NERD GOJO WHO'S YOUR TA!

operation: get over your childhood crush! — gojo satoru

synopsis. in an attempt to move on from your childhood best friend—who definitely doesn’t see you the way you want—you hatch a series of plans to help you get over him. it doesn't go as planned.

contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, nerd!gojo, college au, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, unreliable narrator, miscommunication, insecurity, dorky references bc u make him go dumb and digimon inaccuracies probably

notes. i did not proofread this monster!! enjoy :P

The hum of the air conditioning fills the room as night settles in, the light from Satoru’s bedside lamp casting a soft glow over his mess of a room. You’re both sprawled out across his bed, limbs entangled like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Because, for the two of you, it is.

Satoru’s Nintendo Switch is balanced on his stomach, hands lazily tapping away as his little Digimon charges into battle on screen. You’re curled into his side, one leg hooked around his and a blanket thrown haphazardly across you both. The half-abandoned textbooks sit at the edge of the mattress, tragically ignored. Another study session: failed. Not that Satoru needed it. He passed everything with flying colors. It was more of an excuse for you to come over.

“Your room still smells like that cheap vanilla air freshener,” you mumble, nose scrunching.

“That’s because you bought it,” he replies without looking up, thumb expertly guiding his character through an attack.

“Because your room would end up stinking with sweat and whatever freaky stuff you do in here.”

“Hey!” He whines. “I shower everyday and you know it. The stink is all you. Have you ever sniffed yourself, princess?”

You swat at his stomach, and he lets out a dramatic grunt. “Rude. I brought that candle to add ambiance.”

“Ah yes,” he deadpans, “nothing like artificial sugar scent.’”

You snort, settling your head back down on his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft beneath your cheek. There’s a long pause before you say, “You know, if we fail our exams, I’m blaming your Digimon addiction.”

He grins. “I’m raising digital warriors, thank you very much. And I’ve never failed an exam, don’t wound me now!”

“They look like mutant toddlers with attitude problems.”

He gasps, clutching his heart. “They’re champions, you monster.”

You laugh, letting the sound dissolve into something quieter as your fingers absentmindedly trace a pattern into the blanket. His hand rests near yours. Not holding it. Not not holding it.

His glasses are tilted again. Of course.

You reach up and straighten them with a sigh. “Honestly, you’d be lost without me.”

“Not true.” He says it reflexively, then pauses. His voice softens. “Okay, maybe. I’d probably just let them slide down until I walked into a wall.”

You smile faintly. “And there’d be no one there to patch you up.”

“Tragic,” he agrees. “Would bleed out on the floor, probably.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re so bossy,” he counters, shooting you a sideways look. 

“Admit it,” he says, voice full of faux-smugness, “you’d miss me if I died tragically and left you all alone.”

You hesitate for a second too long before mumbling, “Don’t joke about that.”

It’s quiet. The game music loops in the background as his Digimon wins the battle with a triumphant fanfare.

He doesn’t say anything.

You suddenly feel too warm under the blanket. The joke had been harmless, stupid even.

But something inside you twists, the same something that’s been unraveling lately every time he mentions another girl.

Another type. That’s not you.

“You know,” you say slowly, eyes peeling from the screen to his phone, which lights up with a notification, revealing one of his favorite gravure model’s latest issues as its wallpaper. “You could probably date any girl you wanted. Why do you partake in freak stuff like this? It’s anti-girl repellent.”

He makes a noncommittal sound. “Doubt it.”

“I don’t. You’ve got that whole genius-who-doesn’t-realize-he’s-hot thing going on.”

He glances at you, skeptical. “Is that… a thing?”

“It is. Annoying, but effective. Girls love it.”

He hums, clearly amused, cheeks slightly flushed. “Well, good to know I have options.”

You try to laugh, but it catches in your throat.

You shouldn’t ask. You really shouldn’t.

But you’re lying in his bed. Wrapped up in him like you belong here. And some part of you aches to know the answer.

So you pretend it’s a joke. You tilt your head against his shoulder, voice airy, teasing. “Hey, be honest—do you think I’m cute?”

He goes still.

His hand tightens slightly on the Switch. You think you’ve pushed too far, so you try to backpedal before he can respond.

“Not like… like that,” you say quickly. “I just meant, like, in general. Compared to those girls you’re into. Say, Waka Inoue. You know, long legs, shiny hair, cute face?”

His jaw tightens.

You’re still trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m not fishing for compliments. I just—was wondering. Curiosity. Science.”

He finally turns to look at you.

His gaze lingers. And for the first time all night, he’s not smiling.

You feel your breath stutter in your throat underneath his gaze.

Then he shrugs.

“…Nah.”

It slices through the air with quiet finality.

Your heart drops. You don’t let it show. Not fully. But it must flicker in your face, because he quickly looks away.

You laugh. It sounds forced.

“Yeah, that’s fair. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a yes or anything.”

He’s silent.

You shift away from him slightly, giving him space. “I should head home soon. We didn’t really get any studying done, anyway.”

“It’s late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Usually, you’d accept his offer with a smile, but you really wanted to go home and wallow in your own self pity.

“It’s fine, I have something to do anyway,” the lie slips out of your mouth easily as you begin to pack your things.

And you miss the way he watches you—guilt in his eyes, frustration on his tongue. 

You knew it was time. Ten years of hopeless, fruitless pining had done enough damage to your heart.

It had started the day your parents moved next door. Satoru had been the loud, obnoxious, too-pretty-for-his-own-good boy on the playground who shoved candy in your hand and asked if you wanted to be friends.

You’d been doomed since day one.

