#flreader

ego & equations (18+)

nerdjo/nerd!gojo x fl!reader

art creds: 3vangel1ne_,smokeigheh, chu-cho

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

you’ve always been that quiet girl, sitting near the back of the class, always keeping your mouth shut. until a certain egotistical someone with an incredibly recognizable face is forced to partner up with you for a project. what happens if you two get along?

content warning: slow burn romance, explicit sexual content (detailed smut toward the end), mild language, college au, emotional tension, fluff & angst-lite

the semester starts quiet for you. you slip into the upper-level econometrics seminar a few minutes early, claiming your usual seat near the side window where sunlight falls soft across your notebook. headphones half-on, pen already moving.

the hall fills with the usual rhythm. low chatter, laptops clicking open, chairs scraping. you keep to yourself. professors like your assignments because they’re thorough and clean, but you rarely raise your hand. you notice everything instead: the way certain students dominate discussions, the subtle patterns in the professor’s examples, the quiet pulse of the room.

satoru gojo is impossible not to notice. he strolls in right before the lecture begins, white hair catching the light, glasses on his bright blue eyes. he drops into the front row, long legs stretched out, already tossing casual jokes that make half the class laugh and the other half sigh. his voice carries confident, a little smug, always participating like the material is too easy. he’s rarely wrong, and he knows it. people admire the brilliance or find the arrogance annoying. sometimes both. he isn’t the party type, but everyone on campus knows his name.

you’ve seen him around before. grabbing coffee in the business building, sprawled at library tables with his usual crew. you’ve never spoken. your worlds don’t overlap much. you’re background noise in the side rows. he’s the bright spark at the front.

suguru geto is usually nearby when gojo is loud. dark hair tied back, calm expression, the kind of steady presence that balances gojo’s chaos. they’re clearly best friends. geto sits one seat over, occasionally muttering something dry that makes gojo laugh louder or elbow him. geto participates too, but thoughtfully, less showy. you notice how they bounce ideas off each other, geto reining gojo in when he gets too cocky, gojo dragging geto into debates with that playful grin.

the first few weeks settle into routine. the professor dives into heavy material. causal inference, advanced panel data, complex modeling. you absorb it quietly, working through problem sets late at night in your dorm, highlighting margins with neat notes. gojo keeps dominating class discussions, voice smooth and sure, tossing out answers before questions finish. sometimes you catch yourself watching the way he gestures, the easy confidence in how he leans back like nothing can touch him. his eyes occasionally scan the room, but they never linger on you. you’re fine with that.

mid-semester the professor announces the semester-long partner project like it’s no big deal. real-world application like collect data, build models, analyze, present findings. pairs assigned randomly. no switching. a ripple of groans moves through the room. you feel your stomach tighten slightly but stay silent, fingers still on your pen. when the pairing list flashes on the screen your name sits directly next to his.

satoru gojo.

he lets out a loud, theatrical groan that draws chuckles from the front rows. you see his shoulders slump dramatically before he recovers with the usual smirk. class ends and he doesn’t approach right away. instead he calls over his shoulder as he heads out, bag loose on one arm.

“library. third floor. twenty minutes. don’t keep me waiting, partner.”

you arrive exactly on time. he’s already taken the biggest table in a quiet corner, laptop open, notes exploded across the surface. glasses perked up in his messy white hair, blue eyes flicking over you once, quick and assessing, before he dives in.

“real talk. this is worth a fat chunk of the grade so i’m not carrying dead weight. i’ll handle the core framework and heavy modeling. you can do data cleaning, slides, formatting or whatever. we meet at least twice a week. doable?”

you nod, settling across from him. he launches into his plan, talking fast, explaining assumptions like you might struggle to keep up. the tone stays smug, a little condescending, like he’s already mapped the whole thing solo. you listen quietly. you take neat notes. you let him run.

the first couple meetings play out the same. he dominates. you observe. he pauses now and then, waiting for confusion that never shows on your face. you offer small, quiet input on sources or variables when asked, but mostly you watch how his mind moves. sharp, arrogant, usually right.

until the third meeting.

he’s sketching a regression setup on paper, lines confident, explaining why it’s “bulletproof.” you listen, then speak, voice calm and even.

“that won’t work.”

his pen stops mid-stroke. he looks up, genuinely thrown.

you lean forward slightly. “the variable you’re treating as independent correlates with the error term. it’ll bias the estimates. instrumental variables or a different specification would fix it.”

silence stretches. satoru stares like you switched languages, then lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. he pulls his laptop closer anyway, plugs in your suggestion, runs the check.

you’re right. obviously, cleanly right.

he leans back, arms crossed, studying you with new intensity. the smirk returns but it’s smaller, edged with reluctant respect.

“huh. you don’t talk much… but you notice everything, don’t you?”

you shrug, the tiniest smile curving your lips. “you were doing most of the talking.”

that’s the first real crack.

later that same evening satoru meets geto at their usual spot near the campus food trucks. geto’s already there, sipping something cold, dark hair loose for once. satoru drops down beside him with a dramatic sigh, stealing a fry off geto’s plate.

