him. Just tired too.
“I figured you’d find me eventually,” you say quietly.
He swallows. His hands curl at his sides like he’s preparing for a fight.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, like it isn’t obvious. “Why?”
You look away. “You’re smart. Figure it out.”
Gojo looks down at his feet.
“I didn’t know you felt that way.”
Silence stretches between you, heavy and stinging. The playground is empty except for the wind dragging a soda can down the sidewalk and the faint creak of the swing chain.
Then he exhales, ragged and unsure. “Look, I can’t—I can’t take this anymore.”
You glance up.
“I can’t either.”
Hope flares too fast, too naive in his chest. His shoulders drop like he’s been holding up the world. “That’s good,” he breathes, stepping forward. “Because the silent treatment— God, I thought I was going to—”
“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”
The words stop him cold.
“What?” he breathes.
You laugh, but it’s hollow. Like something already broken. “Don’t you get it? I can’t be friends with you and pretend that nothing’s changed. That I’m okay just being your best friend. I’ve been in love with you for years, Satoru.”
His heart stutters. You don’t stop.
“And I love myself too much to keep hurting for someone who doesn’t even look at me that way.” Your voice cracks, but you push through. “Do you know how humiliating it feels? To love someone so much it aches, and still feel like you’ll never be enough?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You never even thought I was cute.”
He looks like he’s been hit.
“I’ve been chasing scraps. Leftovers. Mixed signals and stupid inside jokes. I—I can’t do it anymore.”
You finally meet his eyes, and that’s when he sees it: the hurt you’ve been hiding behind every smile, every brush-off, every joke you cracked to keep the silence from swallowing you.
And for once, Gojo Satoru can’t find a single thing to say.
Not yet.
Not until he stops you from walking away.
“Where did you get an idea like that?” His cerulean eyes search yours desperately. “I-I don’t think you’re just cute, are you kidding?” he blurts, eyes wild.
“Y-you’re breathtaking! Everything I’ve dreamt of and more! That night when you asked me if I thought you were cute, I only said no because it would be a divine crime to reduce to such. All of my fantasies have been centered around you since we first met on that playground—since you tripped over your shoelaces trying to race me to the monkey bars!”
Your breath catches.
He continues, desperate now, like every second of silence might kill him.
“I love you! And not like a brother. Like—I want to marry you. Like, small wedding in Okinawa, barefoot on the beach, you wearing that soft blue dress you like. I already planned it. Our firstborn would be a daughter, with your eyes, my hair. She’d be the boss of the house.”
You gape.
“Wait—”
“I’m not done!” he says, hands thrown up. “Then we’d have twins. Boys. Chaos gremlins. One would look like my twin and the other yours, and they’d absolutely terrorize us—but their sister keeps them in check, she’s fierce like you.”
You blink. A tear slides down your cheek.
“I want to move to Kyoto,” he says, softer now. “Buy a house with a dumb little garden. Grow tomatoes we’ll never eat. Live out the rest of our lives where it’s quiet.”
You cover your mouth, stunned. “You… really thought all that out?”
“It’s easy,” he breathes, “when all I can think about is you.”
He steps closer. The wind tugs his white hair into his eyes, but he doesn’t blink.
“I go to study nonlinear quantum field theory and all I see is your face. I try to cool off and play Digimon, and even that’s ruined—my lineup is garbage now! I only keep the ones you said were cute!”
A laugh bubbles out of you, fragile and watery.
“You idiot,” you murmur.
“I am,” he nods solemnly. “I’m the world’s biggest idiot. And I’m in love with you.”
Another tear slips down. He wipes it away before you can.
“Is it too late?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. “Please tell me it’s not too late.”
You stare at him, this man, this brilliant, ridiculous boy who had held your heart long before you ever admitted it.
“It’s not too late,” you whisper.
He doesn’t speak. Just steps closer. Gently and carefully, like he's handling something sacred, he cups your cheek in his hand.
Your nose bumps his. His breath ghosts over your lips.
“I’ve been waiting to do this for years,” he whispers.
And then, finally, he kisses you.
It’s not perfect, your cheeks are still wet, his nose bumps yours again, and his hand trembles just a little, but it’s warm and sweet and soft. It tastes like home..
When he pulls away, his smile is sheepish. “So… are we still doing the whole ‘Operation: Get Over Gojo’ thing, or?”
synopsis. gojo is hopelessly obsessed with the girl he secretly chose to marry—who has no idea he’s been in love with her for years.
notes. new series alert! it will be another collection of oneshots of high school gojo pining over his childhood crush who has been oblivious to it all :)
“Who’s that girl on your homescreen? Is that a new model?”