And to make things worse, you’d both gotten into Japan’s most competitive university—together. Same neighborhood. Same school. Same train route. You weren’t just stuck with him. You were haunted.

But you were young. And hot. And allegedly in your prime. You couldn’t keep orbiting around a guy who still thought microwave gyoza was a food group and used your shampoo because it “smelled like you, so why not?”

You were sipping coffee with your two closest friends, and today’s topic was—unfortunately—your love life.

“Honestly, I can’t believe you’ve been stuck on Gojo for this long,” Utahime said, disgusted, as she stirred her latte like it personally offended her. “You could do so much better.”

“It was kind of cute in high school,” Shoko added “but now it’s just sad.”

You sighed, blowing on your drink. “I know, okay? It’s not like I haven’t tried. But he’s literally the only guy I’ve ever been close to. I don’t even talk to guys besides him.”

“That’s because he’s been gatekeeping you since the two of you met,” Utahime said flatly. “I swear, every time someone so much as glanced at you, he pulled that overprotective act.”

You wrinkled your nose. “That doesn’t sound like ’Toru…”

Shoko and Utahime exchanged a look. One of those knowing glances.

Utahime cleared her throat. “It doesn’t matter! What matters is you are hot. You’ve got the face, the body, the grades, the personality. You just need the confidence.”

You peeked up at her, unsure. “You really think so?”

Utahime leaned forward, smirking like she’d just won a war. “I know so. And that’s why I’ve come up with a plan.”

You narrowed your eyes. “A plan?”

She slammed her hands down on the table, eyes alight. “Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru.”

You blinked. “That’s… a long title.”

Shoko blew a slow stream of smoke. “It’s either this or pine until you die and haunt him as a love-sick ghost.”

You stared into your cup, sighing. “Fine. I’m in. What’s step one?”

Utahime grinned.

“Whatcha doing?” 

Gojo’s voice drifts lazily over your shoulder, followed by the soft rustle of his hoodie as he leans in. He’s far too close, obnoxiously so, his breath tickling your ear and his chin was nearly resting on your shoulder.

You don’t even glance up. “Studying.”

The two of you are supposed to be studying— finals loom overhead like a guillotine, but as usual, very little academic progress has been made. Mostly because your study partner is a six-foot-something genius who insists on sitting sideways in the booth, long legs tangled in yours under the table like it’s second nature.

He hums, skeptical. “Liar.”

You hum noncommittally, thumbing through the dating app Utahime suggested with vague disinterest. The guys blur together: not tall enough, too cocky, too bland, too not Satoru. One makes a joke suspiciously close to a Gojo classic, and you immediately hit unmatch with a scowl.

“Wait,” Satoru says slowly. “Are you on a dating app?!” He practically yells the last part. Half the cafe turns to glare at the source of the disruption.

You hiss under your breath, mortified, swatting at him. “Keep your voice down, idiot!”

His eyes widen dramatically, hands thrown up like you’ve stabbed him. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you’re already planning a life with someone named ‘Keita, aspiring DJ and spiritual healer’? I’m wounded.”

“You weren’t supposed to read that far.”

“I’m a speed-reader,” he says with a smug grin. “It’s part of the whole ‘genius’ thing.”

Before you can argue, he snatches your phone with a level of ease that tells you this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this. He grins like he’s won a prize.

“Satoru!”

“Relax, I’m not texting anyone,” he says, fingers flying across the screen. “Just… optimizing.”

Your heart drops. “What are you typing?”

“Nothing~”

You make a grab for your phone, but he effortlessly leans back, holding it above his head with those ridiculously long limbs. You glare at him from across the table, arm outstretched like a furious cat trying to swat at the moon.

“Give it back!”

“Patience.”

“Gojo Satoru—”

“Okay, okay!” he relents with a dramatic sigh, finally placing your phone face-down on the table like he’s done you a huge favor.

You snatch it up immediately, eyes scanning for damage. No weird messages. No unsolicited likes. No new matches.

“…What did you do?”

“I didn’t message anyone,” he assures, too innocent to be trusted. “I’m not that cruel.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious.

“But,” he adds with a grin, “I didn’t know you were dating.”

“I’m not,” you mutter, clicking your phone off. “Just… considering it. Trying. It’s not going well.”

“Good.”

The word comes out too fast. Too sharp. And his face doesn’t match the light tone he’s trying to play off.

You raise an eyebrow. “Good?”

He shifts, leaning back in his seat, suddenly very interested in stirring the foam in his overpriced coffee. “I mean, it’s good you’re not settling. You should be picky. Guys are the worst.”

You snort. “You are a guy.”

“Exactly. I know what we’re like.”

You smile despite yourself, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure you think you’re the exception.”

“I know I am,” he says, winking. Then he sobers slightly, eyes flickering to yours. “I’m just… looking out for you.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You wish it was more than just him being protective in that big-brotherly, annoyingly loyal kind of way.

You take a sip of your coffee to cool your nerves. It doesn’t help. The words come out before you can stop them.

“You know with the way things are going… maybe you should just date me at this point.”

Silence.

It’s a joke. Supposed to be. But the second it leaves your lips, it tastes real.

Gojo freezes.

You panic. “I didn’t mean—like, I was just joking—”

But he turns toward you, eyes unreadable behind the fringe of snowy white hair. “Maybe I should.”

You blink.

And then, with infuriating ease, he grins.

“Anyway,” he says quickly, swiping your phone from the table again before you can stop him, “Yuto here looks like the type to ghost you after three dates and a karaoke duet. You can do better.”

You gape at him, completely thrown off, your heart slamming in your chest.

You don’t even notice what he’s done until later—until you get home and open your app to find that your bio has been changed.

Taken. Mentally married to a nerd since birth.

