• Unlabeled "XReader" are often female unless stated othwrwise.
•Not a spoiler free blog for Jujutsu Kaisen and Chainsaw Man. Block: Jjk spoilers and Chainsaw Man spoilers.
Blurb!
Hey, y'all!! I dont think I'll write or make content anymore (i lied lmao)😄 outgrowing stuff i used to do but feel free to see my old works💗 ily you guys and thanks for the support🫶
— you spend months thinking steve harrington is just being nice because that’s who he is. turns out he’s been in love with you the entire time and literally signs up for tutoring, memorizes your favorite books, and color-matches his tie to your dress just for the chance to sit across from you.
👔 5.0k — steve harrington x fem!reader, fluff with a side of yearning, nerd!reader, oblivious girl genius x pathetic yearner boy, peer tutoring as a love language, steve matching his tie to your dress like a loser ( affectionate ), memorizing her favorite authors to impress her, mutual pining so obvious it hurts, everyone knows except you, happy fluffy fix-it ending
request — [ @g0lden-sky ] hii, my lovely! i humbly propose a steve harrington request because i am in love with the jock x nerd trope! except it's king steve harrington being completely and utterly in love with nerd reader and she just doesn't even realize until he has to spell it out for her 😭 and she's just like "huh? so you didn't match your snowball tie to my dress on accident?" stuff like that 🥺 i think it's so cute and funny!!
author's note — literally got a toothache writing this. eek thank you thank you so much for the request, sky, this is easily one of the cutest things i've ever written. i hope you all love it !
masterlist : navigation
gif by @sakura-haruka | divider by @/lavendergalactic
No one expected Steve Harrington, the self-appointed King of Hawkins High with his stupidly perfect hair and his stupidly perfect smile and his stupidly perfect life, to fall in love with you.
Not Tommy, who swore Steve didn’t even know how to spell the word “homework.” Not Carol, who said you were “cute in a studious way” like that explained anything. Not the basketball team, not the cheer squad, not even the teachers who still looked at Steve like he was one bad mistake away from detention.
And definitely not you.
But Steve was. Hopelessly. Embarrassingly. Down-bad in a way that would’ve ruined his reputation if he hadn’t already stopped caring about that months ago.
Because when you walked down the hallway with your arms full of books, chin tucked, lips moving silently while you memorized something under your breath, Steve forgot how to breathe. When you pushed your glasses up with your knuckle and frowned at a problem on your worksheet, he felt this weird ache in his chest like he wanted to fix it for you even though he didn’t understand half the stuff you studied. And when you laughed, he looked at you like you’d just invented happiness.
He was even worse at hiding it.
God, he was awful.
He bought strawberry milk from the cafeteria even though he hated strawberry milk, just because he’d once overheard you telling Nancy it was your favorite. He’d volunteer to run errands for teachers if it meant he might accidentally bump into you between classes.
He held doors open for you even when you were twenty feet away and then just stood there waiting like an idiot. He memorized your schedule 'by accident' and somehow always ended up near your locker. He started hanging around Mr. Clarke’s classroom after school even though science made his brain hurt, just because you were there.
He’d stare during lunch, chin in his hand, smiling like a complete loser while you rambled about scholarships and college applications and how you couldn’t wait to see the world outside Hawkins.
Tommy caught him once and snapped his fingers in his face. “You’re doing the heart-eyes thing again.”
“The what?”
“The pathetic, princess-in-love look. It’s disgusting. I need you to get it together.”
He didn’t get it together.
If anything, he got worse.
The whole school knew. The way he lit up when you waved at him like you waved at everyone else. The way he’d drop whatever he was doing if you so much as looked like you needed help.
Everyone knew.
Except you.
You, apparently, were immune to the obvious because in your head, Steve Harrington was just. . . Steve Harrington. Popular. Nice, lately. Weirdly friendly. Probably like that with everyone.
You never noticed how his entire world tilted toward you.
You had bigger things to think about.
Like getting out of Hawkins.
Mr. Clarke had stopped you after class a week ago, papers tucked under his arm, glasses sliding down his nose. He’d cleared his throat in that hopeful way teachers did when they were about to ask for a favor.
“I’m starting a peer tutoring program,” he’d said. “Colleges love community involvement. It would look very good on scholarship applications.”
You’d said yes before he even finished the sentence.
Anything that helped you leave.
You didn’t hate Hawkins. It just never felt like it belonged to you. It felt small, like a sweater that shrank in the wash. Your dreams didn’t fit here. You wanted big libraries and campus buildings covered in ivy and lecture halls and cities where no one knew your last name.
Your family supported you completely. Your mom already saved college brochures in a neat stack on the kitchen counter. Your dad bragged about you to the neighbors like you’d already made it.
Leaving didn’t feel sad.
It felt necessary.
So you signed up to tutor, figuring maybe a freshman or two would show up for help with algebra or biology. Maybe no one at all. You wouldn’t have blamed them.
Which is why, when you walked into the library after school and followed the little handwritten sign that said PEER TUTORING →, you weren’t prepared to see Steve Harrington sitting at one of the tables.
Waiting.
For you.
For a second, you genuinely thought you’d walked into the wrong place.
Steve didn’t belong here. The late sunlight through the windows caught in his hair, turning it gold, and he looked so out of place it almost made you laugh.
Then he saw you.
And his whole face changed like someone had flipped a switch inside him. He sat up straighter so fast he almost knocked his chair over.
“Hey,” he said, a little breathless, like he’d run here. “Hi. You’re— uh. You’re the tutor, right?”
“. . . Yeah,” you said slowly, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Are you lost?”
His heart actually stuttered.
Lost. God. If only you knew.
“I mean,” you added quickly, “this is the tutoring area. If you’re looking for the magazines or—”
“No,” he said too fast. “No, I’m supposed to be here. I signed up. For tutoring. With you. I mean— not with you specifically. I mean— I guess it is specifically. But like, academically. For school. Obviously.”
You blinked at him.
Steve Harrington. The guy who once asked if The Great Gatsby was a real person.
You stared at the neat pile of books in front of him.
“. . . You need tutoring?” you asked, genuinely confused.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Turns out if you don’t pay attention for, like, three years straight, stuff catches up with you.”
You laughed softly and that sound hit him straight in the chest.
God. He’d do anything to hear that again.
“Oh,” you said, pulling out the chair across from him. “Yeah, that makes sense. Don’t worry, I’m pretty good at explaining things. What do you need help with?”
Everything, he almost said.
But not the homework.
He needed help with how you were sitting across from him, sleeves pushed up, pen tucked behind your ear, already focuse like this was the most important thing in the world. He needed help with how you bit your lip when you concentrated. How you leaned closer to his side of the table without even realizing it.
Instead, he slid the biology book toward you with slightly shaky hands.
“Cells,” he said. “They’re. . . confusing.”
You smiled at him like this was totally normal. Like he was just another student.
