pairing ⸺ nerd/academic rival/rich boy!gojo x reader
summary ⸺ you abhor your academic rival, satoru gojo. he's a cocky asshole that you fight with constantly for the spot at first place. but when you finally discover what's underneath all those lame sweaters of his with a once in a blue moon visit at the gym (spoiler alert: he's not a scrawny nerd), you'll be fighting your severe attraction to the man who makes your life a bit harder. and maybe fall in love with him, too, in the process.
warnings ⸺ smut, f recieving oral, praise, he makes you beg for it lol, p i v sex, making out, angst if you squint, a lot of fluff, college AU, nerd!gojo, reader gets insecure sometimes and is treated horribly by her discord mod TA/research advisor, typical misogyny/sexism in STEM fields, but gojo defends her!!!, sleeper build gojo with a happy trail because im a slut, the good old pining and yearning i like. art by @/deltapork
a/n thank u to all my beta readers for editing part of this for me :3 happy valentines day!!!
general masterlist
You blink at your paper.
98.
You suppose you should be happy—it’s a graduate level physics class, anyways. For a moment, you stare at the red markings of the TA that graded it, as if willing an error in the one problem you made a mistake on could make it go away.
2+2=5.
You exhaled sharply, almost fighting back tears. You’d think you could avoid simple arithmetic mistakes, but apparently doing tensor products comes easier than simple addition to you. Shoving your backpack on your chair, you stuff in your laptop and the test haphazardly, not caring that it’s going to get messed and crumpled up in your backpack after your folders and binders jostle around. Fuck that test.
You wouldn’t normally act as if the test had personally wronged you—trust, you were not going to get that heated were it any class. But because of this one class, one person, you knew it was coming. The inevitable.
"Better luck next time." The voice, drenched in smug satisfaction, slithered through the air behind you, his voice and demeanor like a slimy, slimy snake.
Your jaw tightened, but you forced yourself to remain calm as you turned around. And there he was—Gojo Satoru, the bane of your existence, a plague upon your academic record, a walking, talking statistical anomaly who somehow managed to be both infuriatingly brilliant and aggressively insufferable.
He leaned against the desk beside yours, glasses sliding down just enough to reveal the glint of those ridiculously blue eyes. He crosses his arms while they’re covered in that ridiculous, ugly sweater he’s wearing—he’s probably going for the old money aesthetic, but he doesn’t need to know he gives off more “finance bro that helps billionaires evade taxes,” or whatever finance bros do.
“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” you sniff, pretending to act nonchalant while you grab your backpack, swinging it roughly on your shoulder like it was the weight of your grievances against him.
"The test." Gojo unfolded a crisp sheet of paper with the kind of theatrical flourish reserved for revealing royal decrees. A perfect 100, circled in bold red ink.
Your stomach twisted. This is what those two points meant. Two stupid, meaningless, soul-crushing, rage-inducing points.
"Guess that makes it… what, five to three this semester?" He tapped his chin, pretending to count, as if the score wasn’t already seared into your brain like an irreversible branding. "My lead, obviously. But hey, if you ever need tutoring, I could always squeeze you in."
You bite the inside of your cheek in frustration. “I wouldn’t want to impose on the time for any of your hobbies. After all, when will you get the time to watch anime? My 5000 Year Old Girlfriend is Stuck in a Twelve Year Old’s Body, was it?”
He presses a hand to his chest in mock hurt, as if your words had truly pierced him through his chest. “Tut, tut. After all this time, I’d think you’d have my anime preferences memorized since you’re so obsessed with me. It’s Digimon, not whatever pedophilic shit you think I jerk off too.” He pauses, and then his voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper. “But you know Fred, the grad student TA that holds recitation every Wednesday? I just know he’s probably a Discord mod of a server that sends, like, daily tentacle porn. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on the Megan's law registry either.”
Now, you have to hold back your smile because Gojo has a point. Fred is not just any TA. Fred is the grad student that mentors you on a research project; the program’s super selective, so when you realized you got him, you couldn’t just back out and give up the opportunity. However, Fred isn’t just a weird–-he’s sooo handsy with his greasy ass hands, so you accept any and all Fred slander. Because he’s your research advisor, you can’t wait to finish the project any faster. He probably would be into underage girls, but you don’t need to express your approval to Gojo, or worst of all, let him think he’s funny. God knows that would get into his head. “Yea, yea. Whatever. Anyways, I hope you have fun with your Pokemon—”
“Digimon.”
“—or whatever. I’m leaving. Some of us have things to do. Later, Gojo.”
You turned on your heel, lest Gojo hook you in with another taunt.
Maybe you needed to blow off some steam, if you’re allowing yourself to lose to Gojo.
Worst of all, it’s become a streak, like two times in a row—one on this quiz, and the other on the midterm a few weeks back. Your mind goes back to the last women in STEM recruiting event you had went to, and, how, in the middle of taking a bite of the delicious margherita pizza they offered, you registered that the woman in the panel had insisted that what helped her power through her PhD and dickwad supervisors was by exercising. Her fervor over pilates could almost qualify as a cult pitch, but it made you pause at the moment. Before you continued to further engorge yourself on the food offered on the charcuterie board.
But maybe it was time to hone your focus in, and some sweaty endorphins might help you get just that.
You’re not really surprised the demographic at your university’s gym looks like the way it does. After all, not only was it renowned for its academics (from all the nepo babies like Gojo whose families donated buildings and had like four generations of alumnus), but it was also a Division I school. So not only was the gym packed but it was packed with men.
As you walked in the hallway towards the room that contained weight machines, gym bag slung over your shoulder, you eyed the glistening backs of the (D1, mind you) men’s swim team through the glass that separated your path and the swimming pool.
Wow, those Speedos really hugged their asses. You imagined Gojo in one, and almost snorted. Rich boy nerd Satoru definitely didn’t learn how to swim; his family’s mansion probably had a twenty year old personal lifeguard that Gojo lost his virginity to, or something. Regardless, he would squint in his silly swim goggles, the exact antithesis of sex appeal while his glow-in-the-dark eyes lit up the pool while he stroked, cheeks puffed like a pufferfish.
Regardless, the smell of testosterone that hits you when you enter the weight area is almost nauseating, and, if you’re honest, a little intimidating. You’re not exactly the fittest of people, so you quickly speed walk past the grunting and sweaty men at the squat machines and barbells, avoiding eye contact and praying furiously that none of them perceive you.
When you reach the dumbbell stands, you hunch over, taking random light weights. Then, you pretend you know what you’re doing while jumping every so slightly whenever anyone comes in six foot distance of you. It’s only when another girl comes in to grab a weight (and when she bends over, you definitely ogle her ass in a way that would get you slapped if you were a man) that your gaze removes itself from where it was focused on the 2.5 lb dumbbell you were previously bicep curling with. To see him.
The glint of ivory hair is unmistakable—you’ve basically gotten off to the fantasy of razoring it off in his sleep. His blue eyes are bored, pretty boy face framed in glasses. Now, he’s giving teenage boy turned to Andrew Tate after a breakup. Black sweatshirt and sweatpants that are too small, because they cling to his legs in a form-defining way. He’s walking over, hands in his pockets, to a barbell station. Slaps some guys on the shoulder as he goes through, gets a lot of daps.
Which is weird to you, because you only the Gojo inside your physics class, not outside. He’s a fucking nerd—a loser that spends his time beefing with you, so why is he so popular when he gives you the time of day?
There are three dimensions to gaining alpha status, or whatever they call male popularity. You have to be 1) rich, 2) really physically fit, or 3) just really charismatic. Considering that Gojo—in all his clothing—-looks like a twink moreso than ripped gym bro, it’s definitely not dimension two. So you conclude that it’s because he’s rich and probably throws yacht parties so these ripped guys don’t push him into a locker, or something.
When he finally reaches his destination, you smirk to yourself. With that scrawny build underneath all those loose sweaters, you know he’s only going to be able to lift the bar, no plates. After all, he was warming up. insulting Gojo in countless of ways by taking jabs at his physique mentally, so you barely register that he’s grabbing for the hem of his sweatshirt, peeling it up—
To reveal his bare torso.
Your first thought: Wow, he has huge bazonkas.
That has easily got to be one of the most built physiques you’ve seen at your college so far. His pectorals basically pop out out of his torso as he moves to grab plates. First, he grabs a really big plate—you’re not a gym expert, so you wouldn’t know the weight—and stacks it. And stacks another. And another. And another, until you’re sure it’s definitely more than your bodyweight.