You want to scream.

Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru?

Yeah. Not going great.

Not at all.

You weren’t sure why you agreed to it.

Maybe it was the look in Utahime’s eyes—determined, dangerous, hopeful. Maybe it was Shoko promising she wouldn’t let you walk out of her apartment looking like a clown. Maybe it was the quiet part of you that wanted to see yourself through someone else’s eyes. Someone who wasn’t Gojo Satoru.

“Today,” Utahime had declared, curling the last strand of your hair like she was threading a spell, “is the first day of your Gojo-less future”

You laughed nervously, tugging at the hem of your skirt. It wasn’t your usual style—not the dewy makeup you weren’t used to seeing in the mirror, not the new haircut that made your eyes look almost too bright, not the blouse that left your shoulders bare in a way that made you feel strangely noticed.

But when you caught your reflection, your heart fluttered. You looked… beautiful.

When you stepped onto campus, the sun was out, the wind teasing the edge of your coat. You spotted him immediately—Gojo, slouched against the wall outside your lecture hall, nose buried in his Switch as he muttered something under his breath about evolving stats and attack modifiers.

He didn’t notice you at first.

Then he looked up.

His game froze mid-battle. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like someone had unplugged his brain.

“Wha—” he said eloquently. “Wh—what did you do.”

You blinked. “Hi to you too.”

He stared, unabashed. His glasses were slightly crooked, his ears glowing scarlet. He looked like someone had just told him Digimon was real and living in your shoes.

He blinked. “You look like… like you skipped two evolution stages overnight. Straight to Mega. Like if Angewomon fused with… I don’t know, some kind of rare, limited-release goddess-type Digimon that only spawns on a lunar eclipse.”

You blinked.

Utahime’s voice in your head: You’re hot. Unstoppable. He’s going to be speechless.

And Gojo was. But not in the way you wanted.

You tried to laugh. “So I look like a cartoon?”

“A beautiful cartoon,” he said, serious now. “Like the kind of boss character they only show for two frames because animating her costs too much.”

Your heart stuttered. It was the sort of compliment only Gojo could give: clumsy and dorky, yet brilliant in its own way.

But the moment passed.

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, sunglasses slipping slightly as he muttered, “You just… you look different. That’s all.”

Different.

Not better. Not prettier.

Just different.

You swallowed. “Yeah, well. Thought I’d try something new.”

“I didn’t say it was bad,” he added quickly, but the words felt unsure. Flimsy.

“I should… use the restroom,” you mumbled, turning before he could say anything else.

In the bathroom, you stared at your reflection. Your lipstick looked too bold now. Your lashes too heavy. Despite the change, you were still painfully you— the you Gojo teased during study sessions, the one he let borrow his hoodie when it rained, the one who sat next to him during endless all-nighters. And maybe that was the problem. You weren’t like those girls on the magazines. 

What you didn’t see, what you couldn’t see, was Gojo still standing outside the lecture hall, staring after you, Switch forgotten, game over screen blinking on the screen.

He didn’t even notice.

“You good, Satoru?” Shoko asked, walking by.

He blinked. “I think I just saw my best friend… and my final boss… and my future wife… all at once.”

Shoko snorted. “You’re a dork.”

Gojo just sighed, shoulders slumping as he muttered, “I’m so doomed.”

It’s a mild Friday evening when you meet him—Kazuya, the guy from your psychology class. He’s polite, articulate, and kind of cute. The kind of guy who asks if you prefer cats or dogs before ordering his drink, and actually listens when you answer.

Utahime and Shoko had insisted you say yes. “A change of pace,” they called it. “You need a baseline. Not every guy is going to be Gojo Satoru.”

Exactly. That was the point.

You’re sipping a matcha latte and nodding along as Kazuya explains his thesis on cognitive development when a very familiar voice cuts through the air.

“Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here.”

Your stomach drops. You look up, and sure enough—

Satoru.

In all his tall, obnoxiously eye-catching glory, wearing a white t-shirt that was inside out and a grin like he just won the lottery. He's holding a bottle of ramune and standing directly next to your table, like he’s been there the whole time.

You blink. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Thirsty. Wanted a drink.”

“At this café? On this side of campus?”

“Yeah,” he says, tone innocent. “Weird coincidence, huh?”

Kazuya offers a polite smile. “You’re her friend, right? Gojo?”

“Oh, best friend. Lifelong. Practically her shadow.” He plops into the empty seat beside you without asking, casually tossing his ramune onto the table. “What’s your name again? Kaname?”

“…Kazuya.”

“Right, right. I always mix those up. You look like a Kaname, though. Or maybe a Yusuke.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “Satoru—”

But he’s already leaning over, squinting at the book tucked under Kazuya’s arm. “Ooh, Piaget. Bold move. Love that for you.”

Kazuya blinks. “Do you… like developmental theory?”

“I like being correct,” Gojo says with a cheeky smile. “Also, [Name] hates Piaget. She called him ‘the Freud of toddlers’ last semester.”

Kazuya turns to you in mild surprise. “Really?”

“I—I mean, yeah,” you mumble. “Sort of.”

Gojo beams. “Told you.”

Kazuya makes a valiant effort to steer the conversation back to safe, neutral ground.

“So, you mentioned you're interested in behaviorism, right?” he says, offering a gentle smile. “I thought Dr. Takeda's lecture on conditioned responses was kind of fascinating—”

“Oh, riveting,” Satoru cuts in, lounging back in his chair like he owns the café. “Nothing like bonding over Pavlov’s dogs to spark romance. Did she tell you she cried during Inside Out because the depiction of core memories was ‘psychologically resonant’? Real charmer, this one.”

