bebotniryo

“Professor,” he said, for the first time ever, “Could you please explain how Maxwell's equations relate to boundary conditions at material interfaces?”

The professor nearly fainted.

People turned in their seats. Someone whispered, “What the fuck is wrong with Gojo.” He ignored them. 

You didn’t even look at him.

You were too busy squinting at the whiteboard, taking notes, tilting your head like you were trying to find a flaw in all of electromagnetism itself. And Gojo, high-functioning himbo that he was, had never tried harder to sound like he cared about vector calculus in his entire life. He even stopped asking the dumb hypothetical questions like, “But what if the resistor was alive?”

He asked about displacement currents now. About Poynting vectors. About complex impedance. 

He googled after class. He attended tutorials. He bought a fucking graphing notebook and labeled it “electric love (theory).”

And the irony? You never noticed. Never spared him more than a polite nod when he held the door open. Because, of course, you weren’t here for people. You were here for classes. Just floating through mechanical design, dabbling in Comp Sci, sitting in on Civil Engineering like a butterfly landing on several cursed flowers before committing to bloom.

You did not give a singular shit about Gojo Satoru.

And Gojo — Gojo who had people lining up to cheat off his board exam answers — was now refreshing his attendance portal and manually correcting his MATLAB syntax because a random stranger with wide eyes and a mechanical pencil made engineering look like something worth trying for. 

He once asked a classmate, “Do you think she noticed me when I asked about Gauss’s Law?”

“Who?”

He was doomed. And worse? He kinda liked it.

By Friday, Gojo Satoru was a shell of the man he used to be.

His once-messy notes were now color-coded. His hair, usually in its signature tousled chaos, was combed back like he gave a shit about aerodynamics. The lighter that he once flicked open with one hand under the desk? Confiscated. Twice. 

He hadn’t flirted with a single person in five days. Five.

He even knew what dielectric permittivity meant.

This week had been the longest relationship he’d ever been in.

Because ever since you walked into that lecture hall on Monday — unassuming, curious, tilting your head at inductance like it personally offended you — Gojo had been in crisis mode. A calculated, overachieving, wildly embarrassing crisis. 

He should have just talked to you. Just said hi, cracked a joke, thrown one of his usual cocky smiles your way. But no. No. He doubled down on academic desperation like an unmedicated gifted child.

On Tuesday, he started showing up five minutes early and sitting right in front of you.

On Wednesday, he asked four questions, all relevant, and argued with the professor over the derivation of the Biot–Savart law.

On Thursday, he raised his hand before the professor even finished writing the topic on the board. And today? Today, he stood up mid-lecture, holding his notebook like a thesis, and asked, “Sir, do you want me to take over and explain the derivation?”

The professor stared at him, blinking. “Mr. Gojo,” he said slowly, like addressing a wild animal, “Please be seated. I… I implore you.”

You didn’t even look up. You were too busy cross-checking your notes with the projection, scribbling in the margins like a woman on a mission.

When class finally ended, the professor clapped once, looking exhausted but relieved. “To those of you visiting this week, thank you for attending. It's been wonderful having you.”

Gojo blinked. What?

Oh god. It's the end of exploration week.

His heart jackhammered. He hadn’t even spoken to you, hadn’t even gotten your name. Hadn’t done anything except become a clown in the name of electromagnetic thirst. He watched as students trickled down to the front to sign the attendance sheet, indicating whether or not they’d be continuing with the course. You stood in line, humming under your breath. Calm, like your choice was already made.

Gojo watched your pen touch the paper, and the millisecond you stepped away, he sprinted. Vaulted over a desk, and possibly elbowed some poor sophomore in the ribs. He hovered over the sheet like it was a sacred scroll.

There. Your name, written neatly. Clearly. 

With a little loop at the end of the “yes.”

He read it three times, outright etching it into his brain as he felt his soul realign with the axis of your handwriting.

And as you walked past him on your way out, you glanced at him — just for a second. Just a flicker. And you smiled. Polite. Brief. Maybe a little amused.

You didn’t know. You couldn’t possibly know the chaos you’d just survived. And then the professor, as casually as mentioning the weather, added, “Ah yes — she’s the Dean’s daughter. Naturally, she’s joining engineering.”

Gojo didn’t just cheer. He howled.

“YES!”

He fist-pumped the air.

“FUCK YES, SCIENCE!”

Everyone turned. The professor flinched. You paused at the door, blinking in mild confusion before walking off, slightly faster. Gojo clutched the attendance sheet like a man reborn.

Engineering wasn’t a whim anymore. It was destiny. And her name was you.