“Nah.”
Suguru frowns. That’s weird. Normally, Satoru Gojo would happily elaborate, brag, and maybe even pull up her entire gravure catalogue. But this time, Suguru got nothing but a clipped response and a flicker of something almost… shy.
So of course, Suguru grins. “She’s cute. What’s her name?”
Immediately, Satoru tilts his phone away, thumb locking the screen like it’s classified. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Shoko perks up instantly from her desk, cigarette forgotten between her fingers. “Wait, you’re hiding your phone? Since when?” Her lips twitch. “What, Gojo finally caught feelings?”
“I don’t ‘catch feelings,’” Satoru says, nose scrunching as he waves her off. “It’s the other way around. I’m immune to that kind of stuff.”
“You’re blushing,” Suguru notes, deadpan.
“I’m not blushing,” Satoru shoots back, face tinted pink.
“Oh, he totally is.” Shoko smirks, attempting to peer at his screen. “Who is she?”
“It’s no one,” he says too fast and all too defensive.
Shoko leans back, exhaling a lazy puff of smoke. “So you’ve got a secret crush.”
Suguru grins. “I’ve never seen you like this before. What’s she got that the rest of the world doesn’t?”
Satoru’s grin falters for just a second, and that’s when they know they’ve hit something real. He’s not entirely joking.
“She’s… something,” he admits quietly enough that it almost doesn’t sound like him. “You’ll meet her soon.”
Suguru raises an eyebrow. “Oh? She exists?”
“Yup. Very real. In fact, you’re gonna be seeing her at Jujutsu Tech soon.”
That makes both of them look up.
“Wait—she’s a sorcerer?” Shoko asks, blinking.
Satoru nods. “Starting as a first-year next semester.”
“So she’s a student too,” Suguru says slowly. “You’re into a first-year?”
“Relax,” Gojo sighs. “She’s only one year younger than me.”
Shoko stares. “Still weird.”
But he only laughs, leaning back against the wall, expression softening in a way that neither of them has ever seen before. “She’s not just anyone. I’ve known about her for a long time.”
Suguru tilts his head. “Known her? Or watched her from afar and set her as your wallpaper like a pervert?”
Satoru smirks, though the tips of his ears redden. “You could say I… kept an eye on her.”
“Kept an eye?” Shoko repeats, incredulous. “Gojo, what are you—”
He cuts her off by standing, sliding his hands into his pockets like the smug idiot he usually is, only now there’s something almost giddy underneath. “You’ll find out soon enough. I’ve been serious about her since I was a kid.”
That gets their attention. Both of them stare.
“...What?” Shoko says flatly.
“Yeah,” Satoru says, stretching his arms over his head like it’s no big deal. “The clan wanted to set up an arranged marriage, right? I told them I’d handle it myself.”
Suguru blinks. “Wait. You picked her?”
Gojo’s grin widens. “Mhm.”
“You’re telling me,” Shoko says slowly, pointing at him, “that the Gojo clan gave you the right to choose your fiancée… and you used it to pick a girl you’ve been secretly obsessed with since childhood?”
“‘Obsessed’ is a strong word,” he says breezily. “I prefer destined.”
Suguru pulls a face. “You’re unbelievable. Does she even know you?”
“Is that really important?” Gojo asks cheerfully, ignoring them. “Can’t wait for you to meet her. Though, fair warning—she’s a little shy.”
"Maybe because she doesn't know you?" Suguru mutters.
Shoko stares at him. “Gojo, that’s insane.”
He just hums, turning toward the door, that smug little smile never leaving his lips.
“Maybe,” he says, stepping out into the hall whilst laughing to himself, leaving Suguru and Shoko in stunned silence, somewhere between disbelief and secondhand embarrassment.
synopsis: as a model, you know very well how the media tails those who are famous. you got a first-hand experience at it when you got spotted with your lover, kenma.
pairing: kozume kenma x reader
content: timeskip kenma, model and she/her pronouns reader, romance, fluff, set in canon world, established relationship, just you and kenma against the world.
When it comes to career talks, you and Kenma would very much send other people straight home packing.
You're in the modeling industry. Schedule always packed due to events and runways, your face in magazines and billboards across the world, and mail full of sponsorship and collaborations.
Kenma, on the other hand, is more into business and his passion. His profit continuously rising with the help of stock trading and being the CEO of his successful company, and his name being known due to his gaming streams in YouTube. He became "the richest of them all", or whatever his orange-head friend said.