As you’re staring at him in awe, your 2.5 lb dumbbells hang limply by your sides, abandoning all pretense of training to openly gawk at the clench of his biceps, the sweat rolling down his temple, and the set of his jaw as he stares holes into the bar. And by the way there’s heat creeping up your cheeks you realize one thing:
You’re screwed.
“You know what?”
You keep your eyes on your notes firmly, refusing to look at Gojo sitting right next to you. You don’t know why he always chooses to sit next to you on recitation, really—it’s not like you’re receptive to his company. After all, he could be doing other things—like metaphorically sucking a TA’s dick by talking about their research, where Gojo probably knows more about the TA’s research than they do themselves.
From your periphery, you notice Gojo pouting, then scooting his chair (dragging it, so it makes a god awful screeching noise against the floor tiles that has you cringing) until he’s so close that he slings an arm on the back of your chair and leans in closer and closer. You’re fighting to keep your eyes on your notes, face heating up traitorously until you feel his breath fan across your neck because he’s just so close.
“Rude, ignoring me. Look where that got you.” He then points to a problem on your paper, one you were currently working on. “You’re doing that wrong.”
You finally turn to glare at him, but he’s closer than you anticipated, his face just inches from yours. His grin is all sharp edges and knowing amusement, and it makes your stomach flip in a way you refuse to acknowledge.
“I’m not doing it wrong,” you argue, despite the creeping suspicion that, okay, maybe you did mess up somewhere.
“Oh, really?” Gojo drawls, tilting his head slightly. “Then why is your integral off by a factor of two?”
Your eyes snap back to your notes, scanning through the equations—and, dammit, he’s right.
You huff, begrudgingly erasing the mistake. “Whatever.”
“You know, you should really be thanking me,” Gojo muses, still leaning way too close for comfort. “If I weren’t here, who knows how many mistakes you’d make?”
“She’d have me,” comes a greasy voice, and you have to fight the tears in your eyes that arise when Fred (the aforementioned pedophilic TA and your research advisor) comes, his moldy cheese stench following him as he takes a seat from across you and Gojo. You grudgingly turn your face away from where it was so close to Gojo’s to look at him and sigh inwardly. At least Gojo’s face was prettier to look at.
“Hi, Fred,” you smile tightly, willing him to go away. “We’re good here, so you can help out other students—”
“How was your weekend?” He instead replies, and you wince. Stealing a quick glance at Gojo, it seems that his jaw and posture are uncharacteristically tense.
“Lot of work for the class and for, uh, our research,” you respond, nodding and averting your gaze to your paper and feigning working on a problem so that he would get the hint.
Fred, unfortunately, does not get the hint. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes too focused on you. “You really ought to take breaks, you know. You can give me the code late. Someone as cute as you shouldn’t stress so much. You’ll get wrinkles.”
Your fingers tighten around your pencil, your skin crawling at the way his tone veers into something too familiar, too patronizing. You open your mouth to give a clipped response, but Gojo beats you to it.
“Oh? Didn’t know you were an expert on skincare, Fred,” Gojo drawls, his voice deceptively light. His arm, which was still resting on the back of your chair, shifts just slightly—not quite pulling you in, but making his presence more noticeable. “Though, if we’re giving out advice, maybe you should take your own. I mean, stress must be rough on you too, right? All those late nights grading papers, staring at screens. Takes a toll.”
Fred bristles, but Gojo just smiles lazily, pushing up his glasses as he tilts his head. “Actually, you know what? Maybe we should all focus on our own business. Like, say, teaching, instead of weirdly hovering over students. Crazy thought, huh?”
You swear you see the muscle in Fred’s jaw twitch, but he forces out an awkward chuckle, shifting uncomfortably. “Right, right. Just looking out for her.”
“Don’t worry,” Gojo interrupts smoothly, now fully leaning into your space, his arm draping a little lower behind your chair, “I think she’s got plenty of people looking out for her already.” His voice is soft, but there’s an undeniable edge beneath the words.
Fred lingers for a second too long, but finally, he mutters something about helping another student and stands, walking off with an air of forced nonchalance.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, slumping slightly in your seat. Gojo hums beside you, his fingers tapping idly against the back of your chair.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” he teases, but there’s something in his tone that’s softer than usual. He then makes a show of stretching, raising his arms. His sweater rides up a bit, exposing his lower abs and peeks of white that has you averting your gaze, the heat creeping up at his proximity once again. Then, his arm back on your chair. Weirdly, you find that you don’t mind it.
You sigh, resigned. You’ll figure out these feelings later. “Yeah. Thanks, Gojo.”
But you don’t immediately go back to your work, because Gojo suddenly hunches down and whispers in your ear. “Yea, I definitely saw an underage anime girl sticker on his laptop.”
Your responding snort is so loud everyone turns to look at you and Gojo, who is now sporting a mischievous and satisfied smile.
It starts with a single drop, fat and cold where it splats against your wrist. You glance up from your phone just in time to see the sky split open.
“Shit,” you mutter, stuffing your phone into your bag. The library doors shut behind you with a heavy clang, sealing away the scent of old books and the quiet hum of studying students. Outside, the air is thick with the petrichor of freshly fallen rain, and within seconds, the pavement is slick, puddles forming in the uneven cracks of the sidewalk. The streetlights reflect off the wet ground, casting fragmented golden glows against the darkening sky. You’d been studying to grind for the upcoming assignments; after all, to rival Gojo is a no small feat. It’s just unfortunate it seems to take you thousand times more effort than it does for Gojo.
“Guess we’re stuck together, huh?”
You don’t have to turn to know who it is.
Satoru Gojo, standing beside you under the library’s narrow overhang, wearing that insufferable grin like he’s amused by the entire situation. Like the rain personally fell from the sky just to give him an opportunity to bother you.
“I’ll take my chances,” you say flatly, shifting your bag on your shoulder. But as you peer past the downpour, your stomach sinks. The rain is merciless, an unrelenting sheet of water stretching as far as you can see. There’s no way you’re making it back to your dorm without looking like you took a fully clothed shower.
Gojo hums, pulling something out of his bag. You blink when he flicks open a half-broken umbrella, the metal ribs slightly bent like it’s barely holding itself together. He gives it a little shake, sending droplets flying, before glancing at you with a smirk.
“Well?” He lifts a brow. “Wanna be smart about this?”
You do not want to be smart about this. You want to wait out the rain or make a break for it. But the storm shows no signs of letting up, and the thought of walking through it alone makes you hesitate.
Reluctantly, you sigh. “Fine. But I get most of the cover.”
“Hey, sharing is caring.” He tilts the umbrella slightly, just enough to make a point.
With great reluctance, you step closer. The moment you do, you regret it.
Gojo is warm. Even in the damp, chilled air, he radiates heat, standing so close that his sleeve brushes against yours. He smells good, too—like expensive laundry detergent with a faint undercurrent of something sweet, something distinctly him.
You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stare straight ahead as the two of you start walking. The rain pounds against the umbrella, droplets cascading off the edges, and with every step, you’re hyper-aware of the way Gojo moves beside you—loose-limbed, annoyingly graceful, a stark contrast to the crooked metal above your heads.
“Man, this thing’s on its last leg,” he muses, tilting the umbrella just slightly. Water dribbles off the side, landing directly onto your shoulder.
“Gojo!” you yelp, recoiling as the cold soaks through your shirt.
“Oops.” He does not sound remotely sorry.
You glare at him, but before you can snap back, he shrugs off his jacket and—without preamble—drapes it over you.
You freeze.
It’s warm, still carrying the heat of his body, and it smells so much like him—clean, sweet, dizzyingly familiar. Your brain short-circuits.
You force yourself to breathe, keeping your gaze firmly ahead. “You didn’t have to do that,” you say, voice tight.
“I wanted to.”
Something in his tone makes your stomach flip. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, and—
Damn him. Damn him.
Water drips from his bangs, clinging to the sharp edges of his jawline, sliding down the curve of his throat. His shirt sticks to his skin, fabric clinging in a way that reveals the toned lines of his arms, the broad plane of his chest. He’s watching the rain, the usual teasing glint in his eyes softened into something contemplative.