“this partner project is gonna kill me,” satoru complains around the food. “got paired with that quiet girl who sits by the window. she barely says anything. figured she’d just nod and let me handle it.”

geto raises an eyebrow, calm as ever. “and?”

satoru pauses, then grins but it doesn’t reach full strength. “and she corrected my whole framework today. casually. like it was nothing. she was right. threw me off.”

geto chuckles low, leaning back. “sounds like you finally met someone who doesn’t feed your ego. dangerous for you.”

“shut up,” satoru mutters, but there’s no real bite. he steals another fry. “she’s… different. listens to everything. then drops these precise little bombs when i least expect it.”

geto watches him for a moment, thoughtful. “maybe that’s not a bad thing. you get bored when everyone just agrees with you. could be good for the project. or for you.”

satoru waves it off with a smirk, but the words stick.

the meetings shift after that, slow and gradual, inch by inch.

satoru still talks plenty, but he starts pausing longer after explanations, glancing your way like he’s half-expecting the quiet correction. he catches himself mid-rant and mutters “yeah… you already knew that part.” one afternoon he shows up with two coffees, sliding yours across without fanfare, exactly how you take it.

“figured you’d need fuel. you always look half-asleep by hour three.”

you thank him softly. his ears go faintly pink. he shrugs it off.

one thursday the library stays open late. you’re both drained, empty cups everywhere. your eyes blur over dense tables when satoru reaches over and gently closes your laptop.

“break,” he says, voice softer. “you’re gonna melt your brain.”

he packs both bags. outside on the wide stone steps he pulls out a slightly crushed pack of strawberry mochi and offers you one.

“don’t tell anyone i share. ruins the lone genius image.”

you take it. sweetness melts slow. silence stretches comfortable. then he nudges your knee lightly with his.

“you’re not what i assumed,” he admits.

“what did you assume?”

“someone who’d let me steamroll and call it teamwork.” a soft huff of laughter. “instead i got someone who lets me talk myself into corners then quietly fixes it. humbling.”

your chest warms. you lean your head against his shoulder for a brief moment. he stills, then relaxes, letting it linger in the cool night.

another night heavy rain hits after a session. he walks you to your dorm anyway, opposite direction from his apartment. no umbrella. he holds his jacket awkwardly over both your heads, laughing when you both end up soaked. in the bright dorm lobby you drip on the tile, his white hair plastered flat, water tracing his jaw. he reaches out, thumb brushing a raindrop from your cheek with careful gentleness.

“you look cute all wet and quietly judging my umbrella skills,” he murmurs. his fingers linger a second too long.

your heart flips slow. the air feels heavier.

weeks layer on. small touches. his leg resting against yours under the table and neither moving away. fingers brushing when passing notes, slow on purpose. he starts calling you “quiet storm” with that grin, but his eyes have gone softer. one friday he texts you for the first time, a photo of your favorite late-night snack with “on my way to the usual spot. don’t be dead under the readings.”

you let him into your dorm with takeout. you eat on your small couch, knees bumping. afterward he stays, eventually dropping his head into your lap like it belongs.

“library chairs suck. your lap wins.”

you hesitate, then card fingers gently through his hair. he hums content, the sound warm against your thigh.

“you get clingy when tired,” you whisper.

“only with you,” he answers, barely audible.

satoru corners geto again a couple weeks later in their usual hangout spot, a quiet bench near the quad. satoru’s sprawled out, glasses on, but his foot taps restlessly.

geto eyes him. “you’ve been weird lately. project going that bad?”

“it’s not bad,” satoru says, then pauses. “she’s… good. really good. keeps catching shit i miss. and she doesn’t even gloat. just says it quiet and moves on. it’s annoying how much i look forward to meetings now.”

geto smiles faintly, the calm knowing kind. “sounds like you’re actually listening to someone for once. and maybe liking it.”

satoru groans, throwing an arm over his eyes. “don’t make it sound like that. she’s just… different. notices everything. makes the work better. makes me better, i guess.”

geto nudges his shoulder. “good. you need someone who doesn’t let you get away with the usual bullshit. just don’t scare her off with the full gojo charm too fast.”

satoru flips him off but laughs. the advice lingers.

the tension keeps simmering underneath. longer glances when you’re focused, his hand sometimes resting lightly on your back guiding you out of the library, the couch space shrinking week by week. he watches your profile when he thinks you’re not looking. you catch him more often. he doesn’t look away.

near the end, in his off-campus apartment with the project almost finished, the air finally grows too thick with everything unsaid. laptops aside. shoulders pressed close on the couch.

he turns to you, voice rough. “you’ve been driving me crazy for months. all calm and sharp, noticing every flaw without raising your voice. smiling like you don’t know how much these meetings matter now.”

your pulse thrums. “satoru—”

“say it again,” he murmurs, knee pressing warm to yours. fingers lightly brushing your shoulder.

you swallow. “satoru.”

he leans in slow, giving every chance to pull back. the first kiss is gentle, almost careful. months of restraint in the soft press of lips. when you make the smallest sound he deepens it, hand cradling the back of your neck, pouring quiet want into the way his tongue meets yours.

the kiss stretches. his mouth moves against yours with growing hunger, tongue sliding slow and deliberate, tasting every soft sigh you give him. his free hand settles on your waist, thumb brushing the strip of skin where your shirt has ridden up, warm and steady. when you shift closer he makes a low sound in his throat and pulls you into his lap, hands spanning your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

clothes come off gradually, unhurried, like neither of you wants to rush what’s been building for months. he peels your shirt over your head first, eyes darkening as they trace every inch of newly exposed skin. his palms follow. warm, slightly calloused fingertips skimming your sides, your ribs, the curve of your breasts. he leans in to press open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, tongue flicking out to taste, teeth grazing lightly when you shiver.