To say the very least, the two of you are in the list of the current most influential and eminent people in Japan. Everyone knows your skincare routine and what you eat in a day—and everyone knows Kenma's cat and his gaming setup.
However, despite the publicity, they know nothing about you and Kenma’s relationship.
Your relationship is hidden from the world. Although, it wasn't because the two of you are well-known and have a huge amount of supporters, but because it has always been like that since you two were in college. You and Kenma have always liked it private. The only ones who know about your relationship was your close friends along with his.
You know your lover as someone introverted, so when the two of you were rising in terms of assets and fame, you'd thought to never let a single thing about your relationship with Kenma spill in front of the media, also given the fact how toxic it is in today's culture.
As for Kenma, he thought you're a respectable woman on your own. So, whatever you've decided, he's in total support for it.
That didn't make you feel any less love from Kenma though. He has his own ways of showing you that he loves you, and you're already content with how things are going.
You didn’t need the public to define or control your relationship.
That was, until, the two of you woke up one morning with phones vibrating and bombarded with notifications.
Your groggy eyes immediately widen as you scroll on every post about you and Kenma.
Apparently, someone leaked—or more like spotted the two of you last month during your vacation. The photo was you taking a bite of your pastry treat, while Kenma was in front of you, taking your picture, and it’s all over social media.
The fact that the photo that Kenma took of you is posted in your Instagram, netizens made even more speculation about it.
There was even one post where they laid out "proofs" that you two are indeed dating. That proof? More photos that made your relationship obvious.
A photo of you in France, placed beside Kenma's Instagram story highlight of the same place. The dates when it was posted were encircled, making the point that the timelines match.
Another proof is a photo of you and Apple, Kenma's cat. The feline's collar gave it away, letting his fans confirm that it is indeed Apple.
Some are supporting it, some are commenting how come they didn’t notice it before, and some are just in total shock.
It was definitely the headline in articles and magazines, but you know these talks would die down anyway as time passes by. However, you should’ve known already that cases like this in the internet always come with hate.
There’s been a “fanbase war” going on between your supporters and Kenma’s. It was mostly just them throwing trashtalks at each other, but some comments were towards you and Kenma, along with the lines of:
“her and kenma? a model and a gamer? such a weird pair.”
“how did bro even pull a goddess like her? lololol.”
“is she even into gaming?”
“there are hundreds of other guys in her league, can’t believe she chose…him…”
“she’s probably just using kodzuken for more wealth.”
Kenma hates being perceived by other people, and as for you, it would be a lie if you said the comments weren’t getting into your head. So, you both knew you had to take damage control.
The day you’re invited to a talk show, is also the day you’ve decided to confirm the allegations.
All lights and eyes are on you, the atmosphere feels as if the audience are holding their breaths, awaiting for your statement. You sit on the sofa chair, looking demure as you possibly can as you too, wait for the host to speak.
“So,” the host starts, “it’s about time we talk about the photo that broke the internet.” The host giggles softly.
“You and the famous streamer, Kozume Kenma. In France. Together. What’s going on there?” The host asked.
You smile, “Yeah, well, that… wasn’t supposed to be out. Since it is now—yes, we were on a vacation together.”
“So you two are dating?”
“We are. We have been for a while now, since college,” you hear audible gasps from the audience, “and that vacation was actually during our fourth anniversary.”
Even the host couldn’t keep their surprise from your revelation, “That long!? And no one knew!?”
You laugh softly, “Only our close friends know, so technically some people still knew. But, we kept it private because… it was ours. We didn’t need the public to meddle in.”
“Speaking of the public, we all know fans have been very vocal of their thoughts about you and Kenma.” The host’s face suddenly turned serious.
“Yes, I know,” you purse your lips then you continue, “I’ve seen some comments and I admit, it hurts to read them. Not for me, but for Kenma.”
You look down on your hands that are resting on your lap, and you speak up again, “Ken is the most thoughtful person I’ve met. I couldn’t ask for anything more. Even in four years and counting of us being together, I still feel like a teenage girl in love.”
The host seems to be in awe then asks, “How did the two of you meet?”
Your eyes avert on the ceiling, as if recalling back memories, “We met back in our university, before the peak of our careers,” you look at the host again with a mischievous smile, “Not a lot of people know this, but he gets emotional and talkative when he’s tired. He once cursed the gravity when his books fell in front of me.”
The host chuckles, “Who knew Kenma has a side like that? Turns out there’s more that the public doesn’t know. Well, Is there anything you want to say, to everyone—your fans, or Kenma, maybe?”