☆ NAOYA ZENIN: I CHOSE FEMINISM TO AVOID COOKING AND NOW I’M THE FACE OF TRANS RIGHTS BECAUSE SHE SAT NEXT TO ME

Naoya Zenin was a lot of things: heir to a multi-billion dollar legacy, self-proclaimed alpha male, misogynist extraordinaire with the subtlety of a wrecking ball, and — God help the campus — now a student in WGS 204: Women and Gender in the Modern Age. He sat like he was being punished, slouched so far down his seat it was a miracle he hadn’t slipped to the floor entirely. His expression was one of perpetual disapproval, mouth in a grim line, as if just existing in this class was somehow beneath him. And in his own words, it was.

“Gender is a social construct, not a personality trait,” his professor said, gesturing passionately at a slide on transgender rights and systemic marginalization.

Naoya snorted. Loudly.

“If it’s a construct, maybe they should stop reconstructing it every five seconds.”

A groan passed like a wave through the room, as if half the class had just been collectively punched in the face by pure ignorance. Someone in the back whispered, “Jesus fucking Christ,” and the professor paused, blinking slowly, mouth slightly open like she couldn’t believe she was dealing with this on a Tuesday morning. Naoya sat back, arms crossed. Smug, proud, and very unaware of the thousand-yard stares being directed at the back of his head. And then—

SLAM.

The door cracked open, the light from the hallway pouring in like a spotlight from heaven itself. 

And in you came.

Time slowed.

“Sorry! Sorrysorrysorrysorry — I missed the first bus and then the elevator in hall B broke again and—”

You were flustered, sure — late and breathless — but the chaos only made it worse. The way your hair stuck slightly to your cheek, the way your coat hung off one shoulder, your fingers fumbling to push your ID card into your bag as you mouthed another “sorry!” at the stunned professor like a fever dream in sneakers. You were rambling to her, but she was too busy experiencing ego death in real time to even acknowledge you. It was cinematic.

To Naoya, it was a fucking epiphany.

He sat up.

Fully upright. Spine erect, arms uncrossed, shoulders rolled back like a man coming alive for the first time. Like she’s beauty, she’s grace, she just saved me from a discrimination case.

A miracle.

Your perfume hit him next — not strong, just barely there, but enough. Fuck. It smelled like whatever self-respect he had left was about to rot in hell. You scanned the room, then spotted the empty seat next to him. And Naoya Zenin — top 5 least emotionally available men on campus — made space.

Like, physically moved his things.

A girl behind him gasped.

You slid into the empty seat next to him, dropping your bag and exhaling. Your perfume hit him like a physical slap again. He looked away, then looked again. 

And just like that, the campus’ biggest asshole about feminism, equity, and anything remotely ‘woke’ was suddenly blinking like a deer caught in the bisexual lighting of his conscience. You let out a breathless sigh, and Naoya felt something dislodge in his chest. An organ, maybe. Or a soul. Long gone.

“Hey,” you whispered, brushing hair from your face. “What’d I miss?”

Naoya cleared his throat. The rest of the class was now actively ignoring him — he’d burned his social credibility to the ground ten minutes ago — so they didn’t notice the sudden tonal whiplash.

He blinked twice. His mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again.

“Uhhh,” he said, scrambling mentally, every hateful comment about this class evaporating into the ether. “We were talking about, uh, trans rights. Y’know. How, uh... society should, like… respect them more. Obviously.” 

You blinked. “Oh wow. Good. That's important.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, voice suddenly patient, hushed. “Like, I think people forget how hard it is, like, navigating identity and all. They don’t choose to be — I mean, no one chooses — like, society just makes it harder, y’know?”

You smiled. Smiled. “Wow. That’s actually really thoughtful.”

Naoya’s brain bluescreened. 

“Thanks,” he muttered. “I think about stuff.”

The irony was thick enough to spread on toast and then chew on. Naoya Zenin, a man who once claimed feminism was “just a phase like astrology” and was “what girls cry about when they can’t lift a dumbbell” was now sitting beside a pretty stranger and reciting Queer Theory 101 like he was born under Judith Butler’s guidance. His voice stayed low the rest of class and occasionally, he even nodded at the professor’s points. Once, he even scribbled something down.

The professor didn’t notice. She was too emotionally dehydrated to engage further with him. The rest of the class assumed he’d finally shut the hell up. But you? You leaned a little closer every time he whispered an explanation, wide-eyed and genuinely interested. “That’s so messed up,” you said once, about a statistic he half-remembered from a slide. “Thank you for telling me.” 