You shoot Satoru a look. “I was twelve!”

Kazuya blinks, trying not to smile. “I actually thought that was pretty moving, too.”

“Wow,” Satoru deadpans. “A match made in neuroscience.”

Kazuya laughs politely and continues, undeterred. “So, uh, any research plans after graduation?”

You open your mouth to answer, but Satoru beats you to it again.

“She used to want to be a vet. Cried when she had to dissect a frog in middle school. Tragic day.”

“Is that true?” Kazuya turns to you, amused now.

“Technically, yes,” you mutter into your drink.

By the time your cup is empty, you realize you’ve laughed more at Satoru’s interjections than you have at anything Kazuya’s said. Not because Kazuya wasn’t interesting—he was. He was calm, thoughtful, well-read, and clearly trying. But next to Satoru, whose entire presence seemed impossible to ignore, Kazuya didn’t stand a chance.

Still, to his credit, Kazuya maintains a steady, if slightly strained, expression as he sets down his cup and finally says, carefully,

“So… is Gojo your boyfriend?”

The question hangs awkwardly.

You and Satoru answer at the same time.

“No,” you say quickly.

“Yes,” he says with a smile.

You both turn to stare at each other.

“I mean—no,” he corrects, waving his hands. “Just a joke. Hah. Obviously.”

Kazuya blinks. “Right.”

You can’t meet either of their eyes. Your drink is finished, your palms are damp, and the café is suddenly too warm, too small. You push back your chair and stand.

“I should go. Early lab meeting tomorrow.” It’s the weakest excuse, but neither of them calls you on it.

Kazuya stands too, polite as ever. “Thanks for meeting up. You seem like a really cool person.” He hesitates, then adds, gently, “I just think maybe you’ve already got someone.”

You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it again. There’s nothing to say.

Outside, the cold air kisses your cheeks like a reminder. It stings a little, or maybe that’s just the confusion burning in your chest.

Satoru’s already waiting for you. Of course he is. He’s leaning against the lamppost, silver hair catching in the wind. But his eyes are downcast, trained on the sidewalk.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you.

You exhale, watching your breath curl white in the air. “You didn’t have to crash it, y’know.”

“I didn’t crash,” he replies without looking at you. “I was invited.”

“By who?”

“Fate. Karma. The gods of poor decision-making.” He shrugs.

You roll your eyes, but it tugs a laugh from you anyway. Stupid, annoying, charming Gojo.

“So,” he says after a beat, nudging your arm gently with his elbow, “how’d it go?”

You glance at him. He still won’t meet your gaze. His lips are pursed like he’s holding back a hundred words and none of them are funny.

“He was nice,” you admit. Despite being rudely interrupted by the white haired idiot beside you.

“Nice is boring,” he mutters, kicking at a loose stone on the pavement.

You laugh, soft and tired. “You’re the worst.”

He finally looks at you then, lips quirking into that smug, too-knowing smile. “But you like me anyway.”

You look away, cheeks burning, heart thudding like a traitor in your chest.

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Despite Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru failing in every imaginable way, things were starting to feel… bearable.

Almost good, even.

Satoru still hovered a little too close, always with that same half-smile like he knew something you didn’t. And maybe, just maybe— his constant sabotage, the teasing, the jealousy, the way he looked at you like he was about to say something important but never did… maybe it all meant something.

You let yourself believe it, just a little.

And that was your first mistake.

It happens quietly, without fanfare or warning. Just a throwaway line between sips of lukewarm coffee and the soft shuffle of paper. You’re both at your usual spot in the library, surrounded by open notebooks and highlighted packets, pretending to study more than you actually are.

You’re halfway through underlining a term in your psychology notes when Satoru leans back in his chair, stretches like a cat, and says—far too casually:

“So, guess who asked me out?”

You hum absentmindedly. “Who?”

“Ayane.”

The name hits you like a slap.

You freeze, highlighter paused mid-sentence. “…Ayane? From the biochem track?”

“Yeah,” he says, practically glowing. “You know her, right? She's in your study group sometimes.”

You do know her. Of course you do. Everyone knows her.

She’s beautiful, with this effortless, clean kind of elegance—long legs, perfect posture, and that quiet, poised confidence that makes professors adore her and guys fall over themselves. The kind of girl who posts one blurry bookshelf photo and still racks up a thousand likes. The kind of girl Gojo always jokes about marrying.

But he’s not joking now. He’s beaming.

“She asked me out to dinner this Friday. She’s so smart, too—I didn’t even have to pretend to know what quantum entanglement was. It’s wild.” He laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. “I thought she’d never go for a guy like me, y’know?”

You force a laugh. “A guy like you?”

“Yeah. I dunno. Too much, I guess? But she said I was ‘refreshing.’” He grins. 

Your stomach sinks.

This is what you thought you wanted—for him to move on, so you could finally do the same. For Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru to succeed, for real this time.

But now that it’s happening, it feels like someone’s slowly pulling your ribs apart.

“Oh,” you manage, smiling like you’ve practiced it. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

He doesn’t notice the way your voice cracks on happy. He just keeps talking, rambling about restaurant reservations and how she likes contemporary poetry and used to live in France. You nod in all the right places, but your thoughts are already slipping away.

Because it isn’t just that he’s going out with someone else.

It’s that he chose her.

Her with her flawless skin and quiet charm and the kind of beauty that doesn’t need to try. Her, with everything you’re not. And more than that, it’s that he made you believe you could have meant more to him—when really, he’d been searching for someone else all along.

You excuse yourself early, mumbling something about laundry.

He doesn’t follow.

You don’t cry until you’re halfway home, the cold air biting at your cheeks as your vision blurs.