You look directly at the camera, “I understand everyone’s concern, if there’s anything I could ask, is to please just be kind. Regardless, it won’t stop me and him,” you pause for a moment, “And for Kenma, my Kodzuken, just know I don’t regret a single thing—I will continue to choose you.”
At this moment, amidst the talk show that’s happening, Kenma sits on his gaming chair, camera and microphone on, as he’s streaming live on his channel.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” he starts, “It’s true. We’ve been together for years now.”
Kenma couldn’t keep up reading the amount of chats incoming, not that it would matter that much anyway.
“She’s not using me. She’s rich on her own. Still, I’d gladly give her everything and I’d be more than willing to do so.”
His feline-like eyes glint, “She was the one who named Apple, our cat, you know? ‘Cause I like apple pies.”
“I recognize that some people are saying she’s out of my league… I understand that—I mean, look at her…But, that doesn’t make me any less deserving of her. We deserve each other just as much.” He says, carrying on with his statement.
Kenma caught a glimpse of a comment asking how did the two of you start, to which he answered, “It was unusual for a guy like me, but when I first saw her, I got starstruck. We got together during our third year of college. I admit, I thought I didn’t deserve her at first. But, even when I thought I didn’t have what it takes, I strived to be the best, all just for her.”
Kenma continues, “She said no to me three times though,” then he pauses, as if reminiscing those moments, and then he softly smiles in front of the camera, “totally worth it.”
Hours later, even after the talk show and the livestream, the noise on the internet is still deafening. You just turned your phone off and called it a day.
You enter the passcode to your and Kenma’s house, a meow greeting you as you come in. Smiling, you pick the calico up to your arms, “Well hello there, miss Apple.”
You immediately spot Kenma in the living room, his eyes already on you, “Welcome home,” he greets. You walk your way towards him then Kenma pulls you in besides him, making you plop down on the couch.
“How are you?” He asks, as you rest your head on his shoulder and his arm drapes around you.
“Tired. Got in the building with an interview and got out of the building with more interviews from the paparazzi.”
Kenma hums, “Should we tighten security? I’ll hire more guards.”
You sigh, “No need. I can manage,” you look at the television, “Were you watching the clip of my talk show earlier?”
Kenma nods, “You looked nervous.”
“I was, but I meant every word I said.”
There’s a comforting silence that fell between the two of you. You pet Apple, who’s now laying on your lap, as Kenma’s hand massages your scalp gently, then moving to your arm to rub it from time to time.
You love this moment with him—no noise, just warmth, intimate, and only for the two of you.
“You know,” Kenma breaks the silence and you look up at him, “I said in my stream that I do deserve you, but their remarks did make me overthink.”
This is one side you love about Kenma. He’s open to his vulnerability. Even so, if he does love something, he won’t stop until he reaches victory.
You cup his face, making him look at you, “They just don’t know how good you are at taking care of me, or how you’ll finish your games early just to spend time with me, or how you’ll try to cook me food, still half asleep, just to make sure I eat before a shoot.”
You chuckle and Kenma joins you—and there’s that small smile that only you get.
“You’re much more dear to me, Ken. More than you’ll ever know.”
He leans in towards you, then softly, sealing your lips with his.
Once he pulls back, his smile is still etched on his face, “I’ll stream with you one day. Just us, and I guess Apple too.”
You smile at him playfully, “Oh? Then maybe you should attend my next runway show.”
Kenma lightly groans, already thinking how many people would be surrounding him, “Fine, for you,” he gives in, nonetheless.
“Really!?” You exclaim with sparkles in your eyes.
“Yes, really.”
“Promise?”
“You know I don’t promise,” Kenma gives you a smug look, “I just straight up do it.”
Then, the same comforting silence engulf you and Kenma once again. Moments later, you speak up once more, “You know, Ken,” He hums, ushering you to continue.
“I was totally planning to reveal us to the public when we get engaged or married in the future, or something like that, but the rumors beat me to it.”
Kenma chuckles at your confession, “Then let’s just make that the next headline.”