He shrugged, like it was no big deal. He would later Google every slide from today’s class. In private.

And so, the semester began: Naoya Zenin, accidental ally, one seat away from the only person who could make him behave like a human being. The irony? It was just getting started.

Exam season descended like a curse. Students walked around campus in three day old hoodies, clutching caffeine like holy relics, some half-crying, others fully dead inside. And somewhere amidst it all, Naoya Zenin sat in the third-floor library, clutching a copy of “Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center” like it was both radioactive and sacred. He was pale, possibly sweaty. Not from the pressure of exams — no, Naoya didn’t stress. He was genetically and spiritually incapable of caring this much. 

But here he was, highlighting Bell Hooks and mouthing her quotes like incantations. He hadn’t even bought the damn book. As a matter of fact, he refused to. He called it “liberal propaganda” in week one, said it’d “pollute his shelf energy.”

And yet. Here he was, in the trenches of feminism. Elbow-deep in Judith Butler and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. The library copy was so well-worn from his midnight cramming that the spine cracked when he opened it. His bookshelf at home remained a cursed shrine of “The 48 Laws of Power,” “Rich Dad Poor Dad,” and “Why Men Deserve More.” His course textbooks? They lived in the zippered compartment of his backpack, like a dirty secret. But none of that mattered when you smiled and asked, “Can we have another study session?” 

And God. God, he would have written a dissertation on post-structuralist feminist theory if you so much as blinked at him encouragingly.

“Okay,” he said one evening, lounging in the study room like he wasn’t mentally on fire, “Intersectionality. Coined by Kimberlé Crenshaw in 1989, which talks about how overlapping identities like race, gender, and class create complex systems of oppression.”

You blinked. “You know the year?”

“...I know many things,” he said stiffly. 

You nodded, impressed. Naoya felt light-headed.

Another time, you leaned close over your notes and said, “Can you explain ecofeminism again? I didn't get the connection.” And Naoya, Naoya Zenin, who once claimed nature documentaries made him feel “beta,” launched into a whole breakdown on how patriarchal systems exploit both women and the environment, casually referencing Vandana Shiva like she was a friend of the family.

He even made a diagram. A. Fucking. Diagram.

By the third study session, you were calling him “so smart.”

By the fourth, he was rewriting his midterm essay to sound more inclusive.

By the fifth, he was correcting other people in class. 

“Uh, actually,” he said to a guy who confused gender identity with gender expression, “Those are different concepts. Read the module again, bro.” 

The class started. You beamed. Naoya floated.

Exam week hit, and Naoya studied like the fate of your friendship depended on it. Because maybe it did. Maybe if he just got one thing wrong — if he mixed up Judith Butler and Simone de Beauvoir, God forbid — you’d stop looking at him like he was safe. And Naoya, king of masculine fragility, needed you to keep thinking he was worth your time.

He wrote essays in APA format. He cited. He footnoted. And when results day came around, it was biblical. The professor — a woman who once looked at Naoya like he was the living embodiment of male disappointment — cried. Real, unfiltered, mid-forties academic tears. “This—” she sniffled, waving his graded paper like a diploma, “This is why we don’t give up on our students.”

The class was dead silent. Several jaws dropped. Someone clapped. You, glowing beside him, told everyone, “See? I told you Naoya wasn’t that bad. He topped the class!”

Naoya didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His soul had left his body the moment you said topped the class. He sat still, processing the reality: He, Naoya Zenin, was now the official number one feminist in WGS 204. And worse? You were looking at him with literal pride in your eyes.

He was neck-deep in feminist quicksand. And you, smiling, sweet, oblivious you, were pushing him in deeper with every compliment. 

He dry heaved a little as the class passed around his graded essay like it was a sacred relic. You whispered, “You have to help me next semester too.” And he whispered back, “...I hate myself.” 

And you just smiled, so grateful, so fucking proud of him.

He was doomed.

☆ GETO SUGURU: I STOPPED ARGUING IN POLITICAL SCIENCE BECAUSE SHE MADE ONE POINT AND NOW I’M IN LOVE

If there’s one thing Suguru Geto cannot fucking stand, it’s being wrong.

Not even in the conventional, “Oops, I goofed” sense — no, morally, intellectually, ontologically wrong. He prides himself on being the sharpest mind in any room. His thoughts are not just thoughts; they’re theoretical frameworks. His arguments have footnotes. Citations. He quotes Gramsci like he’s invoking scripture and once corrected the professor mid-lecture for misusing “normative.”