For the first time in years, you don’t text him goodnight.

You don’t wait for a meme. Or a dumb joke. Or his usual, “Hey, genius. Sleep.”

You go silent.

And when he texts the next day, you don’t reply.

You skip your library meet-up. You don’t sit next to him in class. You even duck into the stairwell when you see his ridiculous white hair from across campus.

It’s not because you’re mad. It’s because you’re heartbroken.

And you can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter.

You weren’t just losing your best friend.

You were losing the love of your life.

And he didn’t even notice.

It takes him three days to notice you’re gone.

Well—no. That’s a lie.

He notices immediately. The moment your usual seat in the library stays empty. When your laugh doesn’t echo in the café line. When your name doesn’t pop up on his screen at 2AM with some stupid meme captioned, “this reminded me of you, idiot.”

But he tells himself you’re busy.

Midterms, right? Stress. Coffee. You get like this sometimes, and he gets it. He really does.

So he waits. Tells himself not to be clingy.

But then Friday comes.

And he's sitting across from Ayane in some expensive, quiet restaurant where the napkins are folded like origami cranes and the water tastes filtered. She’s telling him about her research internship in Osaka, about enzymes and international grants, and all he can think is—

You’d be making fun of me right now.

You’d be kicking him under the table. Whispering some dumb pun about digimon. You’d be pulling faces every time he tried to pronounce the items on the menu. You’d be… you.

Ayane is lovely.

But she doesn’t laugh when he says something stupid. She just smiles politely.

She doesn’t ask about why his glasses are always crooked (it’s so you could fix them). Doesn’t tease him for double-knotting his laces like a paranoid grandma. Doesn’t call him “Sato” like it’s some private joke only the two of you get.

He walks her home. Thanks her for a nice evening.

Then he goes to the convenience store. Alone.

And he sees your favorite snack on the shelf and buys two out of habit.

He stares at his phone the entire train ride back.

No new messages.

Just the last one you sent days ago:

“Laundry. Rain check?”

And nothing since.

He waits. Another day. Then two.

You don’t show up to class again.

You don’t like his latest meme.

You don’t comment on the Digimon pun he texted you out of desperation.

You are silent.

And Satoru Gojo—brilliant, blind-sighted, the golden boy of theoretical physics, always five steps ahead—realizes, too late, that he’s been a fool.

That he didn’t just lose a study partner.

He lost the one person who knew him better than he knew himself.

The one person he couldn’t replace with rare Digimon pulls, half-solved physics equations, or overly sweet desserts.

And for the first time since he was a kid—

He’s afraid.

It’s been a little over a week.

A little over a week since Gojo Satoru has heard your voice. Since you shoved your coffee at him without asking, muttering “too sweet for me” when you really meant “I got this for you.” Since you poked fun at his stupid sock choices, or knocked your foot against his under the table like it was nothing.

And Satoru is suffering.

He's tried everything. Showed up to your house with excuses too weak to be called plans (“Hey, I brought your favorite snacks. I just... figured maybe you forgot you liked them?”). Waited outside your lecture hall until a security guard asked if he was lost. Took detours between classes hoping to catch a glimpse of your ponytail, your laugh, anything.

But you were always one step ahead.

You stopped answering his texts. Blocked him on that stupid dating app (which—ouch, even though you hadn’t used it seriously). You didn’t even show up to the library anymore. And even Shoko started looking at him with thinly veiled pity and a “you really fumbled the bag” look in her eyes.

Gojo Satoru is… just tired.

Miserable.

So when he finally finds you—not because he’s chasing you down this time, but because he’s walking the long way home, and there you are, sitting on the old swings at the park where you first met—it knocks the wind out of him.

You don’t look surprised to see him. Just... tired too.

“I figured you’d find me eventually,” you say quietly.

He swallows. His hands curl at his sides like he’s preparing for a fight.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, like it isn’t obvious. “Why?”

You look away. “You’re smart. Figure it out.”

Gojo looks down at his feet.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and stinging. The playground is empty except for the wind dragging a soda can down the sidewalk and the faint creak of the swing chain.

Then he exhales, ragged and unsure. “Look, I can’t—I can’t take this anymore.”

You glance up.

“I can’t either.”

Hope flares too fast, too naive in his chest. His shoulders drop like he’s been holding up the world. “That’s good,” he breathes, stepping forward. “Because the silent treatment—God, I thought I was going to—”

“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

The words stop him cold.

“What?” he breathes.

You laugh, but it’s hollow. Like something already broken. “Don’t you get it? I can’t be friends with you and pretend that nothing’s changed. That I’m okay just being your best friend. I’ve been in love with you for years, Satoru.”

His heart stutters. You don’t stop.

“And I love myself too much to keep hurting for someone who doesn’t even look at me that way.” Your voice cracks, but you push through. “Do you know how humiliating it feels? To love someone so much it aches, and still feel like you’ll never be enough?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You never even thought I was cute.”

He looks like he’s been hit.

“I’ve been chasing scraps. Leftovers. Mixed signals and stupid inside jokes. I—I can’t do it anymore.”

You finally meet his eyes, and that’s when he sees it: the hurt you’ve been hiding behind every smile, every brush-off, every joke you cracked to keep the silence from swallowing you.

And for once, Gojo Satoru can’t find a single thing to say.

Not yet.

Not until he stops you from walking away.

“Where did you get an idea like that?” His cerulean eyes search yours desperately. “I-I don’t think you’re just cute, are you kidding?” he blurts, eyes wild.

“Y-you’re breathtaking! Everything I’ve dreamt of and more! That night when you asked me if I thought you were cute, I only said no because it would be a divine crime to reduce to such. All of my fantasies have been centered around you since we first met on that playground—since you tripped over your shoelaces trying to race me to the monkey bars!”

