Sakuna’s Pampered Mutt

“A-Are you hurt?” She tried to sound serious, demanding that he answer her, but her concern was evident- fearful that her father might have gotten hurt.

Something tightened in Sukuna's chest -just slightly- at the question. Of course that would be her first concern... Just like you, her beautiful mother, always worried about him.

“No, brat,” he finally answered with a lazy smirk, one sharp nail brushing aside her bangs before ruffling her hair, “it’s not my blood.”

Her eyes narrowed, processing this information until she pointed a small finger at his forearm where a vivid red pattern stood out against his black tattoos.

“Does that mean it belongs to someone else?”

Sukuna's laugh was dark and low, edged with something dangerous, “Someone who fucked with the wrong pers-…”

“Bad language tax,” she replied automatically, but the reprimand was distracted, secondary to her question.

“Put it on my tab,” he sighed, “but yeah… your old man had to take care of a bad guy.”

Her ice cream cup clinked softly against the table as it nearly slipped from her tiny hands just as she gasped. Her entire little body stiffening, the mug wobbling in her grip. Her eyes went huge, mouth forming a perfect O. She whispers under her breath loud enough for him to hear, “Papa… is a superhero???”

Sukuna laughed at that, “Not even fucking close,” he said, red eyes shimmering with amusement, “but the bastard had it coming.”

She gasped dramatically at the swears, then immediately giggled- as if what he just said didn’t even phase her, “You said more bad words,” she whispered, “Mama's gonna be mad.”

“Your mother has heard worse,” he said, mouth quirking up at one corner.

“If you’re not a super hero, then what are you, papa?”

Sukuna's eyes darkened, “I'm the thing heroes fight against,” he said simply. “the monster that lurkes in the shadows.”

She frowned, “But monsters are bad,” she declared, “and you’re not bad. You protect mama and I.”

The certainty in her voice -the absolute, unwavering faith- made Sukuna's chest tighten again... The very feeling he'd thought long dead until you had somehow revived it, and this small extension of himself had brought fully to life again.

“The world's not that simple, kid,” he said, more gently than anyone who knew him would believe possible.

She nodded, “Like how you tell me stealing is wrong, but then you stole the last cookie yesterday?”

Sukuna’s expression went blank, not expecting that to be her example of how the world isn’t simple, “That's… different. My house, my cookies.”

She gave him a cheesy grin before laughing- this moment where she was confronting the violent reality of who and what her father was. “I think,” she announced, reaching out fearlessly to touch a particularly vivid splash of blood on his shirt, “that you're like the dragon, Sylus, in my book!”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious, “How's that?”

“He’s scary and breathes fire and everyone's afraid of him,” she explained, tiny hands flying in the air now with pure excitement, “But!! That’s because he is protecting his treasure.”

Her eyes never left his, “We're your treasure. Me and mama! So you have to be scary sometimes to keep us safe! You’re a special kind of hero!”

Something dangerously close to emotion threatened to close Sukuna's throat. This child -this impossibility- making sense of him in ways adults never could. Accepting the violence and the blood as just another aspect of protection…

“Sure, something like that…” he managed, voice wavering ever so slightly.

She nodded once, decision made, “Then it's okay.” She patted his cheek with small, sticky fingers, leaving a smear of pink ice cream among the blood. “But mama is going to be mad about the shirt. It's white… erm, well… was...”

Sukuna snorted, the tension of the moment broken by her practical observation, “Your mother's seen worse.”

“Worse shirts?” she asked innocently.

“Worse everything,” he muttered, straightening to his full towering height, “now finish your ice cream while I clean up.”

As Sukuna discarded his shirt he looked back at his little girl…

A hero. What a fucking joke…

This morning, both of you left your apartment at the same time, you for the office and Sukuna for the gym. He tossed his bag into his Jeep, then walked over to your car to kiss you goodbye. You smiled as his lips met yours, the scent of his cologne providing a comforting anchor in the hectic morning. Murmuring, "I love you," you then got into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

Only when you turned the wheel to pull out of the parking spot did the sound happen again. That click-click-click echoed off the low ceiling and the concrete pillars of the underground garage. You barely registered it, your mind already on the morning's first meeting, as you straightened and drove toward the exit ramp.

Behind you, Sukuna had stopped dead in his tracks. He hadn’t even reached for the door handle yet; he just stood there, head tilted, eyes narrowed, tracking and dissecting the sound until your car disappeared outside. His jaw tightened in that specific way when he’d found a problem that needed solving.

—

The glass doors of the office building hiss open a few minutes after five. You’re digging through the chaos of your bag, fingers brushing past pens and receipts as you desperately search for your keys.

Two coworkers walk with you—Hiroshi, an analyst who has been awkwardly trying to find excuses to linger by your desk for the past week, and Miyuki from Accounting, still complaining about the breakroom coffee. Your mind is still half-buried in the spreadsheets you’ve been staring at for the last eight hours, and you’re only half-listening to the conversation.