You swear your eggs just recently got released, for you cannot help but avoid your ever going attraction to Satoru Gojo except the age-old excuse: ovulation. Your mind wanders to how his arms would feel around your head, to lay on his chest, how he’d be able to manhandle you, force you to take it—
But you’re snapped out of your inappropriate thoughts by what he says next.
“You know,” he says, voice quieter now, “I like this. Just us, no grades, no competing.”
You pause.
He says it so simply, so easily, like it’s nothing at all. But the words settle deep, curling somewhere warm inside you, and you don’t know what to do with them.
So you do what you do best: you shove them away, bury them beneath years of rivalry, of late-night study sessions fueled by caffeine and stubbornness, of sharp words and sharper glances.
You roll your eyes, forcing a scoff. “Don’t get used to it.”
But even as you say it, your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket, holding it a little tighter.
It’s been a week since you saw Gojo. He had dropped you at your dorm in a surprisingly gentlemanly way, and you had insisted on returning the jacket only after washing it, to be courteous. What you didn’t mention was how you kept repeatedly smelling it in your dorm whenever you got a reprieve from your roommate’s eyes because Gojo smelled like expensive cologne and he did one thing most nerds / physics majors don’t do: shower. This fact, unfortunately, made you more attracted to him because the bar is truly in hell.
You’ve concluded that these…feelings can’t hurt you and that it isn’t real, like a beefy and shirtless Gojo-looking demon that’ll jump and surprise you from under your bed. So you move on your life, caught in the ever perpetual slog of studying and researching.
Thus, you find yourself at the library once more.
The night hums low around you, quiet except for the occasional shuffle of paper and the distant hum of the library’s espresso machine (only librarians could use it, however. you fervently thought that was a form of elitism, but you digress). You’re at the corner table, the one by the window, where the dim light pools just enough to illuminate your notes but not enough to make you feel like you’re being studied under a microscope. You think you’re alone—until you aren’t.
You don’t have to look up to know it’s him.
Satoru Gojo is hard to miss, even when he’s not trying. He slides into the chair across from you with the kind of ease that makes it seem like he belongs there, like he was always going to end up sitting across from you tonight. His hair is tousled, white strands falling forward in a way that makes him look softer under the warm light. His glasses are perched low on his nose, a rare sight given that he usually has them pushed up like some kind of pretentious scholar.
The two of you don’t speak.
It’s surprising, really. Gojo never runs out of things to say, whether it’s an obnoxious quip or some unnecessarily insightful observation that makes you want to throw your textbook at his face. But tonight, he just pulls out his own notes, taps his pen against the edge of his lips, and starts reading.
You should focus on your own studying, but something about this—this silence, this late-night haze, this tiny moment carved out of time—makes your mind wander. You steal glances when you think he won’t notice. His brows furrow when he’s concentrating, his jaw tightens when he’s stuck on something, and when he exhales, it’s this slow, measured thing, like he’s trying not to get frustrated. He’s just—
He’s just really there.
You’ve spent years defining Gojo as your rival. Your competition. The person standing in your way at every academic milestone. And yet, somehow, somewhere, he’s slipped into something else, something harder to define. Because you’ve seen him like this before—when he’s so focused that he forgets the world around him, when he bites his lip in thought, when he gets so caught up in something that he mutters under his breath without realizing it. And for the first time, it dawns on you: you don’t actually hate it.
You don’t hate this comfortable silence. This moment of peace, a white flag waving lazily between you both.
The hours blur. The café starts to empty. Your notes turn into background noise. It’s late, and the warmth from inside lulls you into something dangerously close to comfort.
A soft sound breaks through the quiet.
You glance up and freeze.
Gojo’s head has tilted to the side, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. His hand is curled loosely around his pen, and his breathing has evened out. He’s asleep.
For a moment, you don’t move. You barely breathe.
Gojo, asleep, is not something you’ve seen before. He’s always in motion, always buzzing with energy, always running his mouth about something. But right now, he’s still. His long lashes cast faint shadows over his cheekbones, and the tension he always carries—the cocky bravado, the smirking sharpness—is nowhere to be found. He just looks… peaceful.
Cutie.
What?
The thought slips in so quickly, so effortlessly, that it nearly makes you jolt. But when you look at him again—head tilted just slightly, glasses slipping down his nose, breathing slow and even—you can’t deny that the word fits. He looks like a lazy cat napping in a sunbeam, limbs loose, utterly unguarded. It’s so unlike him that you find yourself staring, caught in the contrast.
Your fingers twitch. Before you can stop yourself, you reach forward, slow and hesitant, to push his glasses back up his nose. But you catch yourself just before you touch him, as if the warmth of his skin might burn. Your hand hovers in the air for a fraction of a second too long, and then—
You pull away.
Your heart is pounding. It’s fine. It’s nothing. You just need to get out of here.
You gather your things quietly, glancing back at him one last time before slipping out the door into the cool night air. The moment you step outside, you take a breath, deep and shaking. The world feels different now. You feel different now.
Because for the first time, it isn’t just that you find Gojo attractive.
It’s that you care.
And you don’t know what the hell to do about it.
The gym, once again, smells like sweat and overpriced protein powder.
You don’t know what’s possessed you to come here today. Maybe it’s because you keep telling yourself that you need to exercise more, or maybe it’s because you need to take a break from studying before your brain melts. But deep down, if you’re really being honest with yourself, you know the real reason.
Gojo is here.
You spotted him the first time by accident. You were on the treadmill, barely jogging at a pace that wouldn’t embarrass you, when you caught a flash of white hair across the gym floor. And there he was—dressed in a fitted black sleeveless top and joggers, casually loading plates onto a barbell.
And he wasn’t wearing his glasses.
It was a stupid, inconsequential detail, but it made all the difference. Without them, he didn’t look like the annoying academic rival who constantly got under your skin, flashing his smug grin as he beat you in exams by the smallest possible margins. He looked… sharp. Unfiltered. Effortlessly attractive in a way that made your stomach tighten in ways you didn’t like.
You’d seen him in his regular clothes before, of course. You knew he had broad shoulders and long legs, that his body wasn’t just a lanky frame hidden behind layers of sweaters. But here, in the gym, watching him roll his shoulders as he prepped for another set—it hit differently. He was lean but muscular, his arms flexing as he adjusted his grip on the bar, and for some godforsaken reason, you couldn’t look away.
You shouldn’t be watching him. You should be focusing on your own workout, pretending you don’t care. But the way his shirt clung to his back, the way his forearms tensed, the way he exhaled sharply as he lifted—
You’re so screwed.
You force yourself to look away, grabbing the smallest dumbbells available and curling them in what has to be the weakest excuse for a workout imaginable. You’re barely paying attention to what you’re doing, too busy sneaking glances at Gojo between sets. It’s pathetic, but at least no one else is watching you.
Or so you think.
Because then she appears.
A girl.
Tall, toned, and effortlessly gorgeous, with sleek hair pulled into a high ponytail. She strides over to Gojo with a confidence you could never dream of and smiles at him, saying something that makes him laugh. Her ass is definitely bigger than yours, and she’s in this coordinated, cute, pink set, looking like she walked straight out of a fitness TikTok. You can’t hear what they’re talking about over the sound of weights clanking and some obnoxious EDM song blasting through the speakers, but you can see it. The way she leans in, the way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the way Gojo—
—smiles at her. That easy, lazy grin he always wears when he’s teasing you, except this time, it isn’t for you.
Your grip tightens around the dumbbells, something ugly curling in your chest. It gets worse when she gestures toward the squat rack, and Gojo nods before moving behind her, hands hovering just slightly as she sets up for a squat. You watch as he spots her, one hand resting lightly on her lower back, close enough to correct her form but far enough to be polite. He’s focused, watching her movements carefully, murmuring something that makes her laugh before she drops into another rep.
Your stomach twists.
This is stupid. You have no reason to be feeling this way.
It’s then that it hits you—you can have your silly little academic rival moments with Gojo, but, in the end, you’re just a footnote in his story, a fleeting challenge in a life where everything already belongs to him. He quite literally has generational wealth; he’s not going to spend his life buried in grant applications or clawing for recognition in a field that demands twice the effort for half the reward. He’ll be the one funding the research, sitting at the head of the table, making decisions that shape the future. And you? You’ll be one of the many who struggle just to be in the same room.
He’s the guy who spends his vacations on yachts or private islands—not just surrounded by wealth, but by people who belong there. Girls who glide through life with the same effortless ease as him, girls who don’t second-guess if they deserve to be in the spaces they occupy. Girls who don’t have to fight for their place at the table because it was always set for them.