— kenma donates to your stream just for you to say his name.
ts!kozume kenma x streamer!f!reader
c: full of fluff!
i have been called unhinged, way too many times on this app because of my random ass ideas and i’m not really complaining.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
love, at its worst, is waiting two hours for your streamer girlfriend to start her live because she decided to nap. love, at its best, is still waiting two hours, dropping ten thousand dollars in twitch donations the second she breathes into the mic, and typing out something so embarrassing that your stock-trader-ceo-gamer pride cracks like a raw egg on hot concrete.
and kenma kozume—beloved boyfriend of the internet’s it girl streamer, sworn enemy of sunlight, permanent sufferer of chronically bent posture—is unfortunately in the latter camp.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the loading screen music starts. your fans (your “little gremlins,” as you call them lovingly) are already flooding the chat, 250k strong, typing at inhuman speeds.
@ ratking97: LETS GOOOOOO
@ frogchair: MOTHER IS HERE
@ yuumama: omg she’s late but she’s pretty so it’s fine
@ thecheeseempire: do i drop out of college to watch this live???
the screen flickers and then you appear. a blur of soft lighting, glossed lips, headphones crooked over your ears, oversized hoodie that could probably house a family of raccoons.
“hi, hi, hi!” you chirp, leaning close to the mic. “sorry i’m late, i, uh… overslept.”
the chat goes feral.
@ rdgnbeertoe: i forgive u
@ shrimpgod: step on me queen
@ milkbottlepop: YOUR HAIR. OH MY GOD.
@ chairfan77: i waited three years in line for taylor swift tickets and this feels more important somehow
kenma is sitting in his own setup, in his own room, watching this unfold with a blank expression that doesn’t match the fact that his heart is sprinting a marathon.
he’s already logged in. his finger is already hovering over the button. he doesn’t even blink before the first donation flies across your screen.
$10,000 donation from @ kodzuken:
i haven’t been this premature since birth.
you blink. mid-sip of water. almost choke.
“oh my—” you clap a hand over your mouth, laughing so hard your chair squeaks. “oh my god. kenma!”
the chat collectively combusts.
@ kingcrab420: PREMATURE??????
@ eggsaladprince: HE DID NOT
@ uwu2: that’s ur man huh. that’s the ceo. okay.
@ toiletseatcover: nah this is true romance
kenma slouches lower in his chair, hoodie swallowing his face. he types nothing. he simply clicks again.
$5,000 donation from @ kodzuken:
hi honey.
“hi honey,” you echo instantly, smile softening despite your attempt to keep it together. “you’re… you’re insane, you know that?”
chat is gleeful, feral.
@ pottedplant: HELLO??? HE JUST DROPPED 15K IN TEN SECONDS
@ ilovebreadsticks: nah he’s down bad. down catastrophic. down cataclysmic.
@ 7elevenhotdog: tell me why i feel single watching this
@ ghostofmywifi: prematurity speedrun any%
“kenma,” you squint at your monitor, “why are you like this? don’t you have stocks to trade? meetings to attend? a corporation to run?”
he doesn’t reply. not in words. only in another click.
$2,000 donation from @ kodzuken:
please say my name i miss you.
you pause, warmth rushing up your neck. “kenma.” you say it gently this time, like handing him a glass of water after running across the desert. “kenma, kenma, kenma.”
the sound of his name in your voice does terrible, wonderful things to him. he buries his face in his hands, groaning like you’ve personally attacked him.
chat is losing their collective minds.
@ taxfraudchamp: DID SHE JUST SAY HIS NAME LIKE IT WAS SACRED???
@ imjustapigeon: bruh if my gf streamed and said my name like that i would literally explode
@ yeehawmilk: kodzuken rn >>>>> romeo montague
@ raccoonwife: HE’S ROLLING ON THE FLOOR I JUST KNOW IT
“you’re ridiculous,” you murmur into the mic, giggling, trying to focus on the actual game you’re supposed to be playing. “ridiculous and—so cute. i love you.”
kenma, who has not physically moved in ten minutes, blinks like you’ve just hacked into his chest and turned his ribcage into an instrument.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
twenty minutes later, you’re mid-match. your concentration face is on, tongue peeking out, brows furrowed just a little. chat is in awe, writing entire novels about your skill and, frankly, your existence.
@ dietcolaangel: ur so pretty when ur focused wtf
@ doginboots: HOW IS SHE THIS GOOD
@ lettuceleaf_: i would pay for her hand in marriage like it’s ebay
kenma, meanwhile, is spiraling. because you’ve said “hi chat” like forty times but you haven’t said his name again. his bloodstream is basically carbonated soda at this point.
so he clicks.
$1,000 donation from @ kodzuken:
hi it’s me again. your boyfriend. remember me? say you remember me.
you burst out laughing mid-shootout, losing the round entirely. “KENMA. i literally just said i love you like—five minutes ago. of course i remember you!”