He thrives on being right — not just factually, but intellectually, morally, philosophically, even. His brain is a steel trap. His arguments, ironclad. His tone? So assured you’d think he wrote the UN charter himself. In every debate, he's the guy who quotes obscure theorists like he's on a first-name basis with them — "well, as Chantal said in 1985..." — and if someone dares to cut in, God help them. He turns his head slow, neck taut, like he’s physically resisting the urge to pounce.

Debate, to him, is not a discussion. It's a blood sport. And political science? God's playground. His colosseum, even.

A whole class where everyone thinks their opinion is the most nuanced? Perfect. Let him feast. Well, he thought it’d be perfect — a class full of wannabe activists and half-baked libertarians ripe for intellectual evisceration. And for the first few weeks, he was thriving. Sitting in the back, all in black, with a glint in his eye that said, fucking try me. But no. It was more like a zoo of amateur philosophers, liberal arts kids fresh off a summer of reading The Communist Manifesto once, and the occasional future politician who had already learned to speak without saying anything.

Geto, meanwhile, had no patience for “devil’s advocate” takes or vague moral relativism. He’d sit there, rings on his fingers, resting his chin on his hand like a villain plotting a coup d’état, just waiting to be triggered. And when he was, oh boy. He'd raise one eyebrow, shift in his seat, and lace his fingers together like a church steeple. Then he’d go in. His rebuttals weren’t loud — no, they were cutting, calculated. Not once raising his voice, but commanding the room like he’d just cast a spell that made everyone question their degree.

As a matter of fact, he didn’t speak often. But when he did, it was like someone dropped a thesis in the room. He never raised his voice — he didn’t need to. Just leaned back, tapped his pen once, and said shit like: “You’re collapsing the distinction between procedural and substantive democracy. I suggest you revise your understanding of Dahl.”

And then he’d smirk, while the poor soul opposite him melted into their chair. Classic Geto.

So today, when someone dares to refute his point — on transitional justice, no less, one of his strongest suits — he’s already rolling up his rhetorical sleeves. He’s just finished saying, cool as ice: 

“Truth commissions without retributive mechanisms become spectacles of memory. Symbolic, yes. But restorative? Rarely.”

And then someone two rows ahead — a voice he doesn’t recognize — says:

“I actually disagree. I think you’re overestimating the necessity of punitive justice. In societies undergoing democratization, restorative models like the South African TRC weren’t just symbolic. They were foundational to building participatory legitimacy.”

Geto turns his head. Like, snaps it. Because who the fuck—?

But then he sees you.

You, leaning casually on one elbow, speaking like this is a side conversation you’re having with history itself. Sitting there in a dress shirt, one foot tucked under your leg, talking through your point like you were still working it out. Your hair kept falling into your face and you pushed it back absently, totally unaware that the most arrogant man in the department had just gone silent. You don’t have notes, you’re not grandstanding. You’re just explaining. And the worst part? You’re not wrong.

Geto had a retort on his tongue, but it fizzled. Like pop rocks. Sugar, static, and nothing left but the weird sweetness of realizing he was… listening.

He's blinking, staring, processing not just your argument but also the way your hand absentmindedly tugs at your sleeve, the way your brow furrows just slightly when you try to recall a date. He opens his mouth.

“…Huh,” he muttered. You turned slightly to find him staring at you. You blinked. The professor — who had already leaned back, anticipating another of Geto’s intellectual executions — hesitates. “Mr. Geto?”

He blinks again. And then he says, slow but certain:

“She's right.”

Half the class gasps. A pen drops somewhere, and the professor visibly chokes on his thermos tea. Even the guy next to Geto turned and whispered, “What the fuck?”

And you? You turn around slightly, confused for half a second — and then just smile. A soft, polite nod, like this was a normal academic exchange and not the moment Suguru Geto’s personality dissolved in real time. And Geto — the man who’d argued with someone for forty-five minutes over a typo in the syllabus — found himself smiling back.

Like a simp. Like a man who, for once in his life, didn’t need to be right. He just needed to hear you speak again.

You turn back around, and Geto just sits there, staring at the back of your head like it holds the secrets of the polis. He's not even mad. He's fascinated. A bit dazed. Maybe humbled. Definitely down bad. He mutters under his breath, to no one in particular, “...Fuck. I didn't even think of that.”

His friend beside him glances over. 

“You good, bro?”

Geto sighs, leans back in his chair, eyes still fixed on you.

“No, I'm in love.”

Every second after that class was a quiet, invisible vow from Suguru Geto to the universe. He’d rewrite entire political timelines if it meant seeing you right. He’d dismantle historiography itself. Pull out case studies and manipulate them like marionettes until they bowed in favor of your thesis.