Girls that are his equal—equally attractive, equally smart, equally rich.
Not you.
You swallow hard, forcing yourself to look away, but the image is burned into your mind. The easy way he talks to her. The way she tilts her head when she listens. The way he doesn’t even know you’re here.
You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t care.
But you do.
You grip the dumbbells tighter, exhaling sharply. Then you put them back, pick up your water bottle, and walk out of the gym before you do something stupid.
The office is too small. Too suffocating. Too filled with the weight of unspoken words and the sharp-edged smile of Fred, the TA, as he leans back in his chair and laces his fingers together.
"You know," he begins, voice sickly sweet, "I really expected more from you."
You sit stiffly in the chair across from him, your hands curled into fists in your lap, nails digging crescents into your skin. Your heart pounds, but your face remains carefully neutral. You've been called into his office under the guise of "academic guidance," but you know better. You always know better.
"I don't know what you mean," you say, keeping your voice even.
Fred exhales dramatically, shaking his head. "Come on. You and I both know you're barely keeping up in this project of ours."
You grit your teeth. You're not barely keeping up. You're giving him your work at the highest level, at its best. But Fred—Fred has always had a way of twisting things, making you feel small, insignificant, like your achievements are nothing more than accidents.
“I think my progress speaks for itself,” you respond tightly. Mind you, while he was supposed to be your mentor, you’ve done 80% of the work.
But you think Gojo’s defense of you ran deep into Fred’s heart because by the way he’s sleazily smirking at you, you know he’s trying to get back at you.
He smirks. "Your progress? Sure, you’re smart. But you think that’s enough? You think anyone’s going to care about a girl like you when there are people out there who don’t have to struggle to be exceptional?" He leans forward, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. "You’re wasting your time. The best you can hope for is being someone’s assistant. Maybe a glorified research grunt if you’re lucky. Just like for me."
Your stomach twists. You shouldn’t care. You know you shouldn’t care. But the words burrow deep, hitting a place inside you that already doubts, that already wonders if you’re nothing more than a temporary obstacle in a world built for people like Gojo Satoru—people born brilliant, born wealthy, born effortless.
Fred’s eyes flick over you, assessing, smug. "You’re working yourself to the bone for what? You’ll never be at the top. Not really."
The bitterness of the situation really dawns on you—Gojo’s the one who took a jab at Fred last week, not you. But you’re the one who’s left to deal with its consequences. You’re not going to assign blame and lament that it’s not Gojo in this office dealing with him. It was in your defense, after all.
But Fred’s words remind you. You’ll never be at the top. At Gojo’s level, who’s at the top without even seeming to put in effort.
You’ll never be his equal.
You stand abruptly, shoving your chair back so hard it scrapes against the floor. "If that’s all, I have work to do."
Fred chuckles, leaning back, clearly pleased with himself. "Sure, sure. Don’t say I never tried to give you advice."
You don’t respond. You just walk out, gripping your bag so tightly your knuckles turn white, the echo of his words following you down the hall, settling in your bones like lead.
The hallway is too bright. Too loud. Too full of people who don’t know that you’re on the verge of crumpling in on yourself like a dying star.
Your breath feels too shallow, too quick, and there’s a weight pressing down on your chest that no amount of rationalizing can shake off. It’s not even your meeting with Fred—just a slow accumulation of stress and exhaustion and frustration that’s settled deep in your bones. A grade lower than expected, an upcoming deadline you’re nowhere near prepared for, a general sense of drowning no matter how hard you try to keep up. It’s all too much, and your hands are starting to shake from how tightly you’re gripping the strap of your bag.
You just need to get out of here. You need air, space, something.
But, of course, the universe has a cruel sense of humor, because when you round the corner, you slam straight into Satoru Gojo.
“Whoa—”
Your balance is already precarious from the way you were rushing, and the impact sends you stumbling. For a split second, you think you might actually fall—your ankle twists awkwardly, the world tilts—and then there’s a strong hand gripping your wrist, another bracing against your back, steadying you before you can hit the ground.
You don’t process what happens immediately. Your mind is still stuck on too much, too fast, can’t breathe, and it takes you a second to realize that Gojo is holding you upright, his hands firm but careful, his expression hovering somewhere between amusement and concern.
“Jeez, what’s the rush?” he teases, but his voice lacks its usual careless lilt. He’s searching your face now, eyes narrowing behind his glasses, and that’s when you realize: you must look as bad as you feel.
Shit.
You jerk away from him, a little too fast, a little too sharp. “I’m fine.”
Gojo doesn’t look convinced. “You sure? Because it kinda seemed like you were about to pass out on the spot.”
“I said I’m fine.” You adjust your bag over your shoulder, shifting your weight onto your other foot, ignoring the faint throb in your ankle. “Go bother someone else.”
Most of the time, that’s enough to send him off with an exaggerated sigh and a smirk. But not today.
Today, Gojo just stands there, watching you like he’s trying to piece something together—like you’re a problem he wants to solve. He doesn’t press, not yet, but the silence stretches, and it’s unbearable, because you can feel the weight of his gaze, and you don’t want to be seen like this. Not by him.
So you give him a tight nod in dismissal, and walk away.
There’s a knock at your door. You frown because you didn’t expect any visitors, and you’re in your sleepwear. Regardless, you pad your way lazily and open the door.
To see Gojo.
What the fuck.
He’s drenched in the glow of the hallway light, looking entirely too at home despite standing on your threshold. His hair is still slightly damp from the rain, white strands falling over his forehead in careless disarray. He’s not wearing his glasses.
"Why are you here?" you demand, gripping the doorframe, willing your voice to stay steady.
He quirks an eyebrow, tilting his head just slightly. “You’re holding my jacket hostage.”
Oh. Right.
You make your way to your wardrobe, where the now-cleaned jacket hangs neatly on a hanger. Grabbing it, you hand it over to Gojo, who’s standing at your threshold while eyeing the insides of your dorm, as if trying to take in what your living space looks like. You shove it into his chest, stepping back like the heat of it burns. "Here."
Gojo takes it, but instead of leaving like a normal person, he lingers, running his fingers over the material like he’s checking for something. Then,, he lifts a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it in that way that only makes his biceps flex, his lean muscles shifting beneath his shirt. You hate that you notice.
A beat passes.
"You know," he muses, far too casually, "you seemed a little disheveled back there."
Your stomach twists. "It's not a big deal—"
"—Bullshit." His voice cuts through yours, sharp and immediate. He shifts, stepping just the tiniest bit closer, his tone losing its usual teasing lilt. “You’re lying. I saw what you looked like. What happened?”
“It's none of your business,” you say, stiffening. “Nor is it a big deal, really.”
Gojo exhales, something heavy in the sound. His eyes don’t leave yours, and for once, they aren’t filled with their usual mirth or mischief. Just something searching, something that makes your chest ache in a way you don’t have the strength to deal with right now.
"You always do that," he says, softer now, but no less intense. “Act like no one’s supposed to care. Like you’re carrying the world alone.”
Your fingers curl into your palms. Your lips press together. You don’t want to hear this. You don’t want to acknowledge the way his words settle too close to the truth.
And then, quietly, Gojo asks, “Do you not consider me your equal?”
You swallow.
Your silence must be enough of an answer because something shifts in his expression. It isn’t anger exactly, but it’s something close—something bitter and disappointed and aching all at once.
"You’re the one who shuts me out, you know." His voice is sharp now, edged with frustration. "You act like I'm the one keeping you at a distance, but every time I try to get close, you push me away."
Your throat tightens. “Why do you even care?”
Gojo lets out a breath, his head tilting just slightly, eyes scanning your face like you’re something he’s trying to figure out. Then he laughs, quiet and humorless.
“You really don’t know?”
“I—” Your voice wavers. “What do you mean—”
“For a girl so smart, you sure do act stupid.” He steps forward then, closing the space between you just enough to make you want to back away, but your feet don’t move. His voice drops lower. "Do you think I talk to you because I give a fuck about physics?"
Your brain short-circuits. “What—”
He groans, dragging a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I give zero fucks about the class or any class, trust me. I have better things to do than to try to aim for 100s on every test."