And Steve swore he’d never wanted to be anything more and anything less at the same time.
“Okay,” you said. “We’ll start easy.”
Easy. Right.
Except nothing about this was easy for him.
Because every time your fingers brushed his while passing a pencil, his brain short-circuited. Every time you leaned over to point something out, your shoulder bumping his, he forgot what planet he was on. He nodded along to explanations he barely heard because he was too busy staring at your mouth forming the words.
You thought he was struggling with science.
He was struggling with you.
“You’re actually catching on pretty fast,” you said after a while, surprised. “You’re not as bad at this as you think.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re trying. That’s, like, ninety percent of it.”
Trying.
If you only knew.
He’d rearranged his entire schedule to be here. Asked Tommy to quiz him the night before so he wouldn’t look completely clueless. He’d even read the first two chapters so you wouldn’t think he was hopeless.
All because you were here.
Because the idea of you leaving Hawkins one day, chasing some big, shiny future, while he stayed behind. . . it twisted something ugly in his chest.
He wanted you to fly.
He just selfishly wished he could go with you.
“You know,” you said absently, scribbling notes for him, “I didn’t think anyone would actually sign up for this.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” you said with a little laugh. “But I’m glad you did. It’s nice helping someone.”
He swallowed.
“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
You kept talking and Steve just. . . stared.
Not in a creepy way. Not on purpose.
He just couldn’t help it.
You had this little crease between your brows when you concentrated. You explained things with your hands, fingers tapping the table, drawing invisible diagrams in the air, and every time you leaned closer to underline something in his book, your shoulder brushed his and his brain turned to static.
He tried, really tried, to look at the page.
Cell membrane. Cytoplasm. Nucleus.
None of it stuck. All he could think about was how close you were.
“Okay,” you said, tapping the paper, “so think of the cell like a tiny city. The nucleus is like the mayor’s office. It controls everything. Does that make sense?”
Steve blinked.
You were looking at him so earnestly, waiting for his answer.
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, that actually. . . helps. A lot.”
Your face lit up, proud and pleased. “See? I told you. You’re not bad at this.”
God.
He thought, distantly, that this had to be some kind of cosmic joke. Hawkins High’s former golden boy reduced to putty because you told him he understood a metaphor.
Pathetic.
He’d fought monsters. Literally. And this, this tiny smile from you, was what took him out.
You kept teaching, and he kept pretending to follow along, nodding at the right times, scribbling down notes you handed him. But half the time he was just memorizing you instead. The soft little “okay” you said when he got something right.
By the time the session ended, his chest hurt. Not in a bad way. Just. . . full. Like he’d swallowed too much feeling and didn’t know where to put it.
“Same time tomorrow?” you asked, packing your bag.
He tried not to sound too eager. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”
Great. Like this wasn’t going to be the highlight of his entire day.
The week after that, something was different. You didn’t notice it at first because you were busy, always busy but Steve Harrington started showing up in your life.
The first time, you were juggling way too many textbooks outside your locker, stack wobbling dangerously, and before you could even adjust your grip, a pair of familiar hands reached out and took half the weight.
“I got it,” Steve said.
“Oh— thanks,” you said, surprised. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine. I’m strong. Carrying books is kind of my thing.”
You knew it was not but you laughed, and he swore he’d carry the entire library if it meant hearing that again.
Then you started noticing him at your debate competitions, leaning awkwardly against the back wall of the classroom, pretending he was just “walking by” even though debate club met on the opposite side of the school from literally everything he did. Every time you looked up mid-argument, there he was, watching you like you’d hung the moon, clapping a little too hard when you finished.
In class, he’d somehow snag the seat next to you before anyone else could, sliding into it with an almost shy, “This taken?” even though he knew you’d never say no. He’d save you a chair at lunch, push it out with his foot like it was nothing, cheeks pink when you thanked him like he’d done something special.
And the tutoring sessions. God, the tutoring sessions.
He started getting good. Like, actually good.
He showed up having already read the chapters. He remembered things you’d explained days ago. Once, he even corrected himself mid-problem and you just stared at him like he’d grown a second head.
“Wait,” you said, leaning closer to check his work, “this is right. Steve, this is completely right.”
“Yeah?” he asked, trying to sound casual, failing miserably.
“Yeah. That’s really good. Good job, Steve.”
Good job, Steve. It was such a normal thing to say.
You said it the same way you’d say it to anyone else. But to him, it felt like you’d reached into his chest and squeezed his heart. He actually stopped breathing for a second.
Heat crawled up his neck, ears burning, stomach flipping stupidly like he was thirteen again.
“Oh. Uh. Thanks,” he muttered, staring very hard at the paper so you wouldn’t see the way his smile went soft and helpless.
You didn’t notice, just kept going, already onto the next question.
He thought, distantly, that if you ever said you were proud of him, he might actually die on the spot.
He thought about asking you out a hundred times.
Every single session.
When you leaned over him to point at a diagram. When your knees bumped under the table. When you smiled and told him he was improving. When you got excited explaining something and grabbed his sleeve without thinking.
The words sat on the tip of his tongue.
Do you maybe want to get coffee sometime?
Do you want to go to the movies?
Do you want to go out with me?
But then he’d look at you talking about scholarships and universities and all the places you were going to go, all the things you were going to be, and something scared inside him would whisper, She’s out of your league.
You were brilliant. The kind of person teachers wrote recommendation letters for without being asked.
He was. . . Steve.
Former jerk. Former king. Current disaster with questionable grades.
Even if no one else believed it, even if the whole school thought you were lucky to have him hovering around, Steve secretly thought the opposite.
He felt lucky you even talked to him.
So instead of asking you out, he did the only thing he knew how to do.
He tried harder.
He memorized your favorite authors after overhearing you talk about them with Nancy, went home and borrowed the books from the library just so he’d have something to say. He stayed up reading half-asleep, underlining sentences he thought you’d like. The next day, he’d casually drop, “Oh, yeah, I started that book you mentioned,” like it was no big deal while internally panicking.
Your face would light up every time. “Wait, really? You’re reading that?”
“Yeah,” he’d shrug. “It’s pretty good.”
You smiled at him, completely oblivious, and launched into a ten-minute rant about the book and he listened like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
And Steve sat there every single day thinking the same hopeless, aching thought. If he was brave enough, maybe one day you’d finally see what everyone else already did.
How completely, ridiculously, stupidly in love with you he was.
The opportunity came wrapped in cheap tinsel and paper snowflakes taped crookedly to the hallway ceiling.
You were hunched over the library table with Steve again, pencil tapping against your lip while you explained balancing equations for what felt like the fifteenth time, when the intercom crackled to life with some overly cheerful announcement about the Snowball Dance.
You barely registered it beyond a vague mental note that the gym would be unusable for the next week because student council would inevitably turn it into a dance zone.
Steve, on the other hand, heard the words Snowball Dance and nearly swallowed his tongue.