Because if you said “reconciliation over retribution,” then he’d drag every ICC ruling through the mud until the literature reflected just that.

You were right. And if you weren’t? Then the world was wrong. It was that simple.

So when you wave him over in the campus library a week later — soft smile, denim jacket sleeves cuffed, highlighter uncapped between your fingers — and ask, tilting your head, “Hey, what was that argument about the other day? Y’know, before you agreed with me in class?” He smiles back, expression unreadable except for the way too long eye contact. 

“Mm. Nothing worth remembering.”

He slides into the seat across from you, loosening his collar, as if the person he verbally decapitated ten minutes before talking to you wasn’t now recovering in the bathroom, sobbing into the syllabus. “Just a poor attempt at claiming that carceral justice should remain the dominant framework in post-conflict states.” He shrugs. “Anyone who reads even one transitional justice ethnography knows that’s laughable.”

You blink. “Oh… okay. I was just wondering. You two looked intense.” You flash him that easy smile again and it slices through his ego like sunlight on ice. And Geto — the man who’s turned entire group discussions into academic tribunals — just laughs softly and shakes his head. “It's fine. People need a reality check.”

And when you frown, lower your eyes to your notes and sigh, “Ugh. I don't think I get this part about deliberative democracy vs participatory democracy. The reading was so vague.” His brows knit together instantly as he already reaches for your printout. 

“No, you’re fine. The text is poorly structured. But your instinct is right — look, here’s how I'd explain it.”

He leans forward, scribbling little diagrams in the margins. “Deliberative focuses on rational discourse, like in institutionalized settings — think Habermas, where consensus is the goal. But participatory democracy leans more on inclusion, on the act of engagement itself, even without formal consensus. They intersect, but they're distinct.”

You nod slowly, chewing on your lip, and he catches the way your brow furrows again — just slightly — and he’s already flipping pages.

“Look, here’s an example. If you're unsure, use the 1989 Brazilian constitution drafting process — that's always solid. And hey,” he lowers his voice, chin propped on his hand, “You’re not wrong. You just need a clearer framework.” You look up at him again, warm with that kind of grateful, unknowing admiration that crushes him every single time. 

“You’re such a good friend, Suguru.”

Oh, God. The f-word. Geto smiles like someone just handed him a live grenade. “Yeah,” he says, voice a little too even. “Friend. Sure.”

But he swallows the chaos in his chest. Now's not the time to blow up the diplomatic bridge. You’ve got a debate to prep for. He's your teammate. You’re going up against third-years. Big names in the department. People who throw around constructivism and realist pluralism like party tricks. But you? You've got Suguru Geto.

And when the day comes, and your voice shakes ever so slightly during your opening statement, he’s already watching from his chair, eyes soft, nodding slowly like he’s willing your words into the world. And later, when you step back and whisper that you’re unsure whether your rebuttal landed—

He leans in, low enough that only you hear it. “You were flawless. And even if you weren’t — don’t worry. I'll dismantle whatever part didn’t land.”

And he does. He tailors his own segment to support yours. Shifts his citations, reframes the argument, creates a neat little circle of theory where your point was not only correct — it was inevitable. By the time the debate ends, the panel is murmuring praise and the audience is lowkey stunned. You beam at him. “We crushed that. Couldn’t have done it without you.”He just shrugs, eyes soft. “Nah, you crushed it. I just made sure the world kept up.”

☆ RYOMEN SUKUNA: I SKIPPED A FRAT FIGHT AND BECAME A HISTORY NERD BECAUSE SHE ASKED FOR DIRECTIONS

Sukuna never chose Medieval History. He clicked it.

Half-baked, half-asleep, joints still smouldering in the ashtray of his brain the night before course registration — he saw one of those trippy, animated TED-Ed videos on knights and siege towers, thought “Yo, that’s hard,” and signed himself up like it was a Netflix trial. In theory? Swords, castles, bloodshed. In reality? Feudal structures, canonical texts, and three lectures in a row on land distribution in the Carolingian Empire.

So by week two, he was out. Not officially — he still showed up in the system, technically enrolled — but mentally? He was back on the court, back in his jersey, skipping classes, getting high, hosting parties with themes so stupid it’s a miracle no one died. Medieval History was a minor, anyway. He could flunk and still graduate.

But then there was you. In a sundress and sneakers, map in hand, walking around like the campus was a medieval city-state you were trying to invade. He was heading to the basketball court, already halfway through a protein bar and texting the group chat “yo strt the game w/out m i’m takin a piss” — when you walked up to him and asked, polite and lost, “Hey, sorry, do you know where the Medieval History class is?”

