#gojo geto nanami and toji bein the four horsemen of academia

[sukunasun]

bestie just imagine ivy league!boyfriend geto 🥴🥴

oh.

from above, they are untouchable, unapproachable, two gods looking down from where they sit in the balcony taking in the best and brightest, all so young and free and ready to change the world. geto sits at the back of a lecture hall with his chin tucked into his palm and gojo right next to him as their eyes scan across the room nonchalantly. with his feet kicked up atop the mahogany railing, gojo chews on homemade daifukus, already bored out of his mind, then shoots you a smirk when he's caught you staring, "another one of your fangirls," he teases geto.

he just so happens to be one of those fleeting thoughts, the kind that disappears just as quickly as it came. how does he even exist, it's impossible, and you're so close to believing he's just a figment of one's imagination because—"he's a genius you know, geto plays the guitar, speaks seven languages, and saves manta rays in his free time," says the girl next to you, bragging about this man you barely knew.

she's memorized his schedule and you know this because she isn't the only one, apparently everyone on campus is in on it too. and you don't understand why he's gotten every woman making heart eyes at him, sighing dreamily as he lays on a bench in broad daylight reading under a tree, high pitched voices asking 'please could you tutor me?' it's all so unbelievable.

you think he's pretentious, overly critical, impossibly difficult to impress, so hard to please, and you know what, he's not as nice as people think he is—"it's an attempt, although not a very good one. i wished i had the courage to be proud of something so...mediocre?" he tells you after reading a draft for a story you were thinking of submitting. plopping the printed copy in front of him like it was too gross to hold, to touch, almost as if he's offended that you would call it writing. you're on the verge of asking him why, wanting him to explain himself but you're taken aback, caught off guard by his bluntness, mouth gaping like a fish out of water. "it's amateur work at best, maybe you could try publishing for a less well-known journal," each word is like a dagger to your pride, cutting deep, all your flaws on display, but he smiles through it all like he's glad that he's making you feel like a failure.

he infuriates you, so confused are your feelings when you see him all the time. tucked by a quiet corner in the library, he looks over your revisions a week later, "it's much better this time, you're doing well," he says, it's the first time he's given you a compliment, a real one that isn't backhanded or rude and warmth blooms across your body when you hear it because it feels so good, so sickly sweet and viscous coursing down your spine, dipping low down to that tight crevice between your thighs when you think about the implications. picturing him saying it over and over, he could take you right here, press you up against the books, hot breaths puffing out across your shoulder, my good girl gritting past his clenched teeth.

it doesn't start sinking in just what a complete and utter babe he is until you start telling yourself it wouldn't hurt to indulge in the eye candy. he looks incredible in anything; blazers, sweaters, leather jackets and white button-up shirts, vintage watches around his wrists, and glasses that sit on his face like they were made for him, knows exactly what he's doing when he looks so distinguished, so sexy, dressed down in t-shirts repping harvard, brown, columbia, yale, given to him as gifts because he's done talks and tours and crash courses, a football jersey in strikingly bright neon colours, and especially when he's in the pieces of clothing that don't hide his physique, all skin and muscle on display, at the gym, by the pool, at a frat party chugging down grey goose and all the orange gatorade man has to offer, sweat dripping down toned pecs, his hair sticking to the back of his neck.

nothing prepares you for that side of him, that this intelligent and insightful man had been wild, playful, and a little bit mean just for his pleasure, just because he could. he is a killer out for your heart, there is no way you'd ever survive the sound of his laugh, the way it carries over into your dreams, your thoughts. his voice breaking down latin and greek, tongue traveling down the palate, curling around syllables and rhymes, analyzing homer, virgil, amor animi arbitrio sumitur, non ponitur, the way his smile curls when he gets to his favourite line of a midsummer's night dream, "love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind", he stares right at you as he says it.

the same way he stares at you from across the room at a house party. only this time there had been something else hidden in them, something heated, his lips parting around every breath, eyes taking you in under dim lights and his hand itches to touch. you had danced for him then, turning his brain to mush, at a loss for words the more he's entranced by the sway of your hips, blinded by your beauty. there was no need for reason or thought or any need for words at all. just a girl wanting to make her move, make a claim. people watch from around the room, jaws dropping and eyebrows raised at the sight of you, who dares to seduce a man like this, he's isn't straight-laced by any means but surely he'd be above it all. if only they knew he's got a weak heart.

locked up in gojo's room, the muffled sounds of the gaudiest, bass-heavy songs bounce and echo through the house, all the club anthems and trap beats, so seductive it makes your tummy flip with anticipation, with need. despite how it shakes the walls, you hear it loud and clear, the hisses and groans he's letting out, your moans caught in the sheets when he weighs you down atop you, neruda poems he's reciting off the top of his head, "i want to do to you what spring does to the cherry trees," he whispers into your skin, pressing kisses down the curve of your back. even here he can't help but be a nerd, arm curling around your waist as the other peels your panties off, his fingers slip inside and you forget everything else but his name and the way your heart beats when he looks you in the eye, so intense, so passionate. it wasn't long ago that he'd rejected your work, thought of you as an amateur, that you would never be on his level. now as he watches you come apart, with perfect moans and a pleading face, he thinks he's definitely falling hopelessly in love.

"oh how the mighty have fallen," gojo muses. judging by how geto's got mussed up hair, swollen lips, his tie knotted a little differently today, it doesn't take a lot to guess what went down the night before. impressed, but less with geto and more with the woman who keeps him up at night, abandoning his work, leaving behind study notes he's yet to prepare, the thousands of words he has to keep up with for his daily reading, the many, many, citations he's yet to complete, all the people who want more help, more answers, more of him. "i never thought i'd see the day," gojo hides a smile, glad that at least one god comes back down to earth.

they make a trip down to cambridge to see nanami and they find him in his office buried under stacks of books and paper wrappers stained with sausage roll crumbs. gojo and geto look on pitifully, making themselves at home in his office by opening up the curtains, letting some light in. they pick some books off the floor, and nanami would thank them if he weren't ripping into an undergrad, "you lack articulation, your topic of choice is too broad, you also have weak theoretical foundations. i want to see a new draft by tomorrow and for the love of god use spellcheck," it rolls off his tongue so quickly like he's been repeating them, rubbing at his temples before he gestures for his student to leave the room.

so they head out to a nice field and he grumbles on about how much he hates his job over a round of croquet and cigarettes, tells them he hates the weather because it's too cold and his skin is drying out, can't stand the food and misses that tokyo bakery he used to frequent, all he wants is a beach house and some spare time. "i'll go somewhere far, just me and my books," stubbing his cigarette in an ashtray and already reaching for another but he doesn't mention the dream of having a beautiful wife or a healthy child because the three of them can't discuss anything without it turning into a debate and will always fail to agree on a consensus when it comes to love.

gets up before the sun rises because they decided to join in for rowing practice. it's such a treat when you catch them standing by a lake in tight shorts, muscles dripping with sweat, geto looks up and shoots you a wink as he pushes his hair back, fresh-faced and so gorgeous under the morning sun. it's 7 am and you're dreading finals but it doesn't compare to the heat you feel when he waves at you and you can only think of the swell of his bicep. best part is you know just how lovely it feels when you wrap a hand around it later on. like it belongs to you along with every other part of him. he's walking down to the pub with you, nanami and gojo trail behind in old harris tweed jackets and sweater vests, somehow it looks like it was made to fit them and not at all like they're playing dress-up. london is beautiful at night but you can only look at the man next to you, stare into his eyes, gleaming and so full with love when he stares back.