Imagine Naoya banning his wife from make up 'cuz he likes natural women who doesn't wear any— just for his wife to watch him put on his winged eyeliner every 5:30 am on a Tuesday before a solo mission 😂
It's been six months since Yuji was born and so it's been six months since he's had a good night's sleep. The smell of fresh brewed espresso is the only thing giving Choso hope that this will be over soon. He's next in line to order when he looks down at the baby strapped to his chest - vision bleary from another long night - just to find Yuji staring back up at him with those big brown eyes, still wide awake.
He orders mindlessly - the biggest, strongest cup of coffee he could find on the menu, no extras, no changes, just please put him out of his misery.
"Your son is cute," the person behind the counter says to Choso, handing him his change.
"You too," he responds without thinking, cheeks burning hot when he realizes his slip up. They are cute, but that's not how he would have told them, if he worked up the courage to tell them at all. "I mean- uh- thanks, he's my little brother. I'm so sorry."
"You don't have to apologize." They try to hold back their smile at his fumble, a near impossible task, considering the early hour and it's not everyday someone this handsome calls them cute, even if accidentally. They slip over to the espresso machine to make his order, thank god, giving Choso a second to close his eyes and scrunch his face in embarrassment.
He's still mentally kicking himself when his name is called. He takes the paper cup from them, an apologetic smile on his face, nerves a little calmer as he apologizes again.
"Still don't have to apologize," they smile, turning the cup in his hand to reveal their number scrawled onto the paper. "You too."
Choso leaves the coffee shop with a little extra pep in his step, it's been ages since someone gave him their number. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," he says to Yuji, kissing the top of his pink little head of hair. "Good job, little brother."
Yuji just blinks sleepily at him and is asleep before they make it home.
an: wanted to try something a lil different, especially with ✨pride month✨ upon us and because i hc cho with a nb partner. reader insert is still intended, just you’re them now. happy pride my loves 🫶
One awkward smile, two 'study mates', and a love story that’s chemically inevitable.
Synopsis: You only stopped at his science fair booth out of pity—but the tall, nervous guy with crooked glasses and a galaxy model has other plans.
Satoru Gojo is brilliant, awkward, and talking a mile a minute about black holes like it’s the most romantic thing in the world. You weren’t looking for a tutor. Or a crush. But he’s got stars in his eyes—and maybe, now, so do you.
Pairing: Nerd!Gojo Satoru x reader
Genre: MDNI, College AU, Fluff, Slow-burn-ish, friends to lovers, attempt at humour
Warnings: Mentions of virginity/first kiss, hookup culture, crude humour, minor argument, kissing, making out, testing the boundaries of friendship big time.
Masterlist
The sharp scent of alcohol markers and someone’s aggressively microwaved breakfast clings to the air of the classroom. You burst through the door, the morning sun doing nothing to hide the grin stretching across your face.
With a pep in your step that borders on suspicious, you weave past the yawning students and caffeine zombies until you spot your target.
Gojo is already at his desk—impossibly upright and offensively awake—tidy notes laid out with precision.
His hair is still damp, curling faintly at the ends, a single droplet clinging to his jawline before slipping under the collar of his hoodie. His glasses are fogged faintly from the chill of outside meeting the warmth of the room. He’s wiping them with his sleeve when he finally notices you.
Gojo's mouth instantly pulls into that sideways, fond smile, reserved specifically for you.
“You’re awfully cheerful for someone who almost failed the last lab quiz,” he remarks, one brow raised over the rim of his lenses.
“Well,” you say, sliding into the seat he’s saved for you. “I’m expecting you to score a date today.”
Gojo sighs. “Do you really think that'll work?”
“Mmhmm,” you hum, already digging for your notebook. “Someone’s finally going to break their celibacy streak.”
“Could you not call it that?”
“Could you not stall?” you fire back, holding out your hand. “Phone, please. Don’t fight me on this.”
He hesitates, fingers brushing the edge of his pocket as though the phone might bite him. But before he can hand it over, the professor sweeps into the room, and everyone groans in unison.
You flop dramatically forward on your desk. “Rude.”
Gojo just smirks faintly, tucking the phone back into his hoodie pocket. When he sits back, though, you notice that he angles himself a little closer to you. His elbow brushes yours, just barely. And you don’t move away.
The lecture begins.
You hear almost none of it. Every mention of valence electrons turns to static while you absently doodle stars and crooked hearts in the margins of your notes.
But your eyes keep darting sideways. To the way he taps his pen against his thigh. To the way he mouths the professor’s words just a beat behind, syncing with a rhythm only he seems to hear.
You think you’re being subtle, catching little glimpses of him without being caught.
Until Gojo's eyes flick up and find yours.
His gaze snags yours and holds it just long enough for the back of your neck to warm before he looks back down at his notes, the faintest tinge of pink dusting the tops of his ears.
And just a few moments later, his hand moves. Slowly, lazily, like they have nowhere better to be, his fingers drift from their place on his own notebook and hover near yours, before resting lightly over your hand on the desk.
The warmth of it sinks into your skin, his thumb brushing idly against your knuckles. Neither of you move. His fingers curl just slightly, pressing yours gently into the wood in the quietest squeeze.
“Would you sit still?” he murmurs, voice soft enough that the scratch of pens almost drowns it out. “You’re distracting.”
Your head tilts into the contact for half a second too long before he pulls away, his hand retreating like nothing happened.
When the bell rings, you shoot up like a spark, practically snatching Gojo's phone right out of his hand.
“You have a match,” you announce, triumphant as the screen lights up.
Gojo blinks, surprised. “A match?”
“She’s pretty." You spin the phone toward him with a grin. "Like, drinks oat milk and does pilates pretty.”
He leans closer to see, brows drawing together slightly. “Seriously?”
“Has a liking for Astronomy, long walks, Iced Americanos,” you recite as you scroll.
“Huh,” he mutters.