And something in him short-circuited. Because one, you clearly had no clue who he was — no fear, no swooning, no "Omg Sukuna?!" And two, your voice made Charlemagne sound like a relevant topic.

He swallowed his curse and his ego in the same breath. “Oh yeah, yeah — was just headed there.” You blinked. “Really?”

“Mhm,” he nods, all casual, slipping his phone into his pocket and doing the mental math to remember where the fuck that classroom even is. “You new?” he asks, voice lower, smoother, almost soft. 

“Just transferred this week,” you smiled. “It’s kinda hard finding things.” He nods, like he gets it, even though he’s been skipping that specific class for three months.

“C'mon, I'll walk you.”

Then — before he can stop himself —

“You want me to carry your bag or somethin’?”

You laugh, confused but amused. “I think I can manage.” 

He smiles. Charming. Not smug. (He's trying, okay?)

And as the two of you walk, he somehow starts talking about Merovingian succession crises like he didn’t sleep through that entire unit. He's pulling stuff out of his ass — but it sounds right. It sounds smart.

“Yeah, like, the power structures back then were mad fragile. You kill one heir ‘n the whole bloodline goes to shit — like, succession wasn’t even secure ‘cause they didn’t believe in primogeniture yet, y’know?”

“...Huh. That’s actually really interesting.”

He has never tried so hard to sound like he gives a shit about something that wasn’t himself. He even holds the door open for you. 

And when you both walk into the Medieval History classroom — you all wide-eyed, him all tall and smug and trying not to trip over his own ego — the old professor chokes. Literally wheezes, scrambling for his inhaler like he’s seen a ghost. 

“Mr. Sukuna. Good of you to finally grace us with your presence.” 

Sukuna just smiles and shrugs like he wasn’t being summoned in three group chats for a 5v5 scrimmage right now. “Yeah, had to walk someone to class. Wouldn’t want her to miss the lecture on, uh—”

he turns to you with a wink,

 “–Anglo-saxon law codes.”

You laugh, none the wiser. The class stares. The professor stares harder. But Sukuna? Sukuna just drops into the seat next to you, ignoring the buzz of his phone lighting up with texts:

brokie (owes me $30 + $10 + $40) [9:46 am]: bruh get ur ass here rume [9:49 am]: don’t tell me ur skipping for a girl ugly white haired incel [10:00 am]: she better be royal lineage if ur missing this fight

He doesn’t even look. You turn to him mid-lecture and whisper, “What’s up with the prof? He looked like he saw a demon when you walked in.” And Sukuna, with the audacity of a man who rewrote his personality in ten minutes flat, grins and murmurs back, “No clue. Guess he just missed me.” 

And now? He's suddenly very interested in medieval history. He's got sources to cite. He's got seats to sit in. He's got… you.

And for once in his life, Sukuna thinks maybe he won’t drop out of this class. Might even pass it.

You know. For educational purposes.

—

The campus hadn’t seen Ryomen Sukuna in three months.

Not at parties, not at frat meetings, not even in the background of Instagram stories where he’d usually be shirtless and belligerent, chugging out of a funnel or doing shots off someone’s stomach. It was as if the legend of Sukuna — the frat prince, the party tyrant, the undefeated king of keg stands — had simply... evaporated.

By the first month, it was whispers.

“Yo, where’s Sukuna?”

“Dude’s probably in a coma.”

“Nah, I heard he got arrested after that Halloween party. You remember the fire?”

By the second month, it was spiraling.

“I think he dropped out.”

“Dude got expelled.”

“I heard he joined a cult. Medieval-themed or some shit.”

No one had the answer, because no one had seen him — no one that mattered anyway. No one that lived in the party circuit. Because truthfully? Sukuna hadn’t dropped out. He hadn’t died. He hadn’t been abducted by monks.

He was in the library. 

Voluntarily sitting under cold fluorescent lights with you, scribbling notes and memorizing things like the date of the battle of Hastings, and getting smacked on the shoulder when he tried to argue. 

“Okay, but what if I wrote the dates like — right here, see? It’d blend with my tattoos—”

“Are you seriously trying to cheat on a History final by weaponizing your body art?”

“It's not cheating. It’s being resourceful, babe.”

“Don’t ‘babe’ me.”

He pouts like a sad, bruised puppy. A six-foot-four wall of arrogance and ink, deflating when you scold him.