Your heart is pounding now, too loud, too fast. “Then why—”
"God," he exhales, tipping his head back, like he's debating whether or not he should even say it. Then, after a beat, he looks at you again, and whatever is in his eyes makes your stomach flip, makes your breath hitch.
Something in your chest lurches, but before you can even process it, he huffs a laugh—like he’s just remembered something ridiculous.
"You didn’t even look my way the first week," he says, eyes flicking over your face, searching. "I could tell you only cared about anyone that could challenge you. Like, it wasn’t even until I did better than you on the second midterm that you even talked to me."
You open your mouth, then close it, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Because—yeah. He’s not wrong. You had ignored him, dismissed him as just another overconfident rich kid who thought he was smarter than he was. It wasn’t until he proved himself, until he became a real obstacle in your path, that you bothered to acknowledge him.
Gojo smiles, but it’s not cocky this time—it’s small, almost rueful. "And then you looked at me like I was finally real. Like I existed."
Your breath hitches.
He shrugs, eyes dropping for a brief second before snapping back up to yours. "So, yeah. Maybe I started trying harder. Maybe I cared about all those stupid tests because it meant I got to see that fire in your eyes, that I got to be the one you were pushing against." He rubs the back of his neck, his biceps flexing in a way that would usually annoy you, but right now, you’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe.
Gojo stares at you for a long moment, gaze unwavering, like he’s daring you to say something—anything.
Your chest feels too tight, your pulse erratic, and you don’t know what to do with the way Gojo is looking at you—like you’re something precious, something worth holding onto.
But he’s wrong. He has to be wrong.
“You can’t like me,” you whisper.
Gojo frowns, expression shifting. “What?”
Your throat clenches, and before you can stop it, heat pricks at your eyes, blurring your vision. “You can’t like me,” you say again, voice cracking. “I can’t even match you.”
Gojo's face slackens, his teasing demeanor completely gone.
"You do everything so effortlessly," you force out, your fists clenching at your sides. "It’s so infuriating." A shaky breath escapes you, and you shake your head, looking down. “So why would you even want this? You make me feel this way, and I—I hate you for it.”
For a second, there’s only silence.
Then, Gojo exhales softly.
“Is that what you think?” His voice is so gentle it makes something inside you ache.
You don’t answer. You can’t.
Gojo shifts, stepping forward slowly, carefully, like you’re something fragile. And then—then he reaches out, his fingers ghosting along your wrist before curling around it, grounding you. “It’s not effortless,” he murmurs. “I try so hard. You just don’t see it because I don’t want you to.”
"You really don’t get it, do you?" His voice is quieter now, something dangerously close to vulnerable. His fingers twitch at his sides. "I care because it’s you."
You shake your head, still not understanding, still unable to believe it.
Gojo watches you for a moment, then exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You act like I just woke up one day and decided to like you.” He huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no real amusement in it. “Do you know how long I’ve been stuck on you? How infuriating it was, realizing that no matter how much attention I got, the only person I wanted it from was too busy treating me like an obstacle?”
Your breath catches.
“I tried everything,” he continues, voice rougher now. “Teasing you, annoying you, beating you in tests, losing to you in tests. It didn’t matter what I did, because you—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “You only saw me when I gave you a reason to compete.”
Your fingers tremble slightly at your sides. You don’t know what to say, don’t even know what you can say.
And suddenly, everything—the teasing, the constant pestering, the way he always had to be around you—it all clicks into place.
Your heart hammers in your chest, and before you can second-guess it, before you can even think, you surge forward and kiss him.
It’s a mess of a kiss—too rushed, too desperate, all clashing teeth and uneven breaths—but Gojo groans softly against your lips, like he’s been waiting for this. His hands are on you immediately, one slipping around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as he presses you flush against him.
You’re dizzy. Overwhelmed. But it’s good. It’s him, and you don’t want to stop.
When you finally pull away, breathless and unsteady, Gojo is grinning, his lips slightly swollen.
“Worth the wait,” he murmurs, eyes shining.
You avert your gaze, fully blushing now. “But I—” You take a look at him, then hide your face in your hands. “I’m a stalker.”
“Maybe I’m into that.”
“No,” you bemoan. “I’ve stalked you at the gym, and I—” Your voice drops into a shameful whisper. “You were good. Like, stupidly good. Like, making everyone stare at you good.”
His lips twitch. “You were staring too, huh?”
You glare at him, but he just grins, all teeth, clearly eating this up.
“I hated it,” you insist, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “I hated that you’re already smarter than me, that you already have all these advantages, and then—and then you also have that? Like, it’s just unfair. You’re unfair.”
Gojo is silent for a second, and you think you’ve screwed up, but then exhales a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “You are so cute.”
“Stop it!” you whine, but you don’t protest when he pulls you closer and locks your lips with his another time. You clutch the front of his shirt, drag your hands on his chest, his arms, everywhere. Then, you guide his to firmly clutch your ass, to which he freezes.
“We can stop here. We don’t have to do anymore than this, and—”
But you interrupt him, slamming your lips against his once more. Grabbing him by the shoulder you pull him into your room and slam the door behind you, pushing him against the door. “Fuck no.”
He laughs breathlessly, then continues to switch your position, now you against the door. “Thank god. Now, jump.”
You do, and you almost moan at how easily he grabs you in his arms, your legs straddling him. It’s like you weigh nothing to him as he carries you over to your bed and manhandles you into it, following not long after.
When he gets on top of you, he maintains eye contact as he pulls your shirt over your head, trailing kisses down to your neck, the valley of your breasts (but not before giving each of the girls their own tender kiss), and your stomach. With his eyes boring into you, he slowly, teasingly drags the pants you were wearing down your legs until you’re just in your panties.
You let out a noise, and he coos. “I know, I know, baby.” He gives you a gentle kiss on the top of your mound, and you clench, squirming from the contact. “Let me take my time, though.”
He gently, but firmly, lays a hand on your hip as he starts licking the crotch of your panties. It’s truly maddening—the sensation is there, but you oh so wish his skilled tongue was meeting your skin, bare and electric.
He’s taking his time laving, ravishing your taste, but you’ve had enough. “Gojo, please,” you sob, throwing your head back and grinding further into his tongue, which he welcomes. “Stop teasing.”
“Mmmm,” he pretends to think, all while focused and looking only at your crotch, now rubbing your clit in small, miniscule circles. “I can, but,” and now he’s just mocking you, with the way he adopts a babying tone, “I think you’re going to have to beg for it.”
You groan in frustration as a response, but he only clicks his tongue as his fingers reach and finally rid you of your panties. He spreads your folds with two fingers, his face oh so close to your bare pussy. But instead of finally giving you what you want, he clicks his tongue, pouting as if you’re the one forcing him to be a bastard. “Yea, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to earn it.”
Before you can respond, he holds out his tongue and inches his face even closer to your bare folds until you can feel his warm breath over it. “You just have to say please.” Then, he ahhh-s, as if holding his tongue out to a doctor and says, “Look I’m so close—ahhh.”
You can only plead with him. “Please, Gojo.”
“No, it’s Satoru to you now, baby.”
“Satoru, please eat me out.”
He smiles. “Yeaa, that’s my girl.” And proceeds to eat you out in a way that has your toes curling.
He acts like a man eating his last meal on death row. It’s the masterful combination of laving over your folds, kissing your clit, and groaning and making noises that has you inching closer and closer to your orgasm. When you tell him, you’re close, he does exactly what he’s supposed to do—keep doing what he’s doing, same spot, same tempo, same pressure.
With a cry of his name, you come quickly, and he takes your writhing hips and their motion like a champ, easing you through it. When you feel the all-too-familiar feel of over sensitivity, you grab his hair and pull him towards your face, kissing him tenderly.
He maneuvers his huge frame to lay down next to you, and you fall easily into a gentle embrace. It’s a comfortable silence, as he burrows his face into your chest and you stroke his hair gently.
Gentler than how you’ve ever treated him.
It’s this thought exactly that you voice to him. “You know,” you muse softly. “I was such a bitch to you.” This gets his attention, because he moves from where he was comfortable (your boobs) to look at you in alarm. “Like, I was always mean, and like acting all high and mighty—”
“Whatever you think you did, it was hot,” he interrupts you, grinning boyishly. “Like damn when you insult me I get all fired up—”
“Satoru!” You laugh, shocked, looking down at him. “You’re crazy.”
“Yea,” he winks. “Crazy for you.”