He tried to act normal, nodding along while you talked, but his brain had completely abandoned chemistry and latched onto one thought like a dog with a bone.
Dance.
Dance meant dates.
Dates meant asking someone.
Which meant maybe, possibly, if the universe was feeling merciful, he could finally ask you. His palms started sweating so bad he had to wipe them on his jeans.
You didn’t notice. You were busy drawing little diagrams and saying, “See? You just move the coefficient here.”
When the session ended, you both started packing up, you sliding your color-coded notes into neat folders, him shoving books into his bag with way too much nervous energy, when a familiar voice drifted over.
“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite nerds.”
Nancy.
You looked up immediately, smiling. “Hey.”
Nancy leaned against the table, eyes flicking between the two of you in a way that felt suspiciously knowing. “I was actually looking for you,” she said to you. “What are you wearing to the dance?”
You blinked. “The dance?”
“The Snowball,” she said patiently. “This weekend. You are going, right?”
“Oh. Uh, yeah. I think so. My mom found this amazing blue dress in the back of her closet. It’s kind of old, but it’s nice.” You shrugged, like it didn’t matter.
“And who are you going with?” Nancy pressed, way too casually.
You laughed. “No one? I mean, I’m not entirely sure anyone’s even going to ask me, so I’ll probably just show up and hover near the snack table or something. It’s fine. I mostly just want the extra credit for attendance.”
Steve felt like someone had just set off fireworks inside his ribcage.
Nancy’s gaze slid to him slowly and then she gave him the look.
It was long and pointed and screamed, If you don’t ask her out right now, I will personally strangle you, Harrington.
Steve panicked.
Nancy patted your arm. “Well, you’ll look pretty no matter what,” she said. “Jonathan’s dragging me, so at least we’ll all suffer together.”
You smiled. “Have fun.”
She shot Steve one last sharp stare before walking away.
The silence that followed felt deafening.
Steve’s heart was beating so hard he was convinced you could hear it. You were still organizing your bag, completely unaware that this was possibly the most stressful moment of his entire life.
Just ask her.
It’s not that hard.
It’s literally just words.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He closed it.
Tried again.
“So,” he started, voice cracking like a middle schooler’s. He cleared his throat. “So. Uh. The dance.”
“Yeah?” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder.
“You said you didn’t have a date.”
“Yeah,” you said. “It’s fine though. I’m not super big on dances anyway.”
Right. Cool. This was fine. He was dying.
“Well,” he rushed out, words tripping over each other, “maybe you. . . I mean— if you wanted we could, uh, like go together? If you want. Totally cool if you don’t. I just thought, you know, since we’re already tutoring and yeah.”
He wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
You just stared at him for a second. Then you smiled. Like he’d just offered you something nice and simple and not the entire fragile state of his heart.
“I’d like that,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll go with you, Steve.”
He stopped breathing.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you laughed. “I mean, you’re basically the only person I talk to after school anyway. Might as well.”
Might as well.
It shouldn’t have made him that happy.
But it did. It really, really did.
The days leading up to the dance were unbearable for everyone around him.
Because Steve would not shut up.
He talked about it constantly. At his locker. In the hallway. During lunch. To Tommy H. and Carol. To random freshmen. To literally anyone who made eye contact for longer than two seconds.
“Do you think blue is, like, a flower color? Should I get her a flower? Is that too much? Do girls still like flowers? What if she hates flowers? Oh my god, what if she hates dancing—”
“You’ve been on actual dates before,” Carol groaned. “Why are you acting like this is your first crush ever?”
“Because it kind of is,” Tommy muttered, annoyed. “He’s gone full loser. It’s painful to watch.”
Steve didn’t even argue. He just grinned like an idiot and kept talking about you.
They were sick of it but he couldn’t help it. He felt like his life was about to start.
When the night finally came, everything felt. . . good.
And then you walked in and you looked like the only thing in the room that mattered.
Steve forgot every single word he’d ever learned.
You smiled when you saw him, waving a little.
“Hey.”
The night blurred after that. He held your hand during slow songs. You talked in the corner about everything and nothing, about college applications and your favorite books and stupid childhood stories. He told you things he didn’t tell anyone, about feeling lost sometimes, about not knowing what came after high school, about being scared of messing up.
You listened and for the first time, Steve felt seen.
You laughed together, danced badly together, shared terrible punch and even worse cookies. At one point your head tipped back when you laughed and he thought, distantly, If this is all I ever get, it’s enough.
Walking you home felt like the end of a movie. His heart was so full it almost hurt.
At your doorstep, you turned to him, smiling, cheeks flushed from the cold.
“Thanks for tonight,” you said softly.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
Then you leaned up and kissed his cheek.
His brain shut off completely. He thought he might actually pass out.
And then you smiled at him. “Thank you for being such a great friend, Steve.”
Friend.
It hit harder than anything else. Harder than a punch. Harder than rejection.
Friend.
His heart didn’t just drop. It shattered.
He stood there, frozen, mouth open, watching you disappear inside.
The door clicked shut.
He didn’t move. Just stood on your porch for ten whole minutes, staring at the wood grain, replaying everything in his head and feeling stupider with every second. Of course. Of course you only saw him as a friend. Why wouldn’t you? You were you. He was just some guy who needed tutoring and followed you around like a lost puppy. What made him think you’d ever look at him the way he looked at you?
He laughed once, bitter and quiet.
Idiot.
Absolute idiot.
But then something in his chest twisted, stubborn. If he walked away now, he’d regret it forever. So before he could talk himself out of it, he turned back and rang the doorbell again.
Please don’t be her parents.
Please don’t be her parents.
Please—
The door opened.
It was you.
Hair slightly messy, earrings gone, rings off which told him you were already winding down for the night.
“Steve?” you said. “Did you forget something?”
You stood there in the doorway looking at him like this was the most normal thing in the world, like boys didn’t usually show up on your porch ten minutes after dropping you off at midnight looking like they were about to either confess their love or throw up.
Your hair was half falling out of whatever you’d done to it for the dance, little pieces soft around your face, earrings gone, makeup smudged just enough to make you look real and tired and warm instead of polished and perfect. You had on an old sweater, sleeves too long, swallowing your hands, and Steve thought, distantly, that this version of you might actually kill him faster than the dress did.
“Steve?” you asked again, gentler this time. “Are you okay?”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing.
Closed it.
His brain was screaming at him to abort mission, go home, save whatever dignity he had left, but his heart was louder, pounding so hard he swore you could probably see it through his shirt.
“I— yeah. I mean. No. I don’t know,” he said, running a hand through his hair, messing it up for once. “Can we— can we talk for a second?”
Your brows pulled together immediately, worried. You stepped out onto the porch and closed the door softly behind you so you wouldn’t wake your parents.
“Of course. What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
Yeah, he thought. I fell in love with you and you called me your friend and now I feel like I got hit by a truck.
Instead, he just looked at you.
God.