He listens. He rewrites his notes. He even erases his “tattoo calendar.” And when he asks if he can borrow your highlighters, you don’t even blink — because to you, Sukuna is just the guy who sits beside you in Medieval History. Quiet, funny, a little dense, but very determined. You’ve never seen the version of him that the rest of campus swears is a mythological beast. 

You’ve never heard the legends of how he once drank beer out of a traffic cone. How he slept with two rival sorority presidents in the same night. How he literally ran security at every house party because no one would dare challenge him.

Nope. To you, he’s just Sukuna, who says things like “Do you think if I put ‘knights’ as a theme for my next birthday, people’ll bring me swords?” and eats your snacks when you aren’t looking. But to everyone else? 

Ryomen Sukuna’s name showed up on the department topper board and people lost their fucking minds.

It was printed out in clean black ink:

MEDIEVAL HISTORY – SPRING SEMESTER TOPPERS

#2: RYOMEN, SUKUNA – 89.2%

And the scream that left Gojo’s mouth when he passed by the bulletin board nearly broke a window. 

Toji dropped his protein bar. Uraume looked like they had seen the end of days, and even the student union president gasped audibly and had to sit down.

“Is this real?” Gojo whispered.

“Is it a typo?”

“Sukuna?? As in — kegstand-Sukuna???”

Toji muttered under his breath, “No way that bastard beat me in anything.” 

And just like that, a pilgrimage began. Students in sweats, hoodies, and half-dead finals week eyes, flocked to the history board. Phones came out. Pictures were taken. Memes were made in real-time: “Sukuna has upgraded from shots to scholarly citations.” And meanwhile, you were there too — holding your printed essay, scanning the board out of curiosity. 

“Oh hey, Sukuna! Look, you’re number two! That’s so cool.” 

He blinked. “Uh… yeah,” he shrugged, trying not to look like he was having an internal stroke. “Guess the studying paid off.”

“You didn’t even tell me you were that smart!” You looked genuinely impressed, nudging his arm.

“Dunno. Didn’t think it mattered.”

You smile. Behind you, someone takes a photo of him like he’s Bigfoot. And you, ever oblivious, tilt your head. “Why are there so many people looking at you?”

Sukuna shrugs. “No idea. Maybe they just like historians now.”

He grins, and he’ll keep grinning as long as you never find out that fratland has declared him officially missing, and that the guy once known as the king of parties is now spending his nights elbow-deep in primary sources and peer-reviewed articles. God help him if anyone sees the matching medieval-themed bookmarks you gave him last week. He's doomed. 

But then you smile at him again. And really? Maybe it’s worth the death of a legacy.

☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO: SHE CALLED ME DUMB IN PHYSIOLOGY AND NOW I KNOW WHAT AN ENDOCRINE GLAND IS

Toji Fushiguro chose Human Physiology because, in his words, “Bro, I’m the peak of human physiology.”

Shirtless in his dorm mirror at 12:30am, flexing with a joint hanging off his lips and a bag of Cheetos in hand, he thought it was the smartest idea he ever had. He looked like a walking anatomy chart — biceps shredded, abs defined like a Greek statue, veins prominent enough that someone could probably trace his vascular system with a sharpie.

So when the course application portal blinked open, and Sukuna simply texted,

strawberry shortcake [11:47 pm]: medieval history 

Toji shrugged, selected Human Physiology, took another hit, and muttered, “Guess I'll be the specimen.”

It was all downhill from there.

The first class hit him like a truck. Terms flying over his head like “sarcoplasmic reticulum,” “acetylcholine receptors,” and “sinoatrial node.” The only thing he caught was when someone mentioned “skeletal muscle,” and even then, he leaned to the guy next to him and whispered, “They’re talking about gains, right?” The dude didn’t even respond, just shifted his chair away. 

The professor was a wiry old man who wore Crocs and had the excitement of a caffeinated squirrel. He moved like he had six different tendons operating independently of each other. “Welcome to the miracle of the human body! Today we’re talking about the hypothalamus! Anyone know what that does?”

Toji raised a hand. The professor blinked.

“Yes, Mr. Fushiguro?”

“Does it… help you bulk?”

Dead silence. Someone coughed.

“No,” the professor said slowly, like he was speaking to a dog. “It regulates things like temperature and hunger. Internal balance.” Toji nodded like he understood. 

He did not.

Because everything he knew about homeostasis was just that he sweated a lot at the gym and drank protein shakes. Once someone in class asked about the neuromuscular junction, and Toji genuinely thought it had something to do with a sports injury. The problem was, this course wasn’t about looking good — it was about being a nerd. People in class actually knew the difference between “smooth” and “striated” muscle. They knew that the myelin sheath wasn’t something you picked up at a dentist’s office.