@ floorboard69: NAH HE’S SO INSECURE 😭😭😭
@ bugjuice: “remember me” HE ACTS LIKE HE DIED IN WW1
@ cucumberking: we are witnessing devotion on a spiritual level
@ lilypadfairy: i want someone to miss me like this
kenma groans into his sleeves. his ears are pink. you’re glowing on screen, laughing like you have the whole world in your throat, and he thinks maybe he actually would sell the company if it meant keeping you happy forever.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
after a while, you switch to just chatting, leaning on your desk, chin in your hand.
“okay, okay,” you say, scrolling through chat. “who wants storytime?”
chat erupts.
@ beanstalkbaby: MEEEEEEE
@ fishinthebucket: MOTHER TELL US A TALE
@ wifebeaterbottle: YESSSSSS
you smile, and kenma is done for. utterly, irreversibly ruined. because you’re telling some silly story about how your toaster almost set fire to your kitchen this morning, and you’re so animated, so bright, and everyone is in love with you.
he knows you love him. you say it all the time. but watching thousands of strangers adore you too? it lights something sharp in his chest. not jealousy. more like a fever. like he wants to carve his initials into your laugh so no one forgets it belongs to him.
so he types again.
$3,000 donation from @ kodzuken:
i’ll buy you ten new toasters if you say my name again.
“oh my god,” you laugh, covering your face with your hands. “kenma, i don’t need ten toasters. i need… one toaster. just one.” you peek at the camera, eyes soft. “kenma.”
he melts. literally melts into his chair. his bones turn to pudding.
chat notices immediately.
@ seaurchinlover: SHE SAID IT AGAINNNN
@ pencilpusher22: man’s addicted to hearing his own name 😭
@ slayturtle: he’s like a cat who meows until u call him cute
@ smellysock: this is the healthiest parasocial relationship i’ve ever seen
“you’re so dramatic,” you murmur, shaking your head. “but i love you.”
kenma’s throat goes dry. he whispers at his monitor, like you can hear him through sheer force of will: i love you more.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the stream lasts another hour. you’re radiant the whole time, effortless, unbothered, while kenma hemorrhages money just for crumbs of your affection.
by the time you end it, the donation total from him alone is nearing twenty-five thousand. chat is unwell.
@ firehydrantfan: 25K??? FOR AFFECTION??? I NEED TO DATE A STREAMER
@ bugdust: this is what love looks like huh
@ treefrog: kodzuken is either insane or the blueprint
@ eggrolls: nah he’s insane and the blueprint
you yawn into the mic. “alright, i think that’s it for me tonight. thanks for hanging out, gremlins. kenma, thanks for, uh… your… really dramatic donations. i’m literally going to bonk you when i see you.”
chat screams.
@ picklejuicequeen: BONK HIM???
@ sleepdeprivedowl: THATS FOREPLAY
@ dustmite: ma’am we are in the room
@ toelicker69: heh, kinky
you blow a kiss at the camera, all glittering eyes and tired smile. “love you guys. love you, kenma. goodnight!”
the stream ends.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
kenma doesn’t move for a long moment. the silence is loud, like his ears are still ringing from the sound of your voice. then, slowly, he pulls his hoodie over his head, face burning.
his phone buzzes. it’s you.
future wife: you’re ridiculous.
future wife: also, come over. i want to kiss you until you stop acting like my sugar daddy.
future wife: (thank you though. i love you.)
kenma stares. then slumps forward, forehead against his desk, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
he comes to you. hoodie, headphones still hanging around his neck, soft hair falling in his eyes. he knocks like he’s got no patience for doors.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
“kenma,” you beam when you open up, hair still smelling faintly like your shampoo, skin dewy from your skincare routine, hoodie sleeves sliding down your wrists. you’re so unfair it hurts. “hi.”
he doesn’t even say hi back. he just drops his bag by the door and shuffles in, like a cat making itself at home in someone else’s living room.
you close the door behind him, amused. “what’s wrong with you?”
he stops in the middle of your living room, turns slowly, and looks at you with eyes half-lidded, pout carved into his mouth like it’s permanent.
“you didn’t pay enough attention to me.”
you blink. then laugh. “excuse me? ken, you practically bought my whole stream tonight.”
his brows knit together. “didn’t work. chat got… everything. i got, like… a crumb. a molecule. an atom. the kind of portion size they’d give in a three-star michelin restaurant where the plate’s bigger than the food.”
your laughter doubles, sweet and fond. “oh, baby,” you coo, crossing the room to cup his face in your hands. “are you jealous of chat?”
he doesn’t answer, but the way his cheeks warm under your touch is answer enough.
so you kiss him.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
a peck on his lips, soft and brief. then one to his forehead. one to his nose. both cheeks. then another to his lips, just because.
he blinks slowly, eyelashes fluttering like he’s trying not to show how much he needs it.