“I’m just saying, if we don't get a new espresso machine, I’m going to start charging the company for my own sanity,” Miyuki sighs dramatically, fanning herself with a folder.

You offer a nod, your eyes scanning the lot as you head mechanically to the spot where you left your car in the morning. But the spot… is empty.

A surge of cold panic jolts you out of your workspace haze. You stop short, your gaze flicking frantically between the painted lines of the parking space and the surrounding cars. At the same time, Hiroshi stops too, his eyes fixed on the visitor’s lane near the curb.

“Uh, is that your car?” he asks, confused, pointing toward the curb. “And... who’s that guy?”

You follow his gesture, feeling a strange flutter in your heart. There, parked illegally in the visitor’s lane and shining after a fresh wash that definitely wasn’t there this morning, is your car. And leaning against the hood with an unmistakably casual arrogance that should also be illegal is Sukuna.

He’s a stark contrast to the suits and briefcases leaving the building. Wearing an oversized black tee that drapes over his broad shoulders and gray sweats, he seems like he’s from a different world. One hand is tucked into his pocket while the other scrolls lazily through his phone. The golden hour light hits the tattoos on his face and forearms, making the ink look like it’s glowing.

“Oh,” Miyuki says, her eyebrows shooting up. “Did you call a mobile mechanic? Is he the repair guy?”

Hiroshi scoffs, puffing out his chest just a fraction. “He looks a bit... intense for a repair guy. Hey, buddy! You lost?” he calls out, his voice slightly too loud.

Sukuna slowly tilts his head, pockets his phone, and pushes off the hood, his eyes drifting over Hiroshi with bored indifference. Then his gaze finds yours, and a broad, smug smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“That faint clicking you were ignoring was a failing CV joint, brat,” he calls out, his voice rough and low, cutting through Hiroshi's fragile confidence. “If you’d hit a pothole on the way home, the entire front end would’ve snapped. You’d be calling me from a ditch.”

The "repair guy" just called you brat with an unnerving familiarity that makes Miyuki’s jaw drop, and both your coworkers go silent.

“Oh, and I’m the husband,” Sukuna adds before you can even open your mouth.

At this point, Hiroshi looks like he’s trying to figure out how to un-ask the question and disappear from the planet.

You look from your car to Sukuna, your brain finally putting the pieces together. “Wait... you came here and took it? How did you even get here?”

Sukuna lets out a huff of laughter, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out your spare keys, dangling them in front of him.

“Yeah,” he answers, stepping closer until his cologne overwhelms every other scent around. “You were busy in meetings, and I wasn’t letting you drive that death trap another mile. I had Kenji bring me over with the spare set around ten.”

“You spent your whole afternoon off under my car?” You beam at him, feeling a warm ache in your chest, just like every other time he does something absolutely thoughtful and devoted while acting like he’s just annoyed by the inconvenience. “Kuna, you didn’t have to do that. I could’ve brought it in Saturday.”

You offer your shocked coworkers a quick wave before Sukuna’s hand comes up to rest at the back of your neck. His fingers are a comforting weight that instantly melts away the last of your workday stress. He leans down, his thumb softly tracing your jawline.

“Saturday is for the Stardew and for making you scream,” he rasps quietly straight into your ear, his voice dropping into that dangerous tone. “I’m not spending it under a lift because you’re too stubborn to admit your car was crying for help.”

You can’t help the wide grin spreading across your face as your hands reach up to cup his face, pulling him down for a deep, thankful kiss.

“So... you did it because you're a hero? My knight in greasy armor?”

Sukuna’s smirk widens as his eyes flash with that spark of mischief. He wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you tightly against his side, then steers you toward the car.

“I did it because I’m not having my wife drive around in a car that sounds like a bag of loose bolts. It’s embarrassing. People see you pull into the garage, and they’re gonna think I don't know how to maintain my own equipment,” he corrects flatly, and you roll your eyes at him.  

Reaching past you, he pulls the passenger’s side door open. 

“Now get in. I’m starving, and you’re buying me dinner for saving your life.”

“I'm buying? You’re the one who committed grand theft auto!”

He winks at you, the smugness practically radiating off him as he ushers you into the seat.

“Consider it a convenience fee. Move it, brat. I want the expensive sushi.”

And then his signature arrogant smile is wiped clean off his face.

Then suddenly all that jealousy disappears from him at once. Now his cocky flat ass is in checkmate. Now he’s been properly humbled.

Because you really are exactly as Suguru has made you out to be. A soft and nymphic little creature. Heaven-sent.

And here Satoru thought Suguru was exaggerating; but no, there was no exaggeration.

You were just as beautiful as the portrait Suguru painted in Satoru’s mind of you.

You.

Oh my god, you.

It’s you.

Satoru knows with astrological intuition that it’s you who he’s going to fall in love with. It’s an acute feeling.

You’re it.

This is it.

You’re the love of my life.

This is the meaning of my entire existence.