You were looking at him like you cared.
Like you were already bracing to help him.
It made everything worse and better at the same time.
“I just—” He exhaled hard, hands on his hips, pacing once like he was about to give a presentation. “When you said that thing earlier. The friend thing.”
You tilted your head. “What thing?”
“When you said thanks for being such a great friend,” he said.
“Oh.” You smiled a little. “Yeah. Because you are. You’ve been really sweet lately, Steve. Like, really sweet. You didn’t have to come to my debate stuff or help me carry books or—”
“That’s the thing,” he blurted.
You stopped.
He looked at you like he was about to jump off a cliff.
“I don’t do this for my friends, okay?” he said. “I don’t match ties and memorize your stupid study schedule and wait outside tutoring for forty minutes just to walk you there for my friends.”
You blinked.
“. . . You wait outside tutoring?”
“Yeah,” he said helplessly. “All the time. Because you always show up early and I didn’t want you sitting alone.”
Your brain stalled.
“I don’t read Jane Austen and whatever that other one is— Brontë?— for my friends. I don’t buy strawberry milk when it’s disgusting just because you like it. I don’t sign up for tutoring I don’t even need just to sit across from someone for an hour for my friends.”
Your mouth fell open a little.
“. . . You hate strawberry milk?”
“It’s terrible,” he said immediately. “I don't get how you drink it.”
You stared at him. “Huh,” you said faintly. “So you didn’t match your Snowball tie to my dress on accident?”
Steve froze.
“. . . You noticed that?”
“It was literally the exact same shade of blue,” you said. “I thought it was a coincidence.”
He let out this small, broken laugh and covered his face with his hand. “Oh my god. I spent two hours at the store trying to match it. Nancy almost killed me.”
“Oh,” you breathed.
Oh.
All those times he showed up. All those little things. The books. The seat saving. The tutoring. The way he looked at you like you were saying something important even when you were just rambling about mitochondria.
Your stomach flipped.
Steve dropped his hand and looked at you again, eyes wide and terrified and so soft it made your chest ache.
“I like you,” he said, finally, simply, like it cost him everything. “Not like a friend. Not even a little. I’ve liked you for months. I just— I didn’t think you’d ever look at me like that. You’re. . . you’re you. And I’m just me.”
You frowned immediately. “Steve.”
“No, let me finish before I pass out,” he rushed. “I just needed you to know. Even if you don’t feel the same. I just— I couldn’t go home with you thinking I was doing all this because I’m nice. I’m not that nice. I’m selfish. I do it because I want to be around you all the time. Because you’re my favorite person. Because when you talk about leaving Hawkins, it freaks me out because I can’t picture this place without you in it.”
Your heart was beating so loud you could hear it in your ears.
He swallowed.
“So yeah. That’s it. I like you. A lot. Like, embarrassingly a lot.”
For a second, neither of you said anything.
And then you stepped closer.
Steve immediately tensed like you were about to reject him and he was bracing for impact.
Instead, you reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket.
He short-circuited.
“Steve Harrington,” you said slowly, “you absolute idiot.”
His heart dropped. “Oh.”
“I thought you were just being nice,” you continued. “I thought you felt bad for me or something. I didn’t think. . . I mean, why would I think you liked me?”
He stared at you. “Why wouldn’t you?”
You gestured vaguely at yourself. “I’m me. I carry six books at all times and talk about scholarships for fun.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Exactly.”
Your throat tightened.
“Oh,” you whispered.
Oh.
The way he looked at you suddenly made sense.
Everything did.
You laughed a little, shaky and fond. “Steve, you’re such a dork.”
He smiled nervously. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been told.”
“But,” you said, stepping even closer, “for the record. . . I don’t go to dances with just friends either.”
His brain stopped working.
“. . . What?”
“I said,” you murmured, cheeks warm, “I wouldn’t have gone with you if I didn’t like you too.”
The hope that lit up his face was so bright it almost hurt to look at.
“Wait. Really?”
“Really.”
“Like. . . like like me?”
You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Yes, Steve. Like like you. You’re cute. And you carry my books. And you listen to me talk about boring stuff without falling asleep. That’s basically marriage material.”
He laughed, breathless, disbelieving.
“You’re serious?”
“Steve,” you said softly, “I’ve liked you for a while. I just thought you were out of my league.”
He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was purple.
“Out of— are you insane?”
You both laughed, nervous and giddy and a little overwhelmed.
And then you were just. . . standing there.
Close.
Really close.
His hands hovered awkwardly at your waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you.
You noticed. So you took pity on him and slid your hands up into his jacket, gripping the fabric.
His breath hitched.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked, like it was the most fragile question in the world.
You smiled.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “You can.”
He leaned in slow, like he was scared you’d disappear if he moved too fast, one hand cupping your cheek so gently it made your chest ache. His lips brushed yours soft.
When you pulled back, you were both smiling like idiots, foreheads touching, noses bumping.
Steve let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “So. . . not just friends?”
You smiled, kissing him again. “Definitely not just friends.”
mission brief did you know there’s a six-foot-something guy in your class who’s smart, suspiciously well-read in your field, and loudly supportive of women’s rights all of a sudden? yeah, he’s also hopelessly in love with you. you’re just trying to get your degree. he’s trying to get your attention. the rest practically writes itself. w.c 7k
risk assessment university au, crack & fluff, female reader, mentions of weed usage, crush at first sight, himbo gojo + sukuna + toji, naoya being sexist as always, slight transphobia, toji + sukuna + gojo are part of the same frat, uraume cameo ft! gojo, naoya, geto, sukuna, toji
a/n this was inspired by the video → jock pretends to be a nerd to impress you (ASMR) ← PLEASE check it out it's very funny.
☆ GOJO SATORU: I JOINED ENGINEERING FOR THE PHYSICS AND SAT FRONT ROW FOR HER, BUT SHE STILL DOESN’T KNOW MY NAME
In Gojo’s defense — and he always had a defense, mind you — he didn’t mean to major in engineering.
It was a whim, a toss-of-the-coin decision made in the haze of post-exam delusion and overconfidence. Physics had always been his thing. He topped nationally in grade 12, solved kinematics like Sudoku, and made a meme page about Newton's laws that somehow went viral. So Engineering? Duh. Physics, but cooler, right?
Wrong. Very, violently wrong.
No one warned him that Engineering Physics was basically Physics on steroids, combined with linear algebra’s illegitimate child and the unforgiving slap of applied mechanics. Suddenly, instead of tinkering with fun little projectile motion problems, he was deriving partial differential equations for heat transfer while hungover. He didn’t even know what a Lagrangian was, and people were out here minimizing it like they did it for sport.
He should’ve switched majors. Should’ve listened to his friends, to his GPA, to that one TA who told him, “Mr. Gojo, this isn’t a YouTube prank channel. Please stop bringing a lighter to class.”
But then, you walked in during course exploration week — where students from other disciplines could sit in on any class.