The worst part? No one was fun. Not even hot in an interesting way. Just blank stares, open laptops, and girls with ponytails who chewed gum like it was a form of protest. He leaned back in class one day, muttering under his breath, “This is gonna be a long fuckin’ semester.”

The guy beside him replied without looking up, “Language.”

“Ya wanna step outside, ‘language’?”

“No, I'd like to finish this lecture on vasodilation, thanks.”

Toji groaned. He had once broken someone’s nose in a bar fight and felt less pain than sitting through this.

He missed the frat. He missed Sukuna and the other white-haired freak (though he would never admit that). Hell, he missed failing in peace. And yet, he showed up.  Begrudgingly. With a pocketed switch knife in class, tank tops that showed off his delts, and a water bottle the size of a small child. 

When the professor drew the digestive tract on the board, he muttered, “Yo, that’s me after Taco Bell.” No one laughed, but that was fine. Toji wasn’t here to make friends. He just needed to survive this course. And maybe — just maybe — someone in here would eventually be hot and interesting enough to make him care about the difference between the ileum and the jejunum.

Until then, he’d sit in the back, scroll through Sam Sulek’s TikToks, and occasionally mutter things like, “Yo is it just me or does the sternocleidomastoid sound like a dinosaur?”

—

Toji didn’t get flustered. He got annoyed, he got pissed, he got violent if he really had to — but flustered? Nah.

Until you came along with your smartass remarks and your sharp little grin and your little nerd girl brain that somehow made words like “epithelial tissue” sound like roasts from God himself. You sat next to him out of nowhere one day — no hesitation, no fear, just a bag dropped beside his massive gym duffel and a chirped, “Yo, Popeye. That seat’s not taken, right?”

And Toji, who had barked at three other people for looking in his direction that week, just grunted and nodded. You didn’t ask dumb questions, instead you asked things like, “Did you forget the Mitochondria again or do you just hate the powerhouse of the cell?”

And somehow, that shit landed. He stared at you, blinking once. Then twice.

“You tryna start something?”

“You couldn’t handle it.”

What the fuck. He was supposed to be offended. Instead, he just swallowed his pride and… 

opened his textbook. 

You were dangerous like that.

When he mumbled something about skeletal muscles and their “activation time” being just like his reps, you had the audacity to raise a brow and go, “Oh? So the same muscles that fail on your third rep?” And Toji — Toji Fushiguro — who once body slammed a guy for making a fat joke in the gym, just sank in his chair and muttered, “Man, fuck off.”

The entire row turned like it was a soap opera scene. He had never said that with less venom. And you? You just popped a highlighter cap with your teeth and kept on explaining the muscular system.

He hated it. Hated that you were smart and funny and that your perfume always smelled faintly like citrus and library books. And most of all, that you were the only one in the class who didn’t stare at him like he was a human barbell. Instead, you did things like gently tap his notebook with your pen and say, “So this is the respiratory cycle. Think of it like your pre-workout and cooldown routine. Inhale, exhale, gas exchange. Your lungs are doing cardio for you.”

“So you're saying I got lungs of steel.”

“I'm saying you have no idea what your own body is doing.”

He scratched his head and muttered, “...Damn. Alright.”

What was he supposed to do? You helped him. Not in a “pity the dumb gym bro” kind of way. But like you were actually invested. You explained how lactic acid buildup worked by comparing it to that one time he overdid legs and couldn’t walk for two days. And when he groaned about the endocrine system being boring, you whispered, “You know how you get those ‘gains’? Hormones. Testosterone. Regulated by glands. Do not skip this chapter or you’ll flunk.”

Toji blinked.

“...That’s hot.”

“What, hormones?”

“You talkin’ science like that. I'd almost let you tutor me.”

“Almost?”

“I didn't say I would.”

You threw a pencil at him and he didn’t even dodge. Just caught it, grinning, ears burning under the weight of your teasing. And for the first time in his whole damn academic career, Toji Fushiguro…

actually passed a test. Barely. But the professor handed his paper back with a shocked, “improvement noted,” and a side-eye glance at you like we know who’s responsible. Toji looked at the C+ and muttered, “Yo, you’re a fuckin’ wizard.” 

You just shrugged. “Nah. You’ve got a brain. It’s just hidden under six layers of protein powder and ego.”

God. He'd die for you. But for now? He’d settle for sitting next to you every class, scribbling notes with a confused frown, and letting you roast him with terms like “autonomic nervous system” and “delayed onset muscle soreness.”

It was the closest he’d ever get to falling in love academically.