“better?” you tease.
kenma shakes his head immediately. “not even close.”
so you go again. kisses like raindrops: on his jaw, down his throat, over his temples, eyelids, the little crease of his smile. every patch of skin you can reach, you cover in affection until he’s sighing like an overworked office drone sinking into a hot spring.
“you’re so needy,” you whisper against his skin, but your grin is soft, indulgent.
“don’t care,” he mumbles back, voice thick, hands sliding to your waist to hold you in place. “want more. want… all of you. more than chat. more than everyone.”
“oh, baby,” you coo, peppering kisses over his face like you’re stamping him with a love-brand. “you already have all of me.”
“say it again.” his voice cracks, barely a whisper, like he needs it to live.
you pause between kisses, lips brushing his cheek. “you already have all of me, kenma. every single part.”
he exhales shakily, like you’ve pulled a thorn out of his chest.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
you don’t stop. you don’t let him go. your kisses turn relentless, ridiculous, like a child armed with stickers covering a notebook page until no white space remains. kisses to his ears, down his neck, across his collarbone through the fabric of his hoodie. he tips his head back, eyes fluttering shut, letting you do whatever you want because he trusts you with everything he is.
his voice goes soft, almost slurred with warmth. “feels like… i can’t hold it. like my chest’s too full. you’re—” he swallows. “you’re everywhere.”
“good,” you hum, brushing your lips over his jaw. “that’s exactly what i want. i want to be everywhere for you.”
his arms tighten around your waist, holding you like you’re his anchor. “you are. you already are. you don’t even know—”
and then you kiss him properly.
slow at first, lips slotting against his like puzzle pieces, coaxing him open. then deeper, like you’re pouring all the affection he’s been begging for into his mouth. he sighs into it, sound vibrating against your tongue when you slip it past his lips, gentle but deliberate.
he kisses back clumsily, almost desperately, like someone who’s been parched for years finally given water. his fingers dig into your waist, your hoodie bunched in his hands, keeping you so close there’s no space left between you.
when you finally pull back, he’s flushed to the tips of his ears, lips pink and swollen, eyes hazy like he’s been spun around too many times.
“enough attention now?” you murmur, brushing your nose against his.
he stares at you, dazed. then shakes his head once, stubborn. “…need more later.”
you laugh, breathless, and kiss him again.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
a: ok i’m gonna sleep, i have 5 hours. i’m so nervous !! i spoil the pretty people way too much
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── .✦ Summary: Kozume Kenma is down bad on stream, 50k people watch him simp.
── .✦ pairing: Kozume Kenma x reader
── .✦ WC: 1.1K
── .✦ genre: fluff
── .✦ a/n: i might be out of my writing slump again guys.... im back...
Kenma likes to think that he's a pretty humble person. He's quiet, keeps to himself and doesn't bother anyone else. If there's anything that he would take the slightest bit of pride in, it would be his gaming skills.
Now, again, Kenma is a humble guy — but statistics and KDAs don't lie. He can't help it if he's the top 1 rank in Japan in Overwatch, League of Legends, and a few other PvP games. It's all practiced skill. Kenma knew that he was the best. Admittedly, he does feel the flame of pride lick at his stomach when randoms would type in chat, just so excited to even be in the same lobby as the Kodzuken. Multiple clips of his streams becoming popular online because how the fuck is he playing like he's a rank above everyone else in the highest tier lobby? His chat floods with emotes and question marks whenever he pulls off an interesting shot. It's not even just his PvP skills. Kenma is annoyingly good at other kinds of games too. He enjoys a good souls-borne game like every other person, and when Elden Ring came out, a shit ton of clips of Kodzuken defeating bosses when they game hadn't even been out for a week took the internet by storm. So yeah, Kenma knows he's good at games.
It’s another day of streaming for the overgrown blonde, he boots up his PC and opens his Twitch and OBS. The stream begins and Kenma follows up with his usual introduction, waiting for the thousands of people who are pouring into his stream to settle in.
“Hey chat, we’re gonna be playing some Valorant today and maybe some ‘Resident Evil: Village’ later on.” The man hummed, moving his mouse around and clicking on the app icon. The game boots up quickly and within a minute he’s already in the lobby.