You waltzed into his 9 a.m. Electromagnetic theory lecture with a coffee in one hand and a look that said “I am not here to commit.” And Gojo — Gojo who once fell asleep drooling on his differential equations worksheet — sat up straight. Literally front-row, front and center, no sunglasses, no lighter.
He was suddenly alive.
“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.
a/n i don't know what to write here but i'm procrastinating the hate sex fic is what i can tell you..please enjoy this. also sorry i didn't include nanami & choso, i didn't have anything in mind for them </3
Note: Hi yall, it has come to my attention that some users are uncomfortable with some of my work. I do not have any intention of spreading such feelings nor supporting toxic behaviour. It's just fantasies and self-indulgent writing. Feel free to block my account if you're uncomfy with my work.
When I say breeding kink. I meant to say Suguru has breeding kink. You try to accommodate it most of the time. Though, the thought of actually getting pregnant scares you.
"You'll pull out right- ngh, right?" You asked as he kept his pace. Relentless. Bullet of sweat formed on his forehead, neck craning back while fucking you raw on the sofa. He's already lost in you.
"Yeah-shit-yeah, l'll pull out," Suguru says before biting his lip.
Oh, he lies. He lies. He can't possibly pull out. Not when his angry tip kept bullying your poor cervix every time he pushed back in. Or even how your legs are practically locked around his waist. He isn't pulling out.
You felt him twitch. One. Twice. Thrice. You gasped and tried to push him off, "Suguru..Suguru, pull out! Pull out!", You babbled.
"Shit..i cant", Suguru says in a choke before he grips your thighs, rough enough to leave a mark. He pulls you closer to him, slamming back to your as he comes deep.
You tried pushing him off, thrashing. Suguru groans and lunges his weight forward, trapping you full beneath him with his weight, making him plunge in even deeper to you.
"N-nghh..nghh," your eyes rolled back, hands clawing his back, leaving a long red mark trails. Your legs shook like a leaf around him as you felt his warm semen spread around your walls. Fuck.
hey i really really love your fics and the way you write youre so talented! ive been searching for a virgin!yuji x virgin!reader for so long and my life would literally be urs if you wrote this. if not no worries, i totally get it.
sending love! - anon
OH THIS IDEA IS HOOOOTTTTT AND U BEST BELIEVE IM ALL OVER IT!! thank you for your sweet words and for sending in a request!! i hope you like it!! :] <333
₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊
oh my god, pretty!
{yuji itadori x f!reader}
summary: your relationship with yuji was semi new and cute, you both absolutely adoring the fuck out of one another since the moment you met. one thing you have in common though? you’re both loser virgins with absolutely no experience whatsoever, and on one night where you’re both innocently cuddling on the couch watching a movie— yuji goes NUTS.
warnings: MDNI. college!au, afab!reader, SMUT, p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap it ya’ll), accidental creampie LOL, yuji is a little perv, smut with barely any plot she goes straight to the good stuff, cursing, pet names, fluff, FILTHYYYY this is filthy, all characters are aged up.
word count: 3.9k
authors note: PHEEWWWW THIS ONE HAD ME MEOWING LIKE A KITTY CAT AND I HOPE YALL MEOW WITH ME!!! thank you for your support always, that is an absolute given, i love you and i love you forever. MWAAAHHHH <3333
because yuji was in a black tight compression tee and pj’s while you both were watching a movie together and cuddling on your living room couch, the sleeves of his shirt accentuating his biceps and the rest of it squeezing over his pecs and torso, the brightness of your tv illuminating all of his sharp handsome features that had you gnawing at your nails in a nervous fit— him looking at you with pinched eyebrows.
yuji and you had just started dating a couple of months ago— his lively overly friendly personality winning you over without really much effort at all, and your genuine sweet one catching his heart the minute he saw you come into one of his lectures last year, looking soul killingly beautiful and radiant, the both of you befriending each other quickly as your interests aligned.
and you started hanging out on and off campus a lot more frequently after that— gradually falling more and more in love until yuji finally gathered up his jumpy nerves and asked you to be his girlfriend.
there was a problem though.
neither of you had had sex before, or had done anything in between the lines with other people before you got together.
it was the first thing that yuji worried about when he first started dating you— embarrassed and afraid that you would think he was a big fat loser with no game and that he would potentially run the risk of losing you, you maybe preferring a man of experience to match your own needs.
but when he admitted that to you, and when you shook your worried little head and told him you were in the same exact boat as him, he was fucking elated— his apprehensions crumbling down like a landslide and replaced instead with the giddiness of getting to do stuff with you for the first time ever, and him being the man (the only man ever he hoped) to get to do it to you.
but then there was another problem.
neither of you seemed to want to start anything, the both of you hesitant and scared because of your lack of experience— petrified of humiliating yourselves if one of you tried and pathetically failed at it or did something incorrectly.
“mhm! fine.” you smiled sweetly, your calm voice a completely different contrast to what was currently happening inside your reeling fuzzy brain.
you had both definitely talked about it, the subject of intimacy. but it was always something that the two of you reassured each other would happen eventually when you were both ready, that there was no rush— choosing to brush the subject off like it was nothing.
except it wasn’t nothing. it was never nothing. and you were both way past fucking ready, especially yuji, him practically ripping apart at the seams with horn dog need anytime he saw you wear those little skirts that you like so much, or whenever you’d straddle his lap during one of your daily makeout sessions— his hands literally trembling over your ass in attempts at being respectful of pretty ol’ you, settling for placing them on your upper back instead.
and you would internally pout, disappointed, because you always without fail noticed all of this yet you were too shy to mention anything or do something about it on your own.
“you sure?” he asked softly. “you look like you’re thinking about something.”
he raised a hand and gently poked your cheek repeatedly with his index finger, a silly smile on his face. “tell me baby tell me baby tell me baby—”
you giggled, “i’m okay! just zoned out.” you pushed his finger away, leaning up and pressing a quick shy kiss to his cheek that made him instantly flush pink in return, a wobbly smile spreading across his face.
in the midst of you retreating back to your previous position, yuji caught your chin with his fingers and turned you to look at him, your cheeks blushing as he stared at you with lovesick dreamy eyes.
“can we— um.” his gaze flickered to your lips. “can we make out.”
your eyes widened slightly and your hands grew clammy fast, cheeks buzzing as you stared back at him.
since making out was the only thing you both properly conquered, it happened almost every single time you saw each other, the act practically filling in and making up for the more lewd exchanges you both were missing out on, your kisses always sloppy and messy but heated— though each time it came around to it you were often just as nervous as the first time.
“s—sure!” you stammered. “you don’t have to ask me yuji… you can just— y’know… do it..”
he bit his tongue, your timidness for some fucking reason sending a shock of arousal through his veins and straight down to his dick as he tried his best to swallow it and not make it obvious for you.