“That’s it? Just Huh?” you tease, giving him a look.
“She seems.... fine,” he says flatly.
“Well, you can thank me later,” you say, already thumbing through the app to compose a message.
He doesn’t stop you. Just sits there quietly while the classroom empties around you.
The hum of chatter outside the classroom drifts in as the door bangs shut behind the last student. The room is quiet now but for the faint the slow tick of the wall clock.
By the time you’re halfway through typing some charming opener on his behalf, you notice he hasn’t moved.
Hasn’t even looked at the screen.
You glance at him, frowning slightly—and catch the way his fingers keep fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, twisting the fabric like he’s trying to wring the nerves out of it.
That’s when you realize something’s wrong. You lower the phone to the desk, watching him carefully.
“She’s super cute,” you say, voice light, testing the waters. “Right?”
He nods once, almost mechanically. “Yeah. Cute.”
It’s flat and empty. Like he’s reading it off the back of a cereal box.
You raise an eyebrow. “That’s the least convincing cute I’ve ever heard.”
Gojo exhales through his nose. His knee bounces once, then stops.
“Satoru,” you say, a little softer. “It’s just a date. You’ll be fine.”
But he doesn’t even glance at you. His thumb picks anxiously at the corner of his notebook.
“That’s not the point,” he mutters.
You frown, sitting back. “Then what is?”
He finally tips his head back, as if the ceiling might have the answer, jaw tight.
“Come on,” you say again, pressing further. “Spit it out.”
“Forget it." He says, leaning back in his chair. "I just... you wouldn't understand.”
That one lands sharper than he probably intended.
You huff, the faint sting in your chest catching you off guard. “Oh. So now I’m too dumb to understand?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” you shoot back, sitting up straighter. “Right after I practically handed you a date on a silver platter, you tell me to mind my own business?”
He shifts in his seat, leaning forward like he’s about to say something, but then stops. His hands clench in his lap.
“Yeah, well…” he finally mumbles, eyes hard on the desk. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You ever think maybe I don’t want you running my life all the time?”
For a second you just stare, because the words feel so damn foreign out of his mouth.
You laugh, the sound bitter and clipped. “That’s actually impressive. You managed to make me feel like an idiot and regret helping you all at once.”
Gojo freezes, like he only just registered the words that came out of his mouth. His head snaps toward you, face flushing pale. “Wait — no. That’s not what I—”
But you’re already standing, grabbing your bag.
“Don’t bother,” you cut him off, slinging it over your shoulder. “I won’t get in your way anymore.”
“Wait—” he tries again, standing halfway, guilt twisting across his face.
You approach the door and maybe it’s petty, or maybe it’s just necessary, but you don’t call him Satoru.
“Good luck on your date, Gojo.”
The way you say his name—Gojo, not Satoru—feels like a door closing in his face.
You leave without looking back.
The canteen feels colder without you sitting across from him, your laughter still faint in the back of his mind. He sits there long after you’ve left, staring at his phone like maybe if he stares at it hard enough, it'll light up with a text from you.
“Stupid,” he mutters under his breath, voice cracking faintly. “That’s… not what I meant.”
His hand hovers over your name in his contacts more than once. But he doesn’t click on it.
The truth is, he doesn’t care about some oat milk drinking, pilates going stranger.
He never did.
When you smiled at him in that classroom, when your elbow brushed his, when your hand stayed under his and you didn't move it away—he thought, maybe. Maybe you knew.
But you don’t.
And he’s too much of a coward to tell you.
—⋆ ☁︎ ⋆ ♡ ⋆ ☾ ⋆ ♡ ⋆ ☁︎ ⋆ —
Gojo paces in his room for what feels like hours. The message is typed, then deleted, then typed again.
I'm sorry.
You weren’t a bother.
I didn’t mean it.
Come back. Please.
Each one dies before it can get delivered to you, his thumb hovering, yet wavering just as quickly.
So he does the stupidest thing he’s ever done.
He shows up at your door. No warning, and certainly no text.
Just him standing under the jaundiced glow of your porch light, hair sticking up at odd angles like he’d run nervous fingers through it. His sneakers scuff nervously at the welcome mat, eyes wide and glassy like a deer in headlights.
You freeze for half a beat, hand clutching the edge of the door frame.
And he just stares—soft, awkward and hopelessly him.
You sigh and step aside without a word, and he slips inside with the ease of someone who's been here a thousand times before.
Gojo doesn’t beat around the bush or offer a forced excuse. He just sinks onto the edge of your couch, shoulders hunched, hands buried in the sleeves of his hoodie. Looking every bit like a stray cat that finally realized it might’ve bitten the only hand that fed it.
You sit at the far end, curled in the corner of the sofa, legs tucked up, face turned away from him.
He draws in a breath. “Please don’t do this to me.”
You still don’t look at him. “Do what?”
“This,” he says, gesturing helplessly between the two of you. “This thing where you won’t even look at me—”
He breaks off. Your fingers tighten where they curl against the armrest.
“I can’t—” he tries again, throat bobbing. “I can’t stand it when you won’t look at me.”
You finally look up at that. Because how could you not when he sounds like that?
His eyes are red-rimmed, lashes clumped slightly at the ends like he rubbed at them too hard, like maybe he was afraid he’d cry on the walk over.
“Fine,” you say, arms crossing defensively. “I’m looking.”
Gojo exhales a breath of relief, before speaking up again. “I messed up,”
You scoff. “No kidding.”
“I really messed up,” he amends, like that’ll earn him points.
You don’t reply.
He shifts slightly, digging into the front pocket of his hoodie, fishing for something, and out comes a brown paper bag folded neatly at the top.
You blink, dumbfounded. “…Is that—”
Gojo nods sheepishly. “Yeah. That pastry you like. The, uh…” He trails off, wrinkling his nose. “The bougie one with the French name that sounds like a sneeze.”
“…Financier?”