Your breath catches.

He continues, desperate now, like every second of silence might kill him.

“I love you! And not like a brother. Like—I want to marry you. Like, small wedding in Okinawa, barefoot on the beach, you wearing that soft blue dress you like. I already planned it. Our firstborn would be a daughter, with your eyes, my hair. She’d be the boss of the house.”

You gape.

“Wait—”

“I’m not done!” he says, hands thrown up. “Then we’d have twins. Boys. Chaos gremlins. One would look like my twin and the other yours, and they’d absolutely terrorize us—but their sister keeps them in check, she’s fierce like you.”

You blink. A tear slides down your cheek.

“I want to move to Kyoto,” he says, softer now. “Buy a house with a dumb little garden. Grow tomatoes we’ll never eat. Live out the rest of our lives where it’s quiet.”

You cover your mouth, stunned. “You… really thought all that out?”

“It’s easy,” he breathes, “when all I can think about is you.”

He steps closer. The wind tugs his white hair into his eyes, but he doesn’t blink.

“I go to study nonlinear quantum field theory and all I see is your face. I try to cool off and play Digimon, and even that’s ruined—my lineup is garbage now! I only keep the ones you said were cute!”

A laugh bubbles out of you, fragile and watery.

“You idiot,” you murmur.

“I am,” he nods solemnly. “I’m the world’s biggest idiot. And I’m in love with you.”

Another tear slips down. He wipes it away before you can.

“Is it too late?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. “Please tell me it’s not too late.”

You stare at him—this man, this brilliant, ridiculous, loyal boy who had held your heart long before you ever admitted it.

“It’s not too late,” you whisper.

He doesn’t speak. Just steps closer. Gently and carefully, like he's handling something sacred, he cups your cheek in his hand.

Your nose bumps his. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for years,” he whispers.

And then, finally, he kisses you.

It’s not perfect, your cheeks are still wet, his nose bumps yours again, and his hand trembles just a little, but it’s warm and sweet and soft. It tastes like home. Like every unanswered question finally getting its answer.

When he pulls away, his smile is sheepish. “So… are we still doing the whole ‘Operation: Get Over Gojo’ thing, or?”

You laugh, heart full, forehead pressed to his.

“Mission failed,” you whisper.

He grins. “Good.”

And then he kisses you again.

art by leimiruu on x!

master list link

⋆ soft, drunk sex with megumi ♰

⋆ megumi who’s secretly a pussy hound ♰

⋆ masked stalker! megumi ♰

⋆ knight! megumi headcannons ♰

⋆ goodnight to my wife, fuck the rest of you. ♰

⋆ familiar! megumi x witch! reader

megumi fushiguro // fic recommendations

note: remember to read the tags! + i do not own any of these works

once bitten, twice shy

lost and found

your type?

dark red

pick you up, keep you close

i really (x6) like you

bunny kisses

the flower and the bee

(divine) dog cuddles

off limits

cockblocked by the squad

lover boy.

staring problem

pomegranate problem

conveniently yours

better late than never

you're the only one that's holding me down

takes one to know one

it's fenty

whatever this is

the birthday boy

with you, my fears disappear

hands

diamonds on the skyline

just feel it

laser focus

all my ghosts

making the last sacrifice

see you around

ducky slippers

therefore, i am

boyfriend of the year (?) | k. bakugo

texts from a relationship built on mutual annoyance, emotional damage, and sour gummies from 7/11

navigation : midnight records! the starlight EP! the mha EP!

"RIGHT WHERE I LEFT IT" — Bakugo Katsuki

a/n : OK OK just think ab Bakugo with a tattoo of his wife’s lipstick stain? this might be my fav work atp content : fluff. kiss kiss kiss. secret marriage. pro hero bakugo. bakusquad freaking out. 1k words.

Bakugo doesn’t come home quietly, he never has.

The door closes harder than necessary, not slammed, but firm—final. The kind of shut that says he’s done with people, cameras, lights, and noise. You hear the usual rhythm of him dropping his keys, kicking off his shoes, muttering something low under his breath as he moves through the apartment. He doesn’t come straight to you. First, he changes, washes off the evening and leaves the night behind.

You’re already lying in bed when he finally comes in. The light is soft, not too dim. The bedroom quiet in the way you both like it. You’re stretched out on the covers in one of your nightdresses—simple, mid-thigh, familiar. Something you didn’t think twice about putting on. When you glance up and see him standing there, cleaned up and still carrying the weight of the night across his shoulders, you don’t say a word. You just open your arms.

He doesn’t hesitate. Crosses the room and sinks onto the bed like he’s been walking toward you all day. He fits into you without effort, head tucked near your collarbone, hand on your waist, body relaxing piece by piece as he lets the noise fall away. You hold him quietly, running your fingers through his hair.

“Long night?” you mumble, running your hand on his large, glorious back. “Fuckin’ nightmare,” he mutters, voice heavy against your skin.

“You left your collar open.”

He groans under his breath. “Didn’t realize it was that low.”

“They saw it.” you tease him.

“Yeah, they wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it.”

You press your lips to his neck—soft, warm, familiar. He exhales through his nose, shoulders loosening just a little. You kiss the spot again. Just below his jaw. Then again. And again. Each one slow, thoughtless, part of you. Over the tattoo. Over where it began.

You’ve been kissing him there since U.A.

Back then, it was new for both of you, despite being well into your third year. That was the first time you both really let someone in. It wasn’t a fling—both of you had tried that with other people before, but nothing had ever stuck. Not for him. Not for you.