“okay!”
he brought your face closer then and kissed you, a solid one at first, until you slowly parted your lips and ushered him in, deeper, your body moving closer to his on its own as he immediately responded with placing a hand on your leg to throw it over his lap, your mouths wet and slippery as he properly settled you to sit on him.
you wrapped your arms around his neck, the movie drowned out completely in the background as a sequence of lip smackings echoed throughout the room, yuji’s hands on your upper back like always as you continued to make out… until you felt a little stinging cramp in your knee— moving your hips a little bit to readjust, utterly unaware of how you accidentally applied pressure over yuji’s crotch as he sucked in a breath through his nose and pulled away.
“fuck don’t do that baby don’t do that.”
you froze, hands quickly retracting back to your chest. “what? what do what?”
“oh—” he froze, eyes wide and cheeks pink as his mouth opened and closed like a fishy out of water.
he couldn’t possibly tell you why, not wanting to scare you away by admitting that you grinding down on his crotch like that made his dick jerk and mind haze in the most filthy and perverted way imaginable, feeling like he wanted to dig himself a big fat grave of horny shame to throw himself into as he watched your pretty eyes look at him the way that they were, wanting that same look but underneath him instead—
your bent knee cramped up once more and you hissed, moving your hips again except this time harder, yuji’s eyes flying open as the grip around your upper torso tightened, a strangled whiny hum escaping his throat.
your eyes snapped to his at the sound, now feeling something hard poking your clothed pussy as your brain finally put fucking two and two together, your hand slapping over your mouth in embarrassment at what you did and over your stupid delayed realization.
“oh! yuji i’m so sorry i— i didn’t realize—”
he shook his head rapidly, his cheeks and ears red as he shakily smoothed his hands over your hips comfortingly.
“no baby! don’t be sorry it’s okay!” he quickly kissed your forehead. “i—it’s me… it’s not you at all…”
but there was something else behind his eyes, something you couldn’t quite pinpoint as he just stared at the place where your body met his crotch, hands slowly gripping your hips tighter in a certain way and… and actually moving you now in a certain way that made you promptly realize he was grinding you against him, pleasure quickly twitching at your clit in response as flat hands flew to his chest to stabilize yourself.
“what— what are you doing?” you stammered, your chest heaving a little.
“s—sorry!…” he mumbled, eyes still trained to the same area. “it just— felt kind of good… so..”
yuji peered up at you, a cautious look on his face as he eyed you curiously with his pinky cheeks bright— hesitantly indulging in his overwhelming sick need for you, as simply making out was just not cutting it anymore ever since he got a taste of how something like this could feel a couple of seconds ago.
and your thoughts were identical to his.
timidly, you slid your hands up slowly to rest back on his manly shoulders, the rough material of his compression tee under your fingers making you literally squeeze your hole around nothing, eyes nervously darting around his face.
“o—okay…”
his hand came up to brush some of your soft hair over your shoulder, his thumb moving in to caress gently over your hot cheek.
“can i… can i do it again?”
you shakily nodded, and he gripped your hips again before moving you just like he did before, your crotch coming down to meet his slowly and cautiously as your mouth partially hung open at how good it actually felt, yuji staring at your expression with blown out pupils and nearly drooling over it.
but he wanted more, his hands moving you then to grind on him a little faster, his hips coming up to meet yours at the same time as you shyly met him halfway— quick and stuttery until all of a sudden you were full blown humping into each other like rabid dogs, your tiny whiny moans setting him the fuck off as he captured your lips again to make out with you, fearing if he let you quietly moan like that for his ears to selfishly drink up that he was going to end up busting in his pants.
“y—yuji…” you whimpered in between kisses.
“yeah baby?” his husky voice sent another electrical shock of ecstasy through your body, your fingers gripping his shirt in tiny fists as you didn’t even know what exactly you were pleading him for.
but he knew.
he wrapped his arms entirely around you and moved so that you were laying flat on your back now, yuji in between your legs as he kissed you sloppily while grinding himself back on you again, him literally mimicking how it would be to fuck you as you squeezed his biceps for support, your thin pajama shorts feeling his hard cock bulging from his pj pants and rutting against your cunt desperately with every hump.
yuji, literally trapped in a dimension of arousal and nasty fucking thoughts of you with every moan that slipped past your puffy soft lips, had him reaching and tugging down on the waist band of your shorts like an animal, your baby blue panties with a little ribbon bow in the middle making him nearly choke on his spit.
your hand quickly came to clasp around his wrist, stopping him.
“y—yuji my parents! i don’t know if we should—”
“oh fuck—” he whispered, looking up to the top of your staircase and down where your parents were sound asleep, gnawing so much on his bottom lip in cock blocked agony that he accidentally drew blood.
and you didn’t know why, but the urge was unforgiving as you reached up and cupped his hot sweaty cheeks, pulling his face down as you stuck your tongue out and licked over his bleeding lip.
yuji stared, eyes wide, before he let out a low guttural grown and shoved his face into the crook of your neck.
“fuck fuck fuck fuck—”
you were fucking killing him.
he rolled his leaky cock slowly into you again, his shoulders trembling at the cold feeling of his wet boxers that were literally covered in pre cum the moment your pretty plush thighs sat over his lap, you speaking up.
“m—maybe—”
he pulled back fast.
“yeah?”
“maybe if you just— look. that… that should be fine, right?”
“yeah yeah!” yuji’s invisible tail was practically wagging over your words. “look uh huh! just look baby.”
you bit your lip, slowly reaching down and tugging as both of yuji’s hands went flying down to help you, pulling them over your thighs and down to your ankles before setting them behind him on the couch with a soft thud.
you kept your thighs closed, shy and timid as you realized yuji hadn’t seen you like this yet… your cheeks flaring in embarrassment as he pulled your knees apart and gawked at the vision before him, yuji looking at you like you had built the entirety of rome by yourself with your bare hands.
you hadn’t noticed yet, but your panties were drenched— a patch of wet spread over your lips that literally outlined the anatomy of your pussy to a t, leaving little to the imagination as his eyes stayed locked on your clit in a complete trance.
“oh my god, pretty!…” he murmured, his index finger coming down to softly touch and rub your puffed up clit over your panties, you squeaking in response and slamming your thighs closed again.