We’re going to kiss, go on three dates, get engaged, travel, fuck in every city, get married in Paris, and then have five kids in five years.

He’s thought all this when you’ve only exchanged strangerly hellos, by the way.

Then you sit down to talk.

Satoru looked at you, and looked at you, and didn’t stop looking at you; it’s like he was marvelling down the corridors of the Louvre, totally captivated.

For the first twenty minutes, he was so thrown off his game that he couldn’t speak fluidly—kept muddling his mother tongue and English.

But he pulled himself together after a brief pep talk in the bathroom. Then he was his normal self again.

He tufted at his hair—liked to keep it an eccentric mess—returned to the table with a serene smile and politely took his seat. Then he stole all your attention, leaving Suguru to sizzle there with all the jealousy a ‘friend’ is allowed to have.

Never mind the fact Satoru’s a walking art piece, but he’s a talking one, too; a prose like poetry in his speech—the crackle of his voice; it goes straight south for you and makes it nearly impossible for you to sit still, or act entirely normal.

Finally seeing the girl he’s heard talked about for months in the flesh makes something click in his mind; like oh, this is who Suguru’s been talking about.

It makes sense.

Of course; how could anyone shut up about you?

You’ve got this electricity, subdued but all there and nearly palpable in the air around you. The way you take people into your heart with open arms, so warmly and invitingly, is something new to Satoru who has grown up in a home devoid of any semblance of affection. Why do you think he’s glued to Suguru? Why he’s so quickly jealous of anyone who dares to snatch his precious little Sugu away? But now he’ll allow for one exception; the pretty smiling moonbeam sitting right opposite him.

He notices. He smiles.

♥︎

It's a nice cafe; sleek and clean, bright and airy. Potted ferns drooping tendrils nearly into your coffee cup with how low they reach.

It’s this cafe in which Satoru had spent most of his days curled up in the corner with his drawing tablet.

Hiding in the corner was very necessary, considering he was scribbling penises.

Like.

Real-deal dicks.

The main attraction of this place was the wall mural, signed with an infinity symbol and two initials: G.S.

Sensual and erotic, with more soul in it than any pornographic piece you’ve ever consumed. That’s the way people describe the work of art in this shop.

It’s a big piece, must have taken forever to complete, but the result of Satoru’s hard hours of work is a masterpiece which turned this little place into a tourist hotspot.

And you can’t stop staring at it for the first few minutes.

A naked woman laid in wait in the depths of a forest. The composition tells the story of a—

“—nymph in wait of her lover, her body aching for his touch, but he’s dead in the river in which she dips her toes. She’s arched in agony, the agony that’s specific to an unfulfilled lusting desire.”

Satoru beams proudly, explaining the art piece to you. It sounds like he’s reflected on it for a whole lifetime with how lucidly he articulates himself.

“The manager commissioned me to paint it two summers ago.”

Suguru interjects, “The mural in the nightclub we met at?—Satoru did that, too.”

“Meh, that one, sure, but this one is way cooler—I mean, who wouldn’t want to stare at the female form all day? It’s a feast for the eyes. Nothing can move the soul quite like a woman.”

Satoru hooks you right there. You liked him. You liked the way he spoke. You liked what he spoke about. He was everything.

He shines a gleaming smile and reels you right into his soul—he’s practically leaning over the table to talk to you.

It’s certainly not loud enough in this coffee shop to warrant such proximity—he just wants an excuse to be closer to you. The excuse being that he can’t hear you over the grinding and whirring of machinery behind the barista bar.

Oh... any excuse in the book to get a little closer, right?

To squeeze the distance between us into infinitesimally smaller lengths until I—

“—fall into you, Mazzy Star; that’s all I listened to the day I painted this. And I ruined my favorite shirt, too, but it was well worth it. What do you think?”

“Lustful agony, huh?” you begin, looking for your words, “I like that.”

“It’s an acute kind of pain, isn’t it?”

“Very.”

This is the point at which he pops the cap off his chapstick and applies it to his puckered lips while maintaining strict eye contact with you. And you know with blue eyes it’s like a train wreck; hard to look away from no matter how horrifying.

Now worse, you can imagine, is watching a man with such kissable lips make an erotic scene out of reapplying chapstick to his lips.

His lips aren’t even chapped, he just does it out of habit; it reminds you that his lips are right there, it’s the smallest hint that he’s ready to be kissed.

Suguru clears his throat.

“Anyways.”

♥︎

You laugh and it destroys him.

Oh god, it’s agony.

He’s just met you, and yet he’s smitten already.

I mean totally and pathetically smitten to the point it’s got his best friend doing a double take because Suguru really didn’t expect you and his best friend to get along so well—like two stars in the same constellation. Like you were meant to be.

I mean seriously, Suguru’s mouth is agape in dumbfounded awe at the chemistry between you and Satoru. It’s sodium and water. Erupting, violently.

It’s a little bit of a punch to the gut, too, because Suguru thought you and him had something special — platonically, he swears