You never talked about it much. Not with the others. It was your first serious relationship. His too. You kissed him there before every mission, every big test, and sometimes just because it felt right. He used to roll his eyes at you, muttering that it was dumb—but he never pulled away. Never told you to stop.

No one knew, really. Just Kirishima, and Deku. They were the only ones who ever saw through the both of you. You and Bakugo didn’t broadcast it. You didn’t need to. You found your rhythm in empty hallways and quiet dorm rooms, the days between training sessions when no one else was looking. When he’d get too stubborn to admit he needed a break, you’d pull him into a corner, press your lips to that spot, and he’d sigh like you’d taken the weight of the world off his shoulders.

Back then, it was just you two.

Tonight, it’s not a secret. Everyone saw it. The tattoo. The kiss. Japan exploded over the fact that Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight had a lipstick stain tattoo on his neck. They speculated. They made guesses. They screamed about the mystery woman who had permanently marked him.

You’re smiling softly to yourself when the video comes through—Kirishima’s message, the one from the event, the one where Bakugo is surrounded by the squad, the camera flashes going off, and Mina is practically yelling at him.

“BAKUGO, TELL ME WHO KISSED YOU—WHO KISSED YOU AND WHY THE HELL IS IT TATTOOED??”

Kaminari is screeching behind her. “DID YOU JUST TATTOO SOMEONE’S LIPS ON YOUR NECK?! WHO ARE YOU HIDING???”

Sero’s already holding up his phone, looking like he’s trying to figure out if he’s witnessing a crime. “Dude, WHO is she? This is next-level.”

You even notice Todoroki standing in the back, looking at Bakugo curiously also wondering about his tattoo. And Kirishima, standing off to the side, is grinning from ear to ear, like the smug bastard he is, knowing full well what’s really going on. Then he texts you,

guess your soft launch is on 😌

You can’t help but laugh a little, shaking your head as you set the phone down. When you look back at Bakugo, his eyes are half-lidded. His fingers are still tracing the hem of your nightdress, and you know he’s trying to let go of the tension from the evening.

You lean in and kiss the tattoo, just below his ear, where it’s always been.

“Let them guess,” he whispers. He exhales, pulling you closer, his lips pecking your lips. “They won’t figure it out,” you says, voice laced with amusment.

“Good,” he agrees, “They never will.”

The kiss on his neck is more than a mark. It’s the secret only you’ve ever shared. It’s your couple's trademark, something that will always be yours.

2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.

TAGLIST (OPEN). / @ayatakanosstuff @arwawawa2 @itsmeaudrieee @g-h-o-s-t-b-a-b-i @andysteve1311

I WANNA BE YOUR ENDGAME - Masterpost

🏒❤️ A Hockey Romance feat. modern!Sukuna

Pairing: HockeyPlayer!Sukuna x Reader (female) Genre: College AU, Hockey AU, fluff + smut Playlist: I wanna be your Endgame Warnings: 18+, smut, fuckbuddies to lovers, semipublic/public sex, dirty talk, creampie, oral, handjobs, fingering, hickeys, mentions of cigarettes + alcohol. Reader is a creative writing student. Sukuna is an ice hockey player + history student. This story will have approximately 13 chapters. Minors don't interact. Header by me. Divider @/benkeibear

Chapter 01

Chapter 02

Chapter 03

Chapter 04

Chapter 05

Chapter 06

Chapter 07

Chapter 08

Chapter 09

Chapter 10

Chapter 11 - coming soon -

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Accompanying art for this series:

Smoke break with Sukuna by @sweetlandspos

Sukuna during practice by @samaraxmorgan

Thank you so much for those beautiful and sexy pictures!!

To get added to the taglist please comment or send me an ask (18+ only) ♥️

a/n. it's been a hot minute, y'all. this is inspired by a reel i saw on instagram (@dagirlythang), although i believe this is one of those notorious accounts that reposts content from other creators without proper citation :\ still, credit is due where it's (partially) due. anywho, i haven't written in a WHILE, but i hope this still scratches the itch for some of you. enjoy! (0.6k)

“here, kats.”

from where he’s just put the car in park, bakugou looks at you—first, instinctively—then carefully, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion at the sight of what you’re holding.

his normally crimson eyes that are seeming darker under the dim light of his brand new porsche dart up to meet yours. “the fuck is that?”

you frown at his unexpectedly hostile reaction, although it’s quick to morph into a look of realization when it hits you belatedly.

“shit, sorry,” you half-laugh, half-sputter, hurriedly returning it to your bag before reaching into its depths for your phone. you thumb in your password in almost less than a second, gaze trained on the app as you click it, “i forgot you preferred cashless transactions.”

you’re in the middle of typing in bakugou’s phone number—you’re embarrassed to admit you already have it memorized just two weeks into dating him—when your device is unceremoniously yanked out of your grip—so fast that you could barely squeak in surprise. you whip to face the pro-hero—about to reprimand his ear off for ripping it away from your hands like that—when you catch a glimpse of his features and all the words suddenly die in your throat.

uh oh.

“tell me,” he starts, voice low, and you find yourself gulping despite yourself. “did i buy this car so i can quit hero work and be a driver?”

“…no?”

a scowl. “then why are you treating me like i’m you’re fucking uber?”

you blanch. “i’m not! i just figured i give you some gas money.”

“why the fuck would you send me gas money?”

you know better than to answer that, so you shake your head and ignore the way he’s practically glowering at you, before pulling out the wad of cash from earlier, “is this much okay—”

“you ain’t sending me shit,” bakugou essentially spits—cutting you off—just as he reaches over the console and thrusts your hand back into your wallet.

he’s still gripping onto your phone.

you toss him an exasperated expression.

that earns you an eye roll. “don’t.”

you pout. “why won’t you let me help?”