“sorry! sorry!” he sputtered, frantic as he came down to peck little kisses on your cheek apologetically, your eyes shut, bashful. “did that hurt? i didn’t mean to i’m sorry—”
“n—no!” you shook your head and slowly peeked your eyes open. “it didn’t… just felt s—sensitive.”
his shoulders relaxed in relief, nodding, his eyes widening in delight when you spread your legs back open for him again, your panties literally stuck slick to your pussy at this point.
yuji’s fingers pressed against your folds, him wanting to just feel the way your little wet lips mushed up against his digits, his curious hand directing him slowly up over your clit and back down by your virgin hole as he breathed hard through his nose, trying to get himself to calm the fuck down over your cunt and not freak you out.
but what he was doing felt good, him having no idea as you pulled your bottom lip in between your teeth with your eyebrows screwed together in euphoria, his ears perking up at the sounds of your sweet little moans and whines the more pressure he applied to it.
and then he got an idea.
as you were distracted getting riled up by his fingers, yuji shoved his other hand under his wet pajama pants and boxers, pulling out his throbbing cock and pumping it a little as his angry tip leaked with every jerk— a drop oozing down and landing right on your nub before rolling over your panties as he breathed out a string of hushed curses.
yuji replaced the hand on your pussy with his cock, his length and tip pushing up in between your sopping cunt and back down, completely soiling your panties with a mix of your arousal and his pre cum as he rolled his hips into you again, you not noticing at all until both of his rough hands came to grip and squeeze over your inner thighs, your eyes fluttering open as you wondered why it felt way better than before, them bulging once you saw his thick long dick slipping and sliding hurriedly against your pussy.
“b—baby!” you moaned breathlessly, but yuji literally could not hear you as his dazed droopy eyes stayed focused on your swollen puss while he continued to rut.
“uh huh..?..” he panted. “what’s wrong sweetheart…”
your words lodged themselves in the back of your throat as a particular rough thrust made you choke and clamp your mouth shut, squeezing your eyes shut in response with your sensitive nub pulsing as you felt yuji’s leaky sticky cum all over you.
“does it— does it feel good?” his eyes finally trailed up to look at you, his already fucked out expression and flushed face forming a yummy pit in your stomach that you recognized as your release whenever you fingered yourself, except that feeling no where near as good as what you felt right fucking now.
“mhm..” you moaned and licked your lips.
yuji’s fingers slid up from your inner thighs and to the straps of your panties, fiddling and playing with them as he rolled his hips like a little perv, his tip at times falling and literally sinking into your gaping virgin hole a bit— your panties a thin stretchy wall that frustratingly stopped his cock from going, slipping back upward instead.
“baby…” he moaned lowly, whispering. “maybe we should just have sex right now…”
you gasped. “right now?! i don’t know yuji my— my parents— and we’ve never—”
he leaned down and sloppily kissed you, speaking in between each smack.
“they’re asleep it’s—” mmphf— “it’s okay—”
yuji already had his middle finger hooked under your wet panties as he started pulling down, you squeaking at the cold breeze hitting your bare clit.
“i want to but— hic!”
he rubbed his tip over your entrance a bit, pooling your juice up.
“what if— what if we get too loud? and they come downstairs—”
he shook his head. “i’ll keep on a lookout pretty don’t worry about it...” he murmured. “you just relax while i pump my cock in, yeah?”
you whimpered, nodding quickly and pathetically as you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down flush against your chest, suctioning tiny sucks on his jaw to keep you from moaning the loudest you’ve moaned all night as he started pushing in, yuji’s mind in a literal fucking state of delirium as his dick was finally gonna be buried in your cute pussy after wanting it for so long.
you hiccuped against his jaw, your arms gripping him tighter as he stretched you out so good, feeling a little pinch in your walls that made you spread your legs wider in attempts at alleviating it.
“ohhhh fuckkkk baby—” he moaned loud and you quickly clamped a hand over his mouth.
“shhh honey shhh—”
“m’sorry m’sorry m’sorry—”
his voice was muffled against your hand as he pumped deeper, your squeal catching itself in your throat and his body fucking shivering at the way your tight slobbering walls sucked him in without him having to even push, your hole clenching around him and pumping more strings of stray pre cum out inside you.
“my god do that again please do that again—” he panted, reeling his hips back slowly and pushing in at a steady rhythm.
“d—do what?” you panted, your eyes closing in pleasure.
“squeeze— shit!— squeeze me please please—” he begged, pressing wet open mouthed kisses on your cheeks as he licked up your little overstimulated tears.
“like— like this?”
you clenched your hole again and his body jerked, his choked moans huffing in your ear as he rolled and snapped his hips faster.
“mm! yuji my god—” you squealed and he placed a hand over your mouth, the both of you now covering over each others as he proceeded to drill his hips in, the couch squeaking with every messy hit.
your hand tightened over his lips the louder he moaned, your eyes silently pleading with him to be a little quieter, but him too lost in the milking of his cock and the way your fucked out face looked as he couldn’t connect the dots with what you were asking of him, suddenly your blurry brain coming into reasonable consciousness for a second as you became aware of the fact that you weren’t even using protection.
“b—baby—” you muffled against his hand. “we’re not using a— mmm! c—condom we need—”
smack smack smack—
“shit i don’t— i don’t have one sweetheart.” he stifled, and yuji only went faster then, harder and jerky as his awkward virgin hips jolted you up and down on him, your eyes rolling back. “s’okay i’ll just pull out m’kay? i’ll pull out—”
his snappy pace brought your brain back into your previous dumb erotic state, nodding dazedly as he scooched his hand down and shoved his middle and ring finger inside your wet mouth, your tongue slobbering over his digits before your lips lewdly closed around them and sucked.
yuji was not keeping a lookout for your parents.
“oh fuck baby you look so fucking pretty doing that…” he choked. “you look so so pretty under me and taking my dick—”
“mhm..” you moaned around his fingers, drool seeping out of your mouth and down your chin as you felt like you were on the brink of cumming and squelching all over him.
“i’m gonna pull out soon okay? i feel—” pant— “i feel like i’m cumming—”
you pulled back from his fingers with a pop and licked your lips, nodding vigorously as you squeezed your eyes painfully shut, your release washing over you like a prickly wave with your mouth hung wide open and your vision blowing bright white.
but in the midst of you creaming, you accidentally clamped your thighs shut around yuji as he tried to slip his dick out.
“fuck! i can’t—” pant— “baby open your legs please im gonna— fuck fuck fuck!—”
yuji’s cum pummeled inside you and filled you the absolute brim as he gasped and whined in your ear, his balls draining so much of it into you that it took no time at all for it to slip past your hole and onto your couch below, the both of you heaving heavily with your clothes stuck against your sweaty sticky bodies.
“are you—” he swallowed. “are you okay baby? i’m sorry i came inside—”
“it’s okay it wasn’t you—” you tried to regulate your breathing. “it— it was my fault… i trapped you in…”
you sheepishly looked at him and gnawed at the inside of your cheek in shame, your face only making him lazily grin and press a hard loving kiss to your cheek.
“it’s okay. we can figure it out later!”
he peeled away from you and sat up, his softening cock still buried inside as he slowly pulled out and watched the rest of his cum spurt out, taking one of his shaky fingers and collecting some before pushing it back in your hole.
“don’t put it back in yujiiii!” you whined.
“sorry! sorry sorry—” he grabbed your wrist gently and kissed the back of your hand, his pinky cheeks vibrant as he looked at you with a wobbly shy smile. “i— i couldn’t help myself…”
you giggled. “s’okay honey.”
he laid his body back over yours, being mindful not to squish you as he leaned some of his weight on his arms, cutely pecking your puffy lips over and over until he was satisfied with the amount, nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck after.
“m’glad my first time was with you yuji…” you murmured into his ear, your words causing his heart to literally bang against his chest as he felt like he was on cloud nine with you underneath him like that.
“i’m glad it was with you pretty.” he pushed, looking into your fucked out eyes with sincerity. “and i hope it stays that way. just my dick.”
you laughed loudly, your hand quickly coming up to cover your mouth as he giggled.
you pecked his nose sweetly and readjusted your hips, your cum covered pussy brushing against his cock again, the blood immediately rushing back to it faster than a speeding fucking bullet.
he traced a loving finger across your bottom lip delicately, a little grin on his face.
you quirked a brow. “what?”
“can we um—“ he quickly kissed you. “can we try doggy style right now?”
a university student studying English, I am 21 years old,
I am from a family of 7, we lost our home and part of the family,
I need help to save my family, we are living something catastrophic since the October war, we are in a bad situation, we could die in an hour,
I don't know if I will live longer or not, but I am trying for everyone here,
I am collecting money to buy food and clothes, and partly to find a temporary home, but the biggest part will be to get out of Gaza to see a life where there is some safety,
please help us, we need you, you are our only hope university student studying English, I am 21 years old,
I am from a family of 7, we lost our home and part of the family,
I need help to save my family, we are living something catastrophic since the October war, we are in a bad situation, we could die in an hour,
I don't know if I will live longer or not, but I am trying for everyone here,
I am collecting money to buy food and clothes, and partly to find a temporary home, but the biggest part will be to get out of Gaza to see a life where there is some safety,
please help us, we need you, you are our only hope.
Hello, I am Nadine from Gaza. I am one of a family of 8 people. I was at t… Nadine Ismail Rajab needs your support for Support Nadine's Drea
“Baby- it’s too hot for this shit, cut it out.” Toji grumbles as you once again, cling to him. It’s the hottest night of the summer and Toji is probably sweating in every crevice in his body. It doesn’t make it better when you cling to him like a koala. He tries to move you gently, just wanting a little room between your bodies. That turns into a failure as you tangle your legs together with his, only holding onto him tighter. Don’t get him wrong, he loves when you two cuddle. But not when it was hotter than any hell.
He finally gets a sense of relief when he hears the shuffle of the sheets behind him. The bed feels a little lighter and the room gets a little too quiet. Toji turns around and furrows his brows. “The fuck?” He leans over the edge of the bed and sees you lying on the floor with a pillow.
“What are you doing down there?” No answer so he tried again. “Baby get off the floor, that can’t be comfortable.”
“No you hate me.”
That causes him to scoff. “When did I say that shit?”
“You didn’t want to cuddle me.”
“It’s like a million fuckin’ degrees in here. It’s not because of you, I just don’t want to sweat my balls off.”
“Kay.”
So you really weren’t going to come back to bed and that causes him to raise an eyebrow. He stares at your back for a few minutes before getting up and sitting on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. “You can get off the floor now, I’ll hold you… or whatever.” When he gets no answer he sighs loudly. “Fuckin’ fine.”
That’s how the both of you end up on the floor with your arms and legs wrapped around him. You basically use him as a pillow, but it’s okay. As long as you’re comfortable and happy he’s fine with a little back ache and sweat. “Lucky I love you…” Toji mutters before placing a kiss on your head and closing his eyes with a quiet sigh, but you don’t miss the slight upturn of his lips.
As a child, we thought the whole world could fit into our fists. And, growing up, we realize a lot of things. We try to put our dreams into our pockets, but they no longer fit in. We see the stars and wish they could love us back; we aim to make peace with things we don't talk about and the loss we never asked for. Life happens between the space where we were children who believed they could be anything they wished to be and where we still have faith that things can work out, but that trust in oneself comes with realizations, pain, loss, acceptance, learning, and surrendering.
𝝑𝝔 cool boyfriend sukuna x loser girlfriend reader !
just small stories from cool bf sukuna and his loser gf’s relationship!! set in college/university, with characters’ non-specified ages being over 18 :) sfw and nsfw!!
you can find more content about this series under the tag “cool bf sukuna x loser gf reader”, where i answer questions and stuff!
a little bit about the special treatment loser gf gets…
a little bit about sukuna teasing and loving his loser gf…
a little bit about loser gf imitating sukuna…
a little bit about dry humping with sukuna…
a little bit about drunk sukuna being a softie…
a little bit about sukuna getting jealous…
a little bit about sukuna seeing you in a skirt for the first time…
a little bit about sukuna and reader’s first meeting…
a little bit about sukuna and his loser gf yapping…
a little bit about you helping sukuna dye his hair black…
a little bit about sukuna showing you off…
a little bit about how sukuna deals with a difficult question his loser gf asks him…
a little bit about cool bf sukuna and his loser gf’s first date…
a little bit about loser gf ignoring sukuna…
a little bit about sukuna and his loser gf watching ‘the notebook’…
a little bit about what sukuna thinks of his relationship with his loser gf…
a little bit about loser gf meeting sukuna’s family…
a little bit about loser gf doubting her relationship with sukuna…
a little bit about cool bf sukuna and his loser gf reader playing basketball…
a little bit about reader’s first meeting with sukuna’s teammates…
a little bit about sukuna fingering his pretty loser gf for the first time…
a little bit about sukuna and his gf’s first time…
a little bit about loser gf babysitting yuuji…
a little bit about yorozu messing with loser reader…
a little bit about sukuna buying his loser gf a red lipstick…
a little bit about sukuna reassuring reader after she fails a test…
a little bit about sukuna taking care of his sick gf…
a little bit about sukuna being absent for a few days…
a little bit about sukuna and reader on the beach…
a little bit about sukuna and drunk loser gf…
a little bit about studying with cool bf sukuna…
a little bit about trying “is that seat taken?” with sukuna…
a little bit more about sukuna and reader’s relationship…
a little bit of happy birthday with sukuna…
a little bit about ‘i love you’s with sukuna…
a little bit about sukuna with reader who is struggling with saying ‘no’…
a little bit about sukuna doing the voicing gf’s makeover trend…
a little bit about reader getting injured…
a little bit about visiting the zoo with yuuji…
a little bit about reader being scared of needles…
a little bit about sukuna jerking off to reader riding her pillow…
a little bit about reader feeling lonely and sad without sukuna…
a little bit about sukuna getting angry at someone talking bad about you…
a little bit about having an argument with sukuna…
a little bit about sukuna meeting your friends…
a little bit about sukuna’s teammates…
a little bit about baking with sukuna…
a little bit about the aftermath of the argument…
a little bit about reader getting stood up by her friends…
a little bit about reader crushing on sukuna…
a little bit about reader on her first shift as a nurse…
a little bit about sukuna’s piercings…
a little bit of reader trying to be more direct...