“been dying to see you like this,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough. “so fucking pretty… soft… all mine to figure out.”

you tug at his shirt and he helps you pull it off, revealing the lean, toned lines of his torso. your hands explore him slowly — fingertips tracing the ridges of muscle, the sharp cut of his hips, the way his abs tense under your touch. he groans quietly when your nails scrape lightly down his back.

he takes his time with your pants next, sliding them down your legs along with your underwear, hands smoothing over your thighs like he’s memorizing texture and warmth. when you’re bare he sits back for a moment, blue eyes drinking you in with open hunger, pupils blown wide.

“look at you,” he breathes. one hand slides up your inner thigh, thumb brushing teasingly close to where you’re already aching for him. he watches your face as he finally touches you, fingers gliding through slick heat, circling your clit with slow, deliberate pressure that makes your hips jerk. he keeps the pace torturously unhurried, sliding one long finger inside you, then another, curling them just right while his thumb keeps working your clit. he leans down to kiss you again, swallowing every whimper and moan, murmuring praise between kisses.

“so wet already… been thinking about this for weeks… that’s it baby, let me hear you.”

when your thighs start trembling he pulls his fingers away, ignoring your soft protest. he sheds the rest of his clothes quickly, cock hard and heavy against his stomach. he settles between your legs, one hand bracing beside your head while the other guides himself to your entrance. he drags the tip through your folds, teasing, coating himself in your wetness before pressing in. slow, inch by inch, stretching you open with careful control.

the feeling is overwhelming. he’s thick, hot, filling you completely. he pauses when he bottoms out, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged.

“fuck… you feel perfect,” he groans, voice strained. “so tight… warm… been waiting so long for this.”

he starts moving then. deep, rolling thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. not fast, not yet. slow and deliberate, like he wants to savor every second. his hips grind in lazy circles on every downstroke, pubic bone pressing against your clit. one hand slips between you to rub tight circles there, the other braced so he can watch your face, every flutter of your lashes, every parted gasp, every time your lips form his name.

he angles his hips until he finds the spot that makes your back arch sharply, then keeps hitting it with devastating precision. your moans grow louder, fingers digging into his shoulders, nails leaving little crescents in his skin. he leans down to capture your mouth again, kissing you messy and deep while his pace gradually builds. still controlled, but harder, deeper, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the room along with your shared breaths and quiet curses.

“that’s it… come on, let go for me,” he rasps against your lips. “wanna feel you fall apart around me… been dreaming about it.”

when you finally tip over the edge it crashes through you hard. thighs shaking, walls clenching tight around him, a broken moan of his name spilling from your lips. he fucks you through it, pace faltering as your orgasm drags him closer. a few more deep thrusts and he follows, burying himself to the hilt with a low, guttural groan of your name, hips stuttering as he spills hot inside you.

afterward he doesn’t pull out right away. he collapses half on top of you, arms wrapped tight around your waist, face buried in the crook of your neck. his breathing is heavy, heart hammering against yours. he presses lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. clingy and warm and surprisingly gentle in the afterglow.

“you’re stuck with me now,” he mumbles against your damp skin, voice sleepy and satisfied. “quiet girl who sees through all my noise… and still stayed. dangerous combination.”

you laugh softly, fingers threading through his messy white hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp the way he likes. “you’re not as impossible as you pretend.”

he lifts his head just enough to look at you, blue eyes bright even in the dim light, a real, unguarded smile curving his lips. “good. because i’m keeping you. for real this time.”

the final weeks feel softer. study sessions ending in slow kisses and shared snacks. his head in your lap while you read, your fingers in his hair until he dozes. surprise coffees with a quiet “missed that face.” the way he looks at you now. unguarded, like you’re the only one who ever saw him clearly.

geto catches satoru one last time before finals, smirking as he notices the lighter mood.

“project done?” geto asks.

“yeah,” satoru says, grin wide but softer. “and the partner… she’s staying. turns out the quiet ones are the ones who stick.”

geto claps his shoulder once, steady. “about time you found someone who matches you. don’t mess it up.”

satoru laughs. “no plans to.”

the project earns an easy A.

but the real win is the quiet way he pulls you close in the hallway, the arrogance softening into something warm and real when it’s just the two of you, the long slow burn finally settling into something steady.

you smile against his shoulder and think every patient week made it sweeter.