Nerdjo hcs but he’s Muscular?
He’s built like a Greek statue but dresses like a sleep-deprived college student. Baggy hoodie, sweatpants, messy hair, and glasses slipping down his nose—no one at first glance realizes he could bench-press a car.
He doesn’t know how to handle compliments.
“Gojo, your arms are huge.”
“Huh? Oh—uh—thanks? I guess genetics…?”
He says that while literally flexing unintentionally because he’s nervous.
He got into working out for stress relief. Exams and cursed energy research fried his brain, so he started hitting the gym at 2 a.m. to “reboot his neurons.” It worked—now he’s both a genius and a menace with biceps that could crush apples.
His glasses always slide down when he’s focused. He pushes them up with one finger, forearm flexing without meaning to. He never notices the effect it has on people.
He’s shy about his body. Despite being ridiculously fit, he’ll change shirts only after making sure everyone’s gone. The idea of ppl seeing him shirtless makes him short-circuit.
He infodumps when he’s nervous.
“You know muscle recovery is actually a cellular process where—“
He tries to impress you with facts, then realizes he’s rambling and gets flustered.
When you touch his arm or lean on him, he freezes. You can practically hear the Windows error sound in his head before he stammers out something like, “Uh… comfortable, right? Good… muscle… cushion.”
He smells faintly of coffee, laundry detergent, and that warm “been studying too long but still hot” scent. His hoodies are soft and always too big on you—but he secretly loves when you steal them.
His hoodies are criminally tight around his arms now. Every time he stretches, the fabric rides up and his shirt lifts just enough to show that faint V-line he pretends not to know he has. He’s in denial about it.
He insists his muscles are “functional,” not aesthetic.
“I just need good posture for reading…”
Bro, your reading posture looks like you’re posing for a fitness magazine.
He’s got perfect posture until you hug him. Then he forgets how his limbs work. His arms hover awkwardly before wrapping around you in the gentlest, most careful hold—like he’s afraid to crush you with all that strength.
He overthinks everything.
“Did I smile too much? Did I breathe weird? Should I have said mitochondria?”
Then he hides in his lab notes for an hour to recover.
He wears cologne that he swears is “barely noticeable,” but when you stand near him, it’s this clean, fresh, slightly spicy scent that sticks in your hair. He blushes when you notice.
“You… you noticed that? It’s just soap. Expensive soap.”
He’s a menace in group projects. Because he’s the one carrying everyone—literally andintellectually. He’s the type to lift the entire stack of books in one hand and correct the equations with the other.
He’s the definition of “gentle giant energy.” He’ll open jars, move heavy boxes, fix your laptop, and then look away the second you say “thank you,” mumbling something like, “It’s nothing— don’t worry about it,”
He has a terrible poker face. If you flirt with him, he short-circuits. The tips of his ears go red immediately. Once, you called him “pretty,” and he spent five minutes pretending to clean his glasses just so you wouldn’t see him smiling.”
His handwriting’s ridiculously neat. He takes pride in it too. Once, you doodled a heart in his notes, and he refused to erase it. You asked him about it, and he just went, “Uh, data preservation.”
He tries to look tough once in a while. Rolls up his sleeves, crosses his arms, leans on the desk like he’s mysterious. It lasts three seconds before he sneezes or drops his pen.
He’s got that one piece of tech he babies. Probably a tablet or laptop with a hundred stickers on it.
He’s a secret romantic. He overthinks text messages, rehearses good morning replies, and literally Googles “best compliments that don’t sound weird
A/n: I’m tired of hoes portraying Nerdjo like he’s a twink, like god forbid Satoru can’t be jacked and nerdy- 😭