“That. I walked thirty minutes for it. The barista said they were out but then I did the face.”
You furrow your eyebrows. “What face?”
He scrunches his face dramatically—pursed lips, eyes huge and wet like a cartoon. “Please ma’am. My best friend’s mad at me and this is the only thing that might make her like me again.”
Despite yourself, a little laugh bubbles out. His head snaps up instantly, as though he’s been starved for that sound and can’t bear to miss a second.
And you swear, in that moment, he actually glows. His expression softens into a grin so dumb, so earnest, it almost makes your chest hurt.
“So,” he says, voice hopeful. “We’re okay now?”
You take the bag slowly. Your fingers brush his when you do, and he stills, barely breathing.
You eye him for a long beat, and then say, “You’re lucky I’m food-motivated.”
You make quick work of the bag, the sweet, rich fragrance of the pastry escaping in soft, delicious curls of warmth.
You nibble at the corner, a soft sound of approval slipping out as the dessert nearly melts against your tongue. It’s still warm, soft in the center, with that faint hint of almond that makes your eyes flutter close for a second.
When you open them back though, Gojo’s staring straight at you.
Not subtly.
You blink, pastry halfway to your mouth. “You’re gonna burn a hole through my face at this rate.”
His eyes widen slightly as he clears his throat. “Wasn’t staring.”
“You literally haven’t blinked in forty-five seconds.”
“I’m contemplating,” he says, voice mock-serious.
“Contemplating what? The angle of my jaw while I eat?”
You laugh and take another slow bite just to mess with him. “You better go on that date tomorrow, Satoru. If you bail, I’m never reactivating your account.”
He sighs, dragging his hand over his face. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“Good. And you better be ready.”
“For what?”
“Everything,” you reply cryptically.
He frowns. “Everything?”
You shrug, brushing the crumbs from your fingers. “You don't know when things could escalate. What if she gives you a goodnight kiss?”
Gojo goes stock-still. The color drains from his cheeks before rushing right back in twice as dark. “A wh-what?”
You pause, eyeing him. “You have kissed someone before… right?”
His shoulders stiffen, gaze darting anywhere but at you—the table, the ceiling, his own lap. “Uh. Define kissed.”
You drop the remnants of your sweet bread with a thunk. “Oh my god.”
He winces, sinking into the couch like he wants to become one with the cushions.
“Satoru.”
"I know."
"You're twenty-freaking-one."
“I’ve been busy!”
You arch a brow, leaning forward. “Doing what, exactly? Taking a vow of chastity?”
“With school and avoiding failure!” He throws his hands up, knocking over a napkin. “And maybe also… fear of being bad at it.”
You stifle a laugh, watching him squirm. “So you’re actually nervous about kissing? That’s kind of cute.”
He huffs, crossing his arms but avoiding your eyes. His knees bounce under the table. “Excuse me for not wanting to humiliate myself the first time.”
“Well, lucky for you…” you drawl, eyes glinting as you bat your lashes with exaggerated sweetness.
Gojo freezes, suspicion written all over his face. “…Lucky for me?”
“You’ve got me,” you hum, inching closer and closer until he’s practically backed into the couch cushions. “And I am an excellent teacher.”
“...No.”
“Yes.”
“No way in hell.”
“Do you wanna embarrass yourself on the first date?” you counter, calm as ever.
“I’ll figure it out!”
“By all means,” you say, rolling your eyes and leaning back. “Fumble your own bag. Who needs a love life anyway?”
“I’m not kissing you.” he declares, but the way he’s fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie and pointedly not meeting your line of sight says otherwise.
“It’s purely academic.” You reach over, brushing a crumb off his hoodie. “And you have nice lips, Satoru.”
He jerks back like you slapped him. “That’s—that’s irrelevant—”
“It’s entirely relevant,” you say, leaning back on your hands. “You’ve got the tools, just no training.”
He purses his lips, going quiet for a stretched moment before speaking up.
“…You’re serious?” he says, voice so small it almost disappears.
You smile. “Why wouldn’t I be? Friends help each other out.”
Gojo hesitates.
Because he knows. Knows that you’re teasing. Knows you’ve always flirted in that particular way only you can manage—close enough to confuse him, yet never close enough to catch.
But this feels different. His gaze drops to your mouth, and then back up.
“…Okay,” he mutters, barely above a whisper.
You blink. “Really?”
“…For uh— research,” he adds weakly, trying and failing to sound unaffected.
You snort. “God, you’re such a nerd.”
But your hands find his cheeks anyway, tilting his face toward you, closing the gap.
You press your lips against his in a soft, chaste kiss—barely more than a brush—and his breath stutters against your cheek. His hands are fisted against his knees, knuckles white, and you can’t help but be amused at how hard he’s working not to reach for more.
“Relax,” you whisper against his lips, smiling when his shoulders loosen just a little.
He’s so rigid it’s adorable, like someone rewound his spine into a spring.
“You’re so tense,” you murmur, nudging your nose against his. “Do I intimidate you, Satoru?”
“I’m fine,” he breathes, but you know it's a lie.
You kiss him again, this time with more intent. Gojo responds slower, like he’s still trying to figure out which part of him is supposed to move first.
You take the lead, hand curling into his hoodie, coaxing him closer until his palm lands on your hip. He makes a sound then—a desperate little groan muffled into your mouth—and it sends a shiver down your spine.
You shift closer, swinging a leg over his lap, straddling him without warning. The couch dips and groans beneath you both as your knees bracket his thighs. He gasps faintly when your fingers slide into his hair and pull, his hands clenching instinctively at your hips.
The kiss quickly turns messier—his lips already a little swollen, breath coming in quick, uneven bursts. His hands slide up your thighs, unsure but desperate, fingers flexing like he’s afraid he’s imagining it all. You bite at his lower lip, and his hips jolt up before he can stop himself.