You smile softly at that, biting your lip. “I mean, I get that.” You feel his curious gaze rove over you and heat creeps up your neck as you confess, “Like I was stalking you at the gym. I saw you one time, and um. You definitely have a sleeper build.”
He hums. “I get that a lot.”
“Yea,” you blurt. “you’re really hot. Like you have really big arms, which I definitely didn’t notice in all those sweaters you wear. You could definitely throw me around.”
Silence.
When you look down at him, he’s looking at you mischievously. He sits up, takes off his shirt, and says, “Want to test that theory?”
The both of you test the theory, indeed—it’s a nice nod to your guys’ academic, theoretical physics roots. But instead of some theory involving dark matter or quantum physics debated while in class, this theory takes all night to prove.
general masterlist
a/n special thank you to @purplegemadventures ily pookie <3 we were discussing how a lot of fics so far have made seem nerd gojo really cute and shy but we tried to envision a shit eating sassy diva just like hidden inventory arc <3 like what that one anon said i need my gojo to be a little annoying cocky (but cute) bastard (or, i quote, "your gojo makes me want to oil his scalp and give him an aggressive head massage and mess his hair up"). ANYWAYS props to that one anon that dropped the "nerd gojo with sleeper build" and my beloved @tiramisuandlove i love you forever
The mirror above the dresser was half-fogged from her earlier shower.
Yamika, no longer in her “Yume” persona, sat on the bed with damp, loosely braided hair. The piercings and neon colors were gone. Her bare face was pale in the moonlight, faint shadows under her eyes.
The contacts were gone too—leaving her natural, swirling irises exposed, colors shifting softly like mood rings beneath her lashes.
She sat quietly, legs crossed, eyes fixed on the floor.
“You’re breathing weird,” came Ayumu’s voice from inside. Gentle. A little amused.
Yamika huffed, barely smiling. “He smiled at me.”
“Yuji?”
She groaned and collapsed back against the mattress dramatically. “Ugh, yes. And he has a nice smile. Why does he have a nice smile? Why do I care about his smile?!”
Ayumu laughed inside their shared mind. “Maybe you like him.”
“I shouldn’t. He’s... he’s my dad’s little sleepover buddy!”
“You don’t get to choose feelings like this. Believe me.”
Yamika curled into the blanket, muttering, “It’s disgusting. I’m disgusting. He’s—he’s good. He’s golden retriever nice. He talks with his mouth full. He gets excited about sushi. He gives people his last piece without thinking about it.”
Ayumu’s voice softened. “So you noticed all that, huh?”
Yamika shut her eyes. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
A long pause passed.
Then Yamika said quietly, “What about you? You think about him?”
Ayumu hesitated. Then: “Every day.”
Yamika smiled a little. “You love him, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Ayumu whispered. “So much it hurts. Every time I see him smile at me, I want to freeze time. But we can’t tell anyone. Not ever. Not even Gojo knows how long he’ll be able to keep it secret.”
Yamika was quiet, letting that settle over them.
“You’re braver than me,” she added. “Letting yourself feel that.”
Yamika’s eyes flicked to the ceiling. “Does it still count as a crush if I want to punch myself in the face for it?”
Ayumu snorted. “Oh, absolutely.”
They both laughed quietly, the room soft with the sound of it.
After a moment, Yamika whispered, “I didn’t think I was capable of this. Of… caring. But now I don’t want to stop.”
“Then don’t,” Ayumu said gently. “We’re more than what we were made from. You especially.”
They sat together in silence—two voices, one body, one heart tangled in two directions.
And for the first time in a long while, Yamika didn’t feel alone.
*before we get into it I just wanna show you how I picture Yume and Ayumu these aren’t set appearances and I made these with future scenes in mind*
The one on the left is Ayumu and the one on the right is Yume(that design is closer to Yamika- just picture her with colorful hair, without the extra eye and her tattoos are hidden)
Scene: Jujutsu High Dorm Room – Late Night
The dorm was quiet. Most of the school was already asleep.
Yamika sat at the edge of their shared bed, makeup half wiped off, her multicolored hair let down from its stylized chaos. The moonlight from the window pooled on the floor, casting soft glows against her skin. Her swirling eyes were calm now—subdued into gentle colors that shifted lazily, like oil on water.
She stared at her reflection in the dark glass of the window. And then, softly—
“Ayumu.”
Ayumu’s voice stirred gently from within. “Still here.”
Yamika sighed. “I think I’m broken.”
“Why?”
“I like him.”
“Yuji?”
Yamika groaned and fell back onto the bed, flinging an arm over her eyes. “Don’t say it out loud.”
“You’re talking out loud.”
Yamika gritted her teeth. “He’s… sweet. And real. And warm. And… not completely disgusting like my father. But he is my father’s vessel. It’s gross. I’m gross.”
“I’m not supposed to feel anything,” Yamika muttered. “I’m the one who keeps the walls up. You’re the soft one. I’m the cold-blooded backup plan.”
“You’re not just that.”
Silence stretched between them for a moment. Then Yamika asked:
“…Did it scare you? When you realized you loved him?”
Ayumu’s voice softened with a quiet fondness. “So much it made me sick.”
Yamika opened her eyes, blinking up at the ceiling. “And you kept it hidden all this time?”
“It’s not safe. Not for him. Not for me. But Gojo… he’s good at pretending. And he lets me feel normal, even if just for a little while.”
Yamika frowned. “He’s an idiot.”
“He’s my idiot.” Ayumu’s tone was warm. “And I’d rather love him in secret than not love him at all.”
“…I don’t want to love Yuji,” Yamika admitted, barely above a whisper. “But he makes me laugh. He talks to me like I’m real. He doesn’t know I’m a monster.”
“You’re not a monster,” Ayumu said gently. “You’re you.”
Yamika didn’t respond.
She rolled to her side, hugging a pillow to her chest.
“I don’t want to hurt him,” she whispered.
“Then don’t.”
“I don’t think I can stay in control around him.”
“Then we figure it out together.”
There was no reply for a moment. Just the quiet sound of Yamika’s breathing.
“…You really love him, huh?” she asked softly.
“Yeah.”
Yamika smiled faintly.
“I guess… we’re both doomed.”
“At least we’re doomed together.”
They both laughed—light, sad, and full of something that felt dangerously close to hope.
And in that moonlit stillness, they drifted off—not as Ayumu or Yamika or even Yume—but just two souls sharing the same quiet heart.
boyfriend! satoru with a reader who struggles with an eating disorder and body image issues.
boyfriend! satoru who, before finding out, steals your food all the time. it's intended to be silly. “ooo, haha, we're sharing food that was supposed to just be for you!” is essentially what he thinks; he unintentionally stays ignorant to how he's the only one eating, how he's the one who finishes the whole plate of food, not both of you.
boyfriend! satoru who, before finding out, pokes your stomach a lot. it's mindless, like a habit. he doesn't notice how badly it affects your vision of yourself. he doesn't see how you stare at your naked body in the mirror and remember how he poked your stomach; “does he not like my body? is this his way of saying i look fat?” you think to yourself as tears bead up on your waterline.
boyfriend! satoru who finds out by pure accident. you were in the bedroom, on a phone call with a girl friend of yours, and somehow your eating disorder came up as a topic. you didn't think he'd hear, he was all the way in the living room, after all. but what you didn't know was that he'd started to miss your presence and went to your shared bedroom to relieve the ache, only to hear what you and your friend were talking about.
boyfriend! satoru who starts picking up on all the signs he neglected to notice before, such as you never wearing certain clothes he bought you if you deemed it ‘too revealing’, your stomach growling at the most random of times, when you would poke at your own stomach and frown, how you'd always hug a pillow to your stomach when you're sitting in bed or on the couch, eating slowly, never scolding him for stealing your food, skipping meals by ‘accident’, always ‘not hungry’, ect.
boyfriend! satoru who feels so ashamed for not noticing beforehand, because how could he not? the signs were there, he just wasn't looking hard enough.
boyfriend! satoru who has no clue how to bring it up after that. because, realistically, how would he? “hey, babe! the other day i heard you telling your friend about how you hate your body and have an eating disorder, wanna unpack that?” no, that sounds intrusive and insensitive.
boyfriend! satoru who, instead, tries to do little acts to try and get you to like your body without directly bringing it up.
boyfriend! satoru who litters little kisses all over your tummy right before bed. it turns into a nightly routine.
boyfriend! satoru who rubs your stomach whenever he's spooning you from behind while kissing your shoulder every now and then.
boyfriend! satoru who murmurs soft: “you're so pretty”'s, and “such a beautiful body”'s every time the two of you get sexually intimate.
boyfriend! satoru whose new favorite position is missionary, because it means he can watch your face heat up while he tells you how gorgeous your body is.
boyfriend! satoru who stops stealing your food.
boyfriend! satoru who starts cooking homemade meals for you. he makes a mental list of all your favorite foods alongside a list of foods your friends have said you liked and gets to work. he knows you're more likely to eat it if you know he made it, rather than if it's just an instant can of nothingness like normally.
boyfriend! satoru who watches your plate whenever the two of you eat together. it isn't an intense stare, just looking down at it every now and then, smiling a little whenever he sees you actually eating.
boyfriend! satoru who realizes it's working when all the tiny things you used to do stop happening. you eat at a regular pace now, you slap his hand when he steals your food, you tell him when you're hungry, you eat three meals a day, you wear all the clothes he buys you, you stop hiding your stomach, you're happier.
boyfriend! satoru who is ecstatic to have you feeling happy with yourself again. he thinks you're so pretty, you deserve to feel that way just as much as he does.
Satoru’s the type of boyfriend who takes your compliments as guidelines.
“Mm, you smell so good.” Now he’s wearing that same cologne every single day, buying extra bottles to stock up so he never runs out.
“I love your hair like that.” Now he wears it like that all the time. Messes it up a little bit on purpose because that’s how you like it.
“That color really suits you.” It’s the only color he wears from here on out.
“You look so handsome in that shirt.” After that, you have to tell him he can’t wear the same shirt every day.
“I love when you laugh like that.” Any other kind of laugh slips out of him, he’s pissed at himself. That was the wrong one.
“I like your other sunglasses better.” He does now, too. The first pair’s getting thrown in the garbage.
You can doll him up all you want. Anything for your affection, your attention, your admiration. He loves feeling loved by you. It’s a high he’s constantly chasing.
Satoru's mother hates how overly affectionate you are to her son.
Your mother-in-law, the lady of the Gojo Clan of the Great Three Sorcerer Clans, would throw endless "tsks" and "tuts" at you whenever she catches you red-handed spoiling her son. You'd argue that it wasn't really spoiling but more of being an attentive wife.
Satoru was a lovebug, after all. An honest to goodness, "Oh, this man is obsessed with his wife" kind of guy. He was always going, "Where is my WIFE?!" "Wifey!" "My wife!", and wasn't at all embarrassed to express just how much he loves you. You, in turn, never shy away from reciprocating his affection, whether it's by returning his crushing embraces or calling for him through the rooftops so he could hear where you were, regardless of who else could hear you. He didn't give two shits what his family thought of him, but his relatives and servants have lost count of how many times his piercing glares have sent a chill down their spines whenever they made even the slightest attempt to comment on your behavior.
They would catch you two in the strangest of situations. Strange in a sense that your affection for each other is so foreign to them. You, running your fingers through his silver hair, helping him out of his clothes... You being the first thing he seeks out whenever he arrives home. And him bringing you countless pretty and sweet things to fill your shared bedroom...
Your mother-in-law often tells you to stop coddling him, that he isn't a child to be babied— ("He's the strongest sorcerer of your generation, for crying out loud!" She'd always say...)
"He may be the strongest sorcerer of our generation, but he's still my dearest husband. And in our home, he is that and that alone."
Then again, Satoru has always been an odd bird himself, so together, you two made a lovely feather duster.
The courtyard buzzed with low conversation as Nobara sat perched on the edge of a low wall, spinning a nail between her fingers. Yuji was mid-stretch, cracking his knuckles, while Megumi stood with his arms crossed, clearly still skeptical of their new classmate.
Then—
“I’m ba~ack!”
Yume Miran came bounding around the corner, her vibrant hair catching the dying light—pink, green, and blue streaks shimmering like cotton candy fire. Her glowing, swirling eyesglinted in playful shades of violet and peach.
Yuji grinned. “Hey! You disappear to change outfits or something?”
She tossed her head with an easy laugh. “Nooo, I had to check in with Gojo-sensei. He says hi, and also that I’m probably way cooler than you.”
Yuji gasped. “Rude.”
Nobara smirked. “He’s not wrong though.”
Yume winked at her. “See? That’s why we’re best friends already.”
Nobara gave a proud nod and bumped her shoulder.
Megumi, still distant, narrowed his eyes. “Where did you really go?”
Yume turned to him, folding her hands behind her back. Her smile didn’t drop—but her tone got just a bit silkier. “Still suspicious, huh? Guess I’ll just have to win your trust with violence.”
Yuji raised a brow. “Uh… what?”
She clapped her hands suddenly. “Let’s spar!”
The others blinked.
“Spar?” Nobara asked. “Right now?”
“Why not?” Yume grinned. “Training makes the heart grow fonder. Or… well, makes the bruises grow bolder. Whatever. Come on! Let’s go until dinner—winner picks the first dish!”
Yuji brightened. “You’re on!”
Nobara cracked her knuckles. “Bring it.”
Megumi hesitated.
Yume tilted her head at him, her smile warm but unreadable. “You too, Megumi-kun. Unless you’re scared of getting shown up by the new girl?”
His eyes narrowed further, but he sighed and stepped forward. “Fine. But don’t complain if it gets rough.”
She beamed. “Promise. I like it rough.”
From Within…
Ayumu stirred faintly.
Yamika, don’t hurt them.
Oh, I won’t, Yamika purred. I just want to see what makes them bleed best.
Yamika—!
Relax. I’m still wearing the mask… for now.
Here's the next part of the scene, where Yume (Yamika) follows Gojo’s strict instruction not to use cursed energy—so instead, she studies and perfectly mimics the others' fighting styles during the sparring session. It adds a layer of unsettling brilliance, while still keeping her playful persona intact. And beneath it all, her feelings—toward Yuji, Nobara, and even Megumi—are genuine, not part of the mask.
Scene: Jujutsu High – Training Field, Moments Later
The four stood in a loose circle under the soft orange sky. The training field buzzed faintly with anticipation.
“Alright!” Yume spun on her heel. “No cursed techniques, no flashy finishers, just good old-fashioned hand-to-hand. Let’s keep it cute!”
“Cute?” Nobara laughed. “I don’t do cute in battle.”
“Then make it hot,” Yume teased with a wink. “I’m adaptable.”
Yuji stepped forward first. “Let me go first—test the new girl’s reflexes!”
Megumi muttered, “Or test her ability to survive your chaos.”
Yume dropped into a loose, bouncy stance, mirroring Yuji’s own footwork with eerie precision. Her posture shifted from graceful to grounded, channeling the same instinctive brawler’s energy he carried.
Yuji blinked. “Whoa. You’re… copying me?”
Yume grinned. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery~”
Then he lunged.
They traded a flurry of jabs and low kicks. Yuji was fast—but Yume was faster in how she read and mimicked. For every punch he threw, she countered with near-identical force and placement. No cursed energy, no enhancements—just pure skill, reflected back at him like a mirror.
“But kind of fun, right?” she beamed. Her chest rose and fell with breathless joy. “You fight like you mean it. It’s honest.”
“She likes you,” Ayumu murmured faintly from deep within.
Next up: Nobara.
“You’re gonna regret this,” Nobara smirked.
Yume blew her a kiss. “Only if you don’t hit hard enough.”
This time, Yume shifted again—her stance sharpening, chin tilted, feet angled like Nobara’s. Her movements turned snappy and rhythmic, laced with theatrical confidence. Every dodge and strike came with flair.
They danced around each other in high-speed precision. Yume didn’t even have a weapon, but still perfectly mirrored Nobara’s attitude, her momentum, even her dramatic pauses.
Nobara pulled back, huffing. “Okay, okay, I hate how much I love this.”
Yume clapped. “That’s what besties are for~”
Last: Megumi.
Yume turned to him, her smile flickering smaller. “Your turn, Gloomy-kun?”
Megumi stared at her for a long moment, then moved into position. “This won’t be like the others.”
Yume’s eyes narrowed slightly, colors shifting cool and calculating.
She moved like him.
Low guard. Silent feet. No wasted motion.
It was uncanny.
Megumi lunged, and for a moment, it was like fighting a warped reflection. Yume didn’t smile this time. She was quiet. Precise. Unnervingly aware.
Megumi pushed harder.
She matched. Each block. Each pivot. Every counterattack. Like she’d known him for years.
They broke apart at last, breathless, sweat on their brows.
Megumi stared hard. “…That wasn’t just mimicry.”
Yume tilted her head. “Maybe I just see you.”
He said nothing. But the suspicion in his eyes deepened.
Yuji flopped onto the grass. “Okay. You win. You’re terrifying. And awesome.”
Nobara collapsed beside him. “If she’s our classmate, I vote she leads.”
Yume sat cross-legged, laughing. “I just wanted to have fun. I didn’t expect you all to be so endearing.”
And she meant it.
Because even with her mask on—
Even as the daughter of a curse watched them through borrowed eyes—
Yamika liked them.
All of them.
Especially the boy with Sukuna in his chest.
Here's the next scene where the first-years go out to dinner at a sushi place together—Yume (Yamika) plays along like it’s a normal outing, but inside, she’s struggling with the growing, genuinely confusing feelings she has for Yuji. It’s awkward, hilarious, and a little existentially gross for her—because he’s literally the vessel of her father.
Scene: Downtown Tokyo – Late Evening, Outside a Sushi Bar
Neon signs glowed along the street. The group had cleaned up and changed into casual clothes, still buzzing from the earlier sparring session.
“Okay, this place has the best sushi in Tokyo,” Yuji said proudly, leading the way with excitement in his step. “I’ve been dreaming about it all day.”
Nobara rolled her eyes. “You dream about food every day.”
“Exactly. This is a dream come true.”
Yume trailed behind them, hair tied in space buns, a star-shaped sticker under one eye. She wore a cropped bomber jacket and jeans with a colorful belt, her piercings glinting under the streetlights. Despite the playful outfit, her thoughts were a mess.
He smiles like an idiot.
He gets way too excited about fish.
And he literally houses the soul of my disgusting, ancient father.
So why the hell is my heart doing this fluttery crap?!
She resisted the urge to physically shake it out of her system.
Megumi noticed her stiff expression and muttered, “You okay?”
Yume forced a sugary smile. “Mmhmm! Just thinking about… salmon roe!”
Nobara leaned in and whispered, “She’s totally crushing.”
Megumi’s brow furrowed. “Crushing on who?”
Nobara grinned. “Yuji.”
Yume nearly choked. “EXCUSE ME?!”
Yuji turned around. “What? Did someone say my name?”
“NO,” Yume and Megumi said in unison.
Inside the Sushi Bar
The place was cozy and softly lit, with bar seating and warm wooden walls. The group sat at a booth by the window. Plates began to stack quickly.
Yuji beamed at Yume. “You ever had sushi this fresh before?”
She blinked, holding a piece of tamago with her chopsticks. “I’ve… eaten many things. Fish included.”
Nobara laughed. “You’re so weird sometimes.”
“I’m trying to be relatable,” Yume grumbled, cheeks slightly red. She stole a glance at Yuji—he was talking to the chef now, asking about tuna belly.
He’s sweet.
He’s brave.
He’s warm.
And he’s carrying the guy who once bit my finger off when I was six.
She physically winced.
This is so gross.
Why couldn’t I be into, like, Inumaki or something?
From deep within, Ayumu chuckled faintly.
“He makes you soft. That’s new.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I will stab me.”
“You like him.”
“…I will stab you.”
Meanwhile
Gojo, across town, sneezed.
“Must be my girls,” he muttered, sipping his drink.
Here's a fun yet tense scene where Yuji excuses himself, and Megumi and Nobaraimmediately seize the opportunity to interrogate Yume about her “not-so-secret” crush. There’s teasing, suspicion, and just enough emotional weight beneath the surface as Yamikastruggles to keep the mask on—especially under Megumi’s sharp gaze.
Scene: Sushi Bar Booth – Moments After Yuji Leaves
Yuji wiped his hands on a napkin and stood up, stretching.
“Bathroom. Don’t steal my eel roll.”
“Too late,” Nobara said, mouth full.
Yume gave him a two-finger salute, but didn’t meet his eyes. Her multicolored gaze was focused on her own half-eaten plate, clearly distracted.
As soon as the bathroom door closed behind him—
“Sooooo…”
Yume flinched.
Nobara leaned forward, predatory grin in full force. “Are we gonna talk about how you’ve been lowkey heart-eyes for Yuji all day?”
Yume blinked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is just my face.”
Megumi raised an eyebrow. “Your ‘face’ blushes every time he says your name.”
“Coincidence,” Yume said quickly. “Or I’m allergic to his… vibes.”
Nobara gasped dramatically. “So it’s true! You do like him!”
Yume buried her face in her hands. “Please stop talking. I’ll die.”
“You totally do,” Nobara sang. “You tried to copy his fighting style like it was a love language. And don’t think I didn’t see the way you looked at him when he said he liked your hair.”
Megumi was less amused. “You’re acting. All day. But the way you react to him—that’s not part of it.”
Yume’s hands slowly lowered.
“Why do you care?” she asked, voice quieter now. “What if I do like him?”
Megumi leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing. “Because something about you isn’t right. I don’t know what you are yet, but if you’re going to hurt him—”
“I won’t,” Yume said sharply, her tone cracking the surface of her usual warmth. “I would never hurt him.”
That stunned both of them into a short silence.
Nobara softened first. “Then tell him. He’d probably be into it.”
Yume laughed—but it was tight, hollow.
Tell him? What?
“Hey, I like you. Also, I’m technically two people in one body, and the other one’s a semi-cursed soul whose father lives inside your stomach.”
Yeah. That’d go over great.
Instead, she smiled again, perfectly sweet.
“Maybe later. After dessert.”
Nobara snorted and passed her a piece of mochi. “Coward.”
Megumi didn’t smile.
“Just don’t pretend too hard,” he muttered. “One day you might forget who you are.”
Yume’s smile faltered. For a fraction of a second—
She looked lost.
Then Yuji returned, plopping into his seat. “What’d I miss?”
Yume beamed at him. “Nothing important! Want the last shrimp roll?”
Yuji lit up. “Heck yeah!”
Megumi and Nobara exchanged a glance over their drinks.
Something was definitely going on.
Here’s a quiet, gentle bonding moment between Yuji and Yume (Yamika) as they walk back to the dorms. It’s light, warm, and doesn’t reveal anything about her true identity or feelings—but the connection they share feels real, and for a moment, Yume lets herself just be.
Scene: Streets of Tokyo – Walking Back to Jujutsu High
The night air was cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain from earlier. The city lights shimmered off the wet pavement. Yuji walked beside Yume, hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, a soft grin on his face.
The others were a few steps ahead, arguing about whether or not Megumi actually cheated at the bill-splitting game.
Yume walked quietly, her arms swinging a little. Her colorful hair caught in the breeze, and her mood-swirled eyes had settled into a calm blend of soft blue and pink.
Yuji broke the silence first.
“You know, I was kinda nervous when Gojo said we were getting a new first-year.”
Yume tilted her head. “Oh?”
“Yeah. I thought, like, what if you were super stuck-up or scary or something?” He laughed. “Instead, you’re just… fun. Like, weird-fun. In a good way.”
Yume smirked. “Wow. Flattery from Sukuna’s Airbnb.”
Yuji groaned. “Don’t call me that.”
“Fine. Cursed Timeshare?”
He laughed harder now, bumping her shoulder lightly. “You’re evil.”
Yume smiled. And for once, it wasn’t rehearsed or practiced—it was real.
“...You’re easy to talk to,” she admitted softly.
Yuji glanced over at her, his expression gentler. “Same.”
They kept walking in silence for a moment, the noise of the city fading behind them.
Then Yuji asked, “So, what made you wanna be a sorcerer?”
Yume paused, then looked up at the sky. “...I guess I wanted to figure out who I was. And what I’m supposed to be.”
Yuji nodded like he understood. “Yeah. I think about that a lot too.”
She smiled again, more quietly this time. “Of course you do.”
Their eyes met for a beat—but there was no confession, no secrets revealed. Just a quiet, shared sense of somethingbetween two people who didn’t fully understand themselves—but understood each other.
And in that moment, Yamika let herself forget the curse in her blood, the secrets she held, and the danger she represented.
baratheonpilled
ellievsbear
areudirty
stormborns
janainaart
yousharknotpass