The chat is flooded with emotes, memes, and whatever they hell they wanna talk about — moving about a mile a minute but it all stops when something pops up on their screens.
Another account has joined Kodzuken’s lobby.
soboring: whos that
yodayoda: new duo?
nuggetFPS: I DONT RECOGNIZE THIS USERNAME GUYS
Kenma doesn’t say anything and starts the queue.
inarizaki1001: @kodzuken this isnt ur main acc??
The queue pops and Kenma as per usual locks his duelist champion, Jett. The chat is confused but they play along, wondering if the streamer had just decided to start climbing on a new account instead — it would be entertaining to have another Top 1 run anyway. All of this is tossed out the window when a girl’s voice suddenly floods the stream.
“Hey, Ken? Who should I play?” The sweet voice asked.
justathrower: IS THAT A GIRL?
simpl4m4n: LMFAOOOO IS THIS REAL GUYS?
customMade: DID KENMA GIVE IN AND HIRE AN EGIRL?
“Play whoever y’want.” Kenma hummed, shifting in his seat. He looks over at his second monitor where he has his OBS opened up and a pop-out of his Twitch chat — the edges of his lips quirk up but he doesn’t say anything, watching the comments fly by.
The sweet voice hums again and decides on locking in a champion, Sage.
S4INTLY: holy shit theyre A JETT SAGE DUO?
napphry: oh my god im gonna throw up
wubalubadubub: no way this is happening right now right
The blonde makes sure his microphone is muted in game before he speaks on the stream, “Guys, I’m duoing with my friend, she’s nice… so don’t be mean to her.” The lobby loads up and Kenma shifts his focus to the game.
The game was going well and the viewers had attempted to be nice and not mention the new duo and the new account but they just couldn’t ignore the fact that Kenma was playing a little differently today. Yeah, Kodzuken is a world renounced streamer, he’s popular and undeniably the best at almost every game he touches — but today the man was playing as if his life depended on it, which was an odd thing to say for a man who’s life revolved around gaming.
“Ken! You’re really good at this game!” The sweet voiced squeaked out after Kenma had managed to wipe the entire enemy team to save the round.
See, Kenma knows that he’s good at the game but that little compliment had the man malfunctioning. Blood rushes to his cheeks and Kenma’s palms begin to sweat, so what he has a little crush you? It wouldn’t have been the first time but this little crush has Kenma acting like he isn’t told this little fact almost every day.
He clears his throat and nods his head, “Thanks, t’was mostly luck…”
peanuuut: holy shit hes cooked
noddingpup: HUZZ SAID HES GOOD AT THE GAME
burgermachine: LUCK LMFAOOOO
For the rest of the game,the two of you throw some banter around, teasing each other. joking around, and just having fun — but Kenma, despite his ability to block out the world and focus in on his video games, cannot for the life of him fully focus back into the game. His brain is running around in circles and looking into crevices to figure out other ways that he could impress you again. Stupidly enough, all this thinking on how to win you over has the man doubling down in the lobby. He’s lost his focus and when he tunes back in he’s in a 1 v 5 position.
Shit.
Kenma is quick to act and he manages to find and shoot a person down. 1 v 4. The clock is ticking red and the blonde only has so much time before the bomb explodes.
“Holy shit! If you win this I’ll give you a kiss!” You blurt out randomly into your microphone, carried away by the intensity of the game and the adrenaline coursing through your veins.
Holy fucking shit.
slUmpStax: WHAAAAT?
swordfallen: CLIPPED AND SHIPPED
generallySo: were so cooked
Kenma only glances at second monitor before he goes absolutely berserk. The man controls his character better than his viewers had ever seen, bullets finding heads and the only sound the stream can hear is the clicking of his mouse and keyboard and the quiet desperation as Kenma moves around the game.
1 v 3.
1 v 2.
1 v 1.
As the blonde shoots down the last enemy player, he immediately moves to diffuse the bomb. It’s ticking loud, spasming at this point with high pitched whines because it’s practically about to explode and Kenma is praying to all the Gods that he makes it on time but he could do nothing but hope.
The round ends - ‘0:01’ on the top of his screen.
Defenders Win.
moogleymouse: GG EZ
zazazaza: CLIPPED. AND. SHIPPED.
aimingOP: GG
Kenma’s hands are drenched in sweat and the sound of your excited squeals has his heart pounding. Jesus, he looks like a fool right now. The man looks over at his chat, he already knows he’s getting teased by fifty thousand people right now but he really could not care about his ‘nonchalant reputation’ at this point.
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