By the time you finally pull back, hauling yourself off of him, both of you are flushed and breathing hard. Gojo looks absolutely wrecked—glasses crooked, lips red and kiss-bitten, eyes dazed.
He swallows hard, then clears his throat, like that might somehow clear the heat from his face.
“…So,” he says finally, voice hoarse but trying for casual, “that was… educational.”
You snort, leaning back just enough to look at him. “You’re not the worst student I’ve ever had.”
That earns you a weak little laugh.
But his fingers are fidgeting in his lap now, tugging at the edge of his hoodie like it might save him, or at least give his hands something to do besides reaching back for the warmth of your body against his.
His eyes dart down to your mouth again, linger just a second too long, then flick back up to yours.
“…We’re still friends, right?”
You tilt your head lazily, wiping the corner of your mouth with the pad of your thumb. “Obviously.”
One awkward smile, two 'study mates', and a love story that’s chemically inevitable.
Synopsis: You only stopped at his science fair booth out of pity—but the tall, nervous guy with crooked glasses and a galaxy model has other plans.
Satoru Gojo is brilliant, awkward, and talking a mile a minute about black holes like it’s the most romantic thing in the world. You weren’t looking for a tutor. Or a crush. But he’s got stars in his eyes—and maybe, now, so do you.
Pairing: Nerd!Gojo Satoru x reader
Genre: MDNI, College AU, Fluff, Slow-burn-ish, friends to lovers, attempt at humour
Warnings: Alcohol use, sexual innuendo, suggestive physical contact, eventual smut, nothing too heavy in this chapter but definitely not PG
Masterlist
Gojo Satoru isn’t the kind of boy people notice right away. He’s tall, sure. Stupidly tall. And he’s got that ridiculous snowy hair, that posture, those eyes like sapphire.
But he’s always just a little too apologetic in his own skin. Half-wincing at his own existence, quick to deflect praise with a joke or duck his head when someone gets too close.
With you, though, it’s different.
Has been ever since that science fair, where he sat behind his glowing solar system like the last puppy at a shelter, and you, despite yourself, stopped to say hi.
From that day on, things slipped into place with surprising ease.
Now he's the boy who always saves you a seat in lecture, even if you’re late. Who lets you steal fries off his plate.
What starts as a one-time study session becomes a rhythm. A quiet understanding. You find yourself at his desk more often than not, legs curled into the chair or sprawled out haphazardly, papers everywhere, caffeine staining the inside of your throat.
Gojo always sits across from you. Always.
He’s there through the good days and the ones where the formulas blur into white noise. When your pen stalls mid-sentence and your head falls into your hands in frustration, he’s already nudging a fresh sheet of paper your way patiently, a quiet anchor.
Sometimes, when you’re too deep in concentration to notice, his gaze lingers. He watches the way your foot bounces under the table, how your brow furrows just before you get the answer right. He notices the ink smudge on your wrist, the way your knees brush against his under the table and stay there just a little too long yet he doesn't dare move away.
And sometimes, when you look up too suddenly, you catch him watching.
Gojo's eyes go as wide as saucers. He turns back to his notebook swiftly, chin sinking into his palm as if that can hide the flush crawling up his neck.
On the nights it gets too late, when the page turns start slowing and your head begins to droop, you fall asleep right there—arms folded over your notes, cheek pressed to the desk.
You never wake up there.
Instead, it’s always the same: the warmth of a mattress under your back, the softness of his blanket tucked up to your chin. The scent of his laundry detergent clinging to the fabric. Dim light bleeding through closed curtains.
And just across the room is Gojo. Curled into himself on the small couch, half-covered by a jacket he clearly pulled over in a rush, snoring softly.
You never mention it. He doesn't either.
But the space between you keeps closing, inch by inch.
He’s the smartest person you know, and somehow still the one who burns popcorn in the microwave and forgets to charge his phone for days. He’s awkward, anxious, and talks too fast when he’s excited, like his brain’s ten steps ahead of his mouth.
But he’s always there.
Which is why, tonight, when you show up at his door with a crate of cheap beer and the exhausted gleam of midterms in your eyes, he doesn’t ask questions.
He just lets you in.
You drop down onto the mattress with a dramatic groan, like gravity itself has declared war on your soul. Limbs sprawled, phone already in hand, your head sinking into the pillow with the kind of defeated energy only student debt can conjure.
“Midterms nearly had me on life support. I feel so liberated right now.”
Gojo stands a few feet away, arms crossed, frowning down at the crate like it might bite him.
He nudges it with his foot. “I don’t really drink.”
You blink up at him, already half-melted into the sheets, and your lips twist into a pout—equal parts bratty and pleading. “Why not?”
His answer comes too fast. Like he’s been preparing for this exact moment since freshman orientation.
“It slows down neural processing, reduces inhibitory control and impacts memory consolidation. I’d like to remember tonight, thank you very much.”
You stare at him.
“Satoru.”
He glances up, swallowing hard like he knows what’s coming but still can’t brace for impact. “Yeah?”
Your pout intensifies. Eyes wide, lower lip pushed out just so in theatrical glory. “Pleeease?”
He stares. You bat your lashes innocently.
He squints. You bat your lashes harder.
There's a beat of silence before Gojo caves with a sigh so profound it sounds like it’s been aging in an oak barrel. He grabs a can, muttering under his breath abouy how unfair this is.
“Your Jedi mind tricks are unethical.”
The can hisses as it cracks open. You grin, satisfied by the outcome of your emotional manipulation.
You take a long sip from your own beer, the fizz tickling your throat, then flop fully onto your back.
The bed creaks beneath you—his bed, technically, though it’s felt like shared territory for a while now. It still smells like his laundry detergent, something citrusy and expensive, undercut with the faint scent of old textbooks.
Gojo hovers on the edge of the mattress, like sitting too close to you might electrocute him. He takes small, cautious sips, barely tasting it.
His eyes, however, are not so disciplined.
They keep flicking over—quick glances at your legs, the bare skin of your thighs, the way your shorts have ridden up as you stretch across the sheets like you own the place. The glow of your phone reflects off your cheekbones, painting you in soft blue light, and something in his chest does a little somersault.
His teeth sink into his bottom lip, like he’s trying to physically bite down on the thoughts rushing through his head. Thoughts that have absolutely nothing to do with astrophysics or memory consolidation.
Then you giggle.
His gaze snaps up in pure panic. Shit. Did you notice him gawking? Was he being obvious?
You laugh again, thumb tapping the screen, totally engrossed in whatever has you so amused. Followed by another smile. Another quiet snort.
It’s like background music he doesn’t recognize but suddenly hates.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, tone casual and a little too stiff.
You don’t even look up from your screen, “Tinder.”
Gojo's entire spine straightens.
“Tinder?”
“Mmhmm.” You keep swiping, flipping between profiles with a lazy flick of your thumb. “Why is everyone’s idea of sexy just... standing shirtless in a badly lit bathroom?”
“Oh,” he says flatly, staring at the condensation sliding down his can. "I see."
Just that.
Silence follows, heavy and stretched.
Gojo doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe. The can’s cold against his palm, but it’s the only thing tethering him to this moment as your finger pauses on a profile for too long. Too thoughtfully.
You peek up, noticing the weird stillness.
“Hey,” you say, tilting your head. “You okay?”
"What? Uh—" he jolts upright, straightening like someone just called on him in class. “No, I’m good. Very good, actually.”
He laughs, but it’s hollow. His knuckles are white where they grip the can, and his eyes haven’t quite made it back to yours.
You hum non-committally, not buying it for a second.
Gojo takes another swig rapidly, wincing at the taste. He wipes the rim with his thumb like he needs something to focus on. Something that’s not you and the casual way you’re flipping through potential hookups like it’s just another Tuesday on his bed. While he's right there.
Just then, an idea sparks in your head.
You roll onto your side, elbow digging into the mattress as you grin. “Do you have Tinder?”
His eyes nearly bug out of his skull.
“I—uh—Tinder?” he repeats, voice cracking slightly. “No. Why would I—No. Definitely not.”
You narrow your eyes at him, unconvinced. “That was a lot of hesitation for a no.”
“I just—” he flounders, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t expecting the question. I don’t really do dating apps. Or dating. Or… people.”
You shrug. “You do me.”
The words hang in the air for half a second too long.
Gojo's mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again, like maybe he can reboot himself if he blinks hard enough.
Your own brain finally catches up with your mouth.
“I mean, not do me—like—not like that—I meant friends. You’re friends with me.” You groan, dragging a pillow over your face like you can smother the sentence out of existence. “God. Forget I said anything.”
You sigh as you peek up slightly from behind his pillow.
He’s not wheezing or doubled over. He’s just sitting there, glasses slightly askew, trying very hard not to laugh. His hand’s covering his mouth, but his ears are going pink.
The way he’s looking at you now—quiet, a little dazzled, still fighting back a full smile—makes something in your chest kick up just slightly.
But even as you hide your embarrassment, he’s sitting there, cheeks flushed, mind spiraling, because—
Yeah. He does you.
In his head. Way too often, and in too many ways.
When you're lying here like this. When your voice dips low and teasing. When you glance at him with something that feels almost too soft to be platonic.
You shove the embarrassment aside and raise your can in front of your face like a shield.
He finally calms down, barely, chuckles trailing off as he shifts his position on the mattress.
“Well,” you say, pushing up on your elbows with new purpose, “guess what?”
Gojo eyes you wearily. “That tone never means any good.”
“You’re about to get one.”
“One what?”
You reach for his phone on the nightstand with zero hesitation. “A Tinder account.”
His entire soul exits the premises. “Wait—what? No. No, no, I don’t need that—”
“You heard me,” your fingers are already flying on the screen. “It’s time.”
He scrambles forward like you just picked up nuclear launch codes. “Hey—hold on, I’m not—You’re not actually serious—”
The screen unlocks instantly.
Of course it does. Your fingerprint’s saved. Has been for months. The kind of trust that feels so loud and yet, here you are, setting up some Tinder date for him.
“Okay, what’s your type?” you ask, downloading the app.
“I—what—how would I know?”
“Well, who do you swipe on in your head? Goths? Muscle mommies? Librarians with a secret dirty side?”
He sputters, face slowly turning the same shade as the beer can in his hand. “Can we not do this?”
“Too late,” you say, half-distracted as you scroll. “First name, Satoru. Age… I’ll let you lie. Height?”
“Six-three.”
You arch a brow, impressed. “Really?”
He scowls. “You want me to open my medical records?”
You chuckle and keep typing. “Alright, big guy. Next: 'What are you looking for on Tinder?' ”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Salvation.”
“Not an option.”
“World peace?”
You glance up. “Seriously?”
He drags a hand down his face, voice muffled. “I dunno… companionship?”
“That's enough. I’m writing 'open to something meaningful, but down for freaky time.’”
“You're very weird.”
“Now, pictures.” Your knees bump under the sheets as you shift closer, elbows brushing while you adjust the brightness on his phone.
“God.”
“Relax. I’m not using that cursed one of you french-kissing a fish.”
“There’s a photo of me french-kissing a fish?”
“You sent it to me, you maniac.”
He groans and falls back against the mattress, arm slung dramatically over his eyes.
“This is a nightmare.”
But he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t take his phone back.
Because maybe, deep down—beneath the jokes and the beer and the painfully exposed truth—a small part of him hopes it’ll work. Maybe it’ll help. Maybe some stranger with a nice smile will finally make the incessant thoughts of you in his mind go away.
You’re scrolling through his photo gallery with ruthless determination, knees brushing his thigh as you flip past thumbnail after thumbnail like you’re judging entries for a very geeky photography contest.
“Okay,” you mutter, eyes narrowing. “Let’s find you something non-humiliating—oh, this one’s just… clouds? Wait, is that lichen? Are you seriously out here photographing moss?”
Gojo doesn’t answer.
He’s stiff behind you, frozen like he’s watching someone disarm a nuclear bomb. Because he knows what’s coming. Knows exactly what the next folder might hold.
“Oh. Is this me?”
You tilt your head, thumb hovering over a grid of candid shots.
Your face in full detail, frozen mid-laugh in one, asleep at his desk in another. One photo captures you ranting at a textbook, hands in the air like you’re about to square up with it. Some are zoomed in. Some are taken from across the room.
His ears go red. Bright, angry cherry red.
Before the full meaning settles in, he lunges towards you.
“Okay—alright—that’s enough, give me that—!” His hand flails toward the phone in your grip, panic rising.
You jerk it back with a gasp, half-laughing, half-screeching. “Satoru!”
“We are not doing this,” he says in a rush, voice cracking like an over-wound violin. “Hand it over. Please, I beg you—”
You clutch the phone to your chest dramatically, feigning scandal. “So, you just casually have an entire album of me on your phone?”
His hands fly to his face,as he practically crumples in on himself like a collapsing star.
“I didn’t—it’s not an album, it’s just—okay, it’s a folder, but it’s not weird!” he sputters from behind his fingers. “It’s just—memories and.... nostalgia.”
You let out a soft laugh and toss the phone toward the bed, letting it bounce harmlessly onto the sheets. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s just take a picture for your profile.”
He peeks through his fingers, squinting at you like a kitten after getting caught in the trash. “You’re not mad?”
“Mad? Satoru, I should charge you royalties.”
That gets a choked laugh out of him.
And still, you’re smiling. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world for your best friend to have a secret camera roll of your face. Like this is fine.
Like you’re still choosing to sit next to him, shoulder brushing his arm like none of this has made anything weird.
“Come on,” you say, shifting closer. “Let’s make you look irresistible.”
He exhales. Yeah, sure.
Like that was ever the problem.
Gojo's already given up on dignity. His hair sticks out at odd angles, his hoodie is bunched up slightly to reveal a sliver of pale skin above his waistband, and his face wears the expression of a man preparing for social execution.
You sit back and squint at him critically, arms crossed, head tilted. “You look too much like a dork.”
He lifts his head an inch. “Wow. That’s incredibly helpful and uplifting.”
“Aw, it’s fine. You’re cute.”
You continue breezily, already plotting. “But we need right-swipe cute. You wanna look like you might mansplain physics and then make someone cum in under ten minutes.”
He just stares. “…What the heck does that even mean?”
“It means you need range, Satoru!” You leap off the bed, hands flailing like an overzealous theater director. “You need to look like someone’s weird little crush.”
You yank his closet open. The door creaks, hangers scraping against each other as you rifle through it.
“Do you even own anything that doesn’t scream extra credit ?”
He calls weakly from the bed, “I have a black turtleneck somewhere. I wore it once, for my thesis presentation.”
You sigh. “Tragic. We’ll work with what we’ve got.”
Moments later, you emerge triumphant with a handful of options—an unreasonably crisp button-down, a soft black tee that looks criminally flattering, and something silky you definitely don’t remember him owning.
“Try these,” you announce, dumping them onto the bed like a fashion connoisseur.
He eyes the pile like it’s radioactive. “You want me to change… into thirst trap attire?”
“Correct.”
“I’m not doing it.”
“Fine," You huff, hands on your hips. "I guess I’ll just have to make you.”
His eyes widen. “Wait, what does that—”
You pounce with tipsy audacity before he can finish. He yelps as you tackle him backwards onto the mattress, the bed groaning under the sudden weight. His beer can tips off the edge with a dull thunk, but neither of you notice.
You land on top of him with a soft thud, hands braced against his chest, your knees digging into the bed on either side of his hips. His hands fly instinctively to your waist, fingers splaying like he’s trying to steady both of you, or maybe just himself.
And suddenly, everything goes quiet.
You can hear the faint hum of the light overhead. The slow, shaky inhale he takes. The way his thumbs press in ever so slightly.
Gojo's gaze flickers from your mouth to your eyes and back again.
You exhale, the sound catching slightly.
He swallows, hard. “I didn’t mean to—I mean, I wasn’t—just—are you okay?”
Your lips twitch. “You’re the one under attack, and you’re asking if I’m okay?”
“I—well, yeah,” he breathes, voice thinner now. “You’re on top of me. Kinda hard not to worry.”
You tilt your head. “Am I hurting you?”
“No,” His throat bobs, fingers flexing against your hips. “Not even a little.”
You lean in, only slightly, enough to make his breath stutter. “You’re really bad at this, you know.”
He gives a short, stunned laugh. “Not exactly my field of expertise.”
You smile softly. “Guess you're lucky you’ve got me, then.”
Click.
Gojo flinches as the shutter goes off. Light bounces off his glasses, eyes blown wide.
“That angle was godly. You’re welcome.”
His jaw drops. “You cannot—there is no way—you’re not posting that, are you?”
“Absolutely,” you say, holding up the phone proudly. “The world deserves to see this.”
He slaps both hands over his face, muffling a noise that might be despair, might be laughter, might be a scream into the void. “I trusted you.”
You smirk and climb off him, far too pleased with yourself. “You’ll thank me when you’re drowning in matches.”
Thinking about Nerd!Gojo sitting behind his geeky little science project like a kicked puppy in a hoodie two sizes too big, shoulders slumped as he watches person after person walk right past his stall without so much as a glance.
His glasses are slightly crooked, one leg bouncing nervously beneath the table, right hand fidgeting with a clicky pen that’s already half-snapped.
For you, meanwhile, the science fair was mostly a glorified excuse to leave your dorm before your roommate subjected you to another hour of screaming about her situationship and eating spicy ramen on your bed.