“this isn’t about help, dumbass,” bakugou drawls, mirroring your irritation. “i won’t be caught dead asking my girlfriend for money.”

you try to breeze past the way he just referred to you as his girlfriend, masking your fluster with a scoff. “so it’s a pride thing now?”

the ash-blonde sneers. “more like the bare fucking minimum.”

to that, you snort, although you can’t fight the smile that tugs at your lips. “easy for you to say, rich guy.”

“watch it,” he warns, and you break into a laugh, then laugh harder when his mouth wobbles in a sorry attempt to keep a stern face.

that grants you a playful punch to the shoulder, which you take in stride, still chuckling. soon enough, the air falls into a quiet lull with neither of you making a move to get out and into your apartment’s parking lot. this goes on for a few beats, before bakugou finally breaks the silence.

“p-promise me.”

bewildered, you glance at the pro-hero, who’s looking straight ahead onto the wall beyond the car. “promise you what?”

he swallows, as if nervous. “that you’ll get used to this.”

your eyes widen, suddenly speechless. the urge to ask him what he means by ‘this’ quickly surfaces—something tells you it’s more than just him spending on you—albeit dies down just as swiftly. the last thing you want is to ruin the moment.

instead, you settle with peering at him curiously for another minute, before: “…do i have a choice?”

at that, bakugou turns to you, grinning. “nah.”

˖⁺‧₊ as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated <3 feel free to drop an ask, too—i'd love to chat with you. have a nice day!

tagging. @bunnysaursushii @yawnzzzzzzzz @cholios @kashee-h @iluv-ace @lotuslovers @elarakive @touyas-moon @napbatata @k0z3me @h0ngh0ngh0ng @honeyoru @yoongiwithglasses @hellokitty-doll @lilsebnem @tetsuukuroo @crangrapel0ver @syrhra @qyuin @lotusstarr

So Zayne coded it’s ridiculous

let me be yours

— tutor!nerdjo x english major!reader

need homework help? call 1-800-BOOKMYNERDYASS or visit sexynerdhelp.com/tutors.

tutor!nerdjo who unknowingly sits in your unassigned assigned seat, too engrossed taking notes on his iPad from the professor’s spiel to notice the way you’re side-eyeing the fuck outta the side of his head.

tutor!nerdjo who trips over his two left feet trying to beeline for the front of the class, trembling like a leaf once he stands up there.

tutor!nerdjo who stops shaking as much when he finds your familiar face among the crowd of bored, uninterested students.

tutor!nerdjo who feels better now looking at you while he talks, wondering if you would remember him from high school if he came up to you.

tutor!nerdjo who notices how bright and homely your eyes are under the ugly florescent lights despite you staring beyond him.

tutor!nerdjo who cuts his speech short feeling little toru wanting to present himself and shuffles back to his seat.

tutor!nerdjo who packs everything but his iPad to cover his indecency as he stands to leave.

tutor!nerdjo who delays his exit when he notices the harassment lawsuit unfolding before him: a muscular football player trapping you between his arms and the wall. he refuses to let it go on any longer.

tutor!nerdjo who avoids a confrontation by making up a small but believable lie about the professor needing to speak with the guy bugging you.

tutor!nerdjo who exhales the breath he was holding when the guy takes the bait.

tutor!nerdjo who watches you walk up to him and blushes when you thank him with a small smile.

“y-yeah, no worries! he looked like he was bothering you.”

tutor!nerdjo who darts his gaze everywhere so that he doesn’t pop a boner in front of you; he’s failing miserably at both as you two converse.

tutor!nerdjo who, instead of ending the conversation like a normal human being, continues to yap about his tutoring services and asks you if you need any help with writing to come to him.

tutor!nerdjo whose face drops a little when you say you don’t need help but brightens a tad when your teeth show through your grin as you tell him you’ll ask if you ever do.

tutor!nerdjo who floats to the library for his shift, hearts decorating his eyes and sparkles orbiting him like a lovesick puppy as his coworker Shoko so delicately describes, to which satoru refutes weakly.

tutor!nerdjo who bounces his leg and bites his nails, fighting the urge to end the session he was in and sneak off to the break room for his own little season, if you catch his drift.

tutor!nerdjo whose daydreams about you sitting in his lap while you type up a masterpiece of literature for your class, him and you editing it together as you move your hips back and forth while your warmth wrapped around his twitching, throbbing—

“hey! did you hear me? fix this paper for me!”

tutor!nerdjo who sighs internally as he pushes his perverted thoughts aside to tutor someone that’s rude and disrespectful—unlike you, a sweet, smart, considerate soul with the sweetness to rival an entire field of fresh strawberries.

tutor!nerdjo who runs into you at the line of the cafe he frequents after work. he boldly invites to sit with him, which you politely but curtly decline because you don’t plan on staying.

tutor!nerdjo who wants to tear his throat out and chuck it out the window for fixing his mouth to suggest something so ridiculous but refrains from such violent measures and says he understands your decision.

tutor!nerdjo who’s ready to go into hiding for embarrassing himself when he’s caught off guard by you plucking his phone off the table, using his (starstruck) face to unlock it, and typing something in it.

tutor!nerdjo who just stares at you, feeling you take his hand and place his phone in it. he then looks down at the screen and sees what he presumed before: your number in his contacts and your name with a brown heart beside it.

“for the next time when you wanna tutor me and grab a coffee.”

a/n: so i wanna write an oc into this cuz that was the original plan, but if y’all want this as an x reader oneshot, i might entertain that idea.

[papagojo au 🐺] comfy buddies 🧣