But now you’re looking at this tall, awkward boy who looks like he’s slowly evaporating from the lack of social interaction.
His display is brilliant. There are twinkling little lights in a model solar system, and a bunch of laminated diagrams with handwritten notes in tight, slanted print. But people just stroll by like they’re allergic to effort.
And honestly, you weren’t planning to care. Not until his eyes snap up to yours.
A shade of gorgeous, bright, glassy blue. They widen behind silver-rimmed glasses, a blink of disbelief before a hopeful sort of brightness takes over his whole face.
You slow down. Because who wouldn't after seeing that look on his face?
"Hi," you say casually, hands in your pockets.
His mouth falls open for a second, like his brain blue-screened.
“Hi! Oh—uh—welcome to my project,” he blurts, scrambling upright so fast he nearly knocks over one of the solar system models. “Sorry. Sorry. Just—hi. Are you into Astrophysics?”
You glance at the fancy title printed in bold across his poster:
Gravitational Time Dilation: A Simulation-Based Study.
“I mean, i like the stars. And Interstellar was cool?”
He laughs. It's a breathy, half-disbelieving kind of chuckle, and suddenly his whole face lights up.
“That totally counts,” he says, nodding way too seriously. “Okay, uh, here—this part represents the gravitational curvature caused by massive objects. Which means time actually bends near a black hole.”
He fumbles around and presses a button. A tiny motor kicks in and one of the models starts to slowly spin, simulating gravitational lensing.
You nod, even though you’re pretty sure you understood maybe two of the five words he said. “I thought that the whole time bending thing was a metaphor or something.”
“Nooo, it’s absolutely real! I mean, not the fifth-dimension bookshelf stuff, but the time dilation is legit,” he says, practically vibrating now, fingers tapping the side of the model. “Like if you parked a spaceship near a black hole and then came back, your friends would be, like, old. Or dead. Probably dead. It’s kinda depressing, actually.”
You bite back a smile at how excited he is. “Wow. That’s… morbidly romantic.”
He pauses.
Then clears his throat, pushing his glasses up. “I mean, dying alone in space is kinda poetic.”
You laugh.
He laughs too, a little too hard, and then suddenly looks panicked like—shit, was that weird?
But you’re not weirded out, not even close.
“Sure. Although full disclosure, I don’t know batshit about space.”
“That’s okay,” he says quickly, smiling as if that’s the best news he’s heard all day. “I can explain. I love explaining. Ask me anything.”
So you ask more questions, even the dumb ones. Especially the dumb ones. And to your surprise, he never talks down to you.
Satoru stumbles over his words sometimes, but not once seems to mind your follow-up questions, even when you mix up neutron stars and nimbus clouds. He just keeps going, like he’s been waiting his whole life for someone to stand here and just listen.
You aren’t even trying to flirt, but he’s so damn earnest it sort of feels like flirting anyway.
Eventually, you glance at the time and sigh. “I should get going. My dormmate’s probably wondering if I got abducted by aliens.”
He deflates instantly, like someone popped his internal helium tank. “Oh… that makes sense. Thanks for stopping by.”
You’re just about to step away, offering him a small smile and a soft “This was fun,” when his eyes flick downward.
“Wait— is that the Chang textbook?” he asks, squinting like he’s not trying to memorize every title on your book cover.
You pause and glance down at the heavy thing tucked under your arm. “Yeah, it’s for Chem 203.”
He perks up instantly, like a plant finally getting sunlight. “You’re in Chem 203?”
“I mostly sit at the back and doodle in the margins,” you say, shifting the book in your arms. “And my grades are hanging on by a single valence electron.”
He laughs. “I’m in that class too! I usually sit near the front—uh, big glasses, white hair, probably looked like I was possessed or something.”
You tilt your head, the realisation hitting you finally. “Wait. That’s you? I thought you were just some intense TA.”
“No, unfortunately. Just me.”
He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish now, eyes flicking to the floor for a beat before he tries to play it cool. “I mean, I guess if you need some help with chem—I’d be happy to assist. We could go over some things together, if you’re okay with... that.”
You pretend to consider it. “Hmm. Do you charge by the hour, or is this a discount situation?”
He blinks. “I mean, I can give you, like, the friend rate? If we’re friends? Or not. I didn’t mean to assume—”
“Relax, Einstein.” You laugh, shifting your grip on the book. “I’d love the help.”
You start rummaging through your pockets, half-distracted.
“Hang on—need something to write with. Gimme your number.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
“...My number?” he echoes, like you just asked him for a kidney.
“Yes, your number.” you say slowly, enunciating each syllable. “You know, the ten digits? For modern communication.”
“Right! Totally. I can—uh—yeah, I can give you that. Lemme just—” he pats himself down like a man on fire, checking every pocket, flipping his notebook, looking under the table like maybe a post-it note will crawl out and offer itself up.
“It’s fine,” you chuckle, amused by the sight. “You can just write it on my hand.”
He freezes mid-motion, slowly turning to you like you just offered him your soul.
“Your hand?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Unless that’s too weird for you. I guess you don’t want me to have it—”
“No! No, no, I do! I mean—I can do that.” he stammers, already reaching for his sharpie again.
You smile and extend your hand for him, palm open.
He swallows hard, before reaching out.
Gojo's fingers wrap gently around your wrist, warm and a little shaky, as he steadies your hand in his. His thumb grazes across your skin as he lines the pen up, then exhales softly like he’s trying not to freak out over the fact that he is touching a girl and she is not recoiling. In fact, you’re smiling.
“There.” he says quietly, fingers unwrapping from your wrist slowly.
You glance at it, then back at him. “What if it wears off?”
His eyes widen. “Wait—should I—? Do you want me to—?”
You shrug, grinning. “Guess you’ll have to pick a permanent marker next time.”
His laugh is boyish, ridiculously fond. “I guess so.”
You step back, tucking your arm against your chest. “Thanks, space boy. I'll text you later.”
You start to walk away, but something makes you turn to glance back once. He’s still watching you, dazed, the heat still clinging to his cheeks, ears tinged slightly red.
You shoot him a wink.
He nearly falls off the stool.
A/N: Comment 'Nerdjo 👅' if you'd like to see a full-length fic for this. Also, apologies if I went too geeky on the physics, have to use my degree somewhere.
there’s something so… feral about it, both in and out of the bedroom. he loves spanking you when you’re taking his cock so deep, moaning like a bitch in heat, making your back arch and walls flutter around him; your moans pitch into a pained cry, and you flash him the widest set of puppy eyes he’s ever seen before his hand snatches yours and he tenderly laces your fingers together as if he’s not rendering you incoherent right now.
other times, kaji ren spanks you just for sport.
when you’re reaching up in a cabinet, you feel the sting of a massive palm on your ass, followed by a kiss to your cheek.
when you’re laying in bed on your tummy, feet swinging in the air, your entire body jolts and you yip as a firm hand comes down to swat your bottom.
when you’re walking in the grocery store and he wants you to go ahead of him, he taps you gentler than at home, but still plenty hard enough to get his message across. (you always cast him a small glare afterwards, followed by a hissed “we are in public!” as if your entire cunt didn’t pulse in excitement for his action)
kaji ren has no mercy for you, or that ass he loves so much.
but nothing makes him spank you harder than when you spank him first.
he’s bent over in the dishwasher, loading it with dishes from dinner, and he feels your palm, much smaller and not as intense as his impact, come down as hard as you can muster on his ass, and he launches a foot in the air and his hands fly to his bottom to protect himself from you.
his head whips at you, and for a second, there’s excitement in his gaze at the idea of you riling him up, knowing what’s coming next. but then it fades to fury, eyes blazing with anger and embarrassment and oh, when you giggle and run away-
you’ve started something you can’t finish. and now kaji ren has to.
i've said it before that i think shouto would be so cautious about the idea of marriage for a long while, and he would think very carefully and very deliberately about how to make sure his home is a happier one than the one he grew up in.
but i also think that the thought of you coupled with the idea of marriage makes his blood run so hot he thinks he's accidentally activated the left half of his quirk.
Y’all don’t make use of subtle/weird traits in fics enough.
Dudes—
Bakugou literally has hyperhidrosis. Make him switch shirts constantly, or constantly wiping his hands, or outright refusing to touch things because nitroglycerin is a volatile substance.
Midoriya is constantly chewing on his lips or thumb while in thought. Either his lips are SO chapped or he’s a skin picker and the skin around his finger tips are super rough.
Uraraka is a poor kid. She would absolutely have some kind of financial anxiety. Make her be extremely frugal OOOORRR BETTER YET make her absolutely awful with money.
Aizawa is a hypersomniac. Give the man a nightmare disorder or something. We can be more imaginative than just always kinda tired.
Kirishima has/had really bad quirk envy. Please I need to see this addressed more. Even at the best hero school, in the top class, he talks down on his quirk.
Todoroki really doesn’t think very much. He acts quickly but very thoughtlessly. Coming to incorrect conclusions and moving too fast without knowing what to do next.
just imagine suguru sitting with one leg resting over the other, holding a small notebook in one hand and a pencil in the other, brushing gentle strokes against the page. almost mindlessly, like it’s more of a habit than a hobby.
there’s sun filtering in through the large windows of the airport, falling on him like an angelic spotlight. like the heavens graced the earth with him.
his hair, dark and soft, like a body of water under the night sky, is tied up in a bun. so effortlessly pretty. black headphones sit on his head and he bounces his foot in the air in tune with whatever music he’s listening to. he probably doesn’t notice that little action and it’s endearing. like he’s in his own world. not in any rush.
every so often, he takes a sip of black coffee from a paper cup, his hand adorned with black rings clawing the top of the cup to pick it up and place it back down.
you notice the way he spins his pencil through his fingers skilfully as he occasionally gets stuck in thought. curious, violet hues looking around to find something else to draw. finding inspiration from any corner of the airport.
as his eyes flit from space to space, cafe to suitcase, forgotten trash to the boarding times, you coincidentally make eye contact. you barely even realised that you were staring at him until he catches you, and he doesn’t immediately look away like you frantically do.
there’s an amused glint playing in his purple eyes, his mouth curving up slightly before he flickers his gaze away, too. though, still aware of you.
he delicately flicks the page of his notebook, turning to the other side and continues to draw, seemingly having found his muse. another sip of coffee, another practised stroke of his pencil.
time goes by - you, entranced by the stranger sitting in the seat diagonal to you, and said stranger passing the time with his sketches. you’re not sure how much time passes before he’s standing up, stretching languidly and rolling his neck after having it bowed down over his notebook.
you busy yourself with your phone, checking the weather, clicking onto settings, fiddling with the brightness. anything to distract yourself from him and trying not to stare too much.
he carefully tears a page out of his notebook, folding it neatly, before slinging his carry-on bag over his shoulder. he walks past you to get to his boarding gate, taking one more glance at you like he can’t afford to miss the opportunity, even if it meant he’d miss his flight.
his sweet cologne drifts into your senses, lingering around you. and you hoped to remember it. it felt comforting and warm.
you were so preoccupied with just how good he smelled that you didn’t notice the fact that he dropped the folded page into your lap as he passed by.
you open it with interest to find a sketch of you.
your mouth parts slightly in surprise and awe. it’s so intricate and beautiful, you can’t help but admire it for a few minutes, your fingertips lightly running over the details. the way he drew you in his own gorgeous art style, fitting for a gorgeous man.
as your eyes run over the page with fascination, you notice the phone number written in small at the bottom of the page. along with an elegantly-written ‘thanks for the inspiration, pretty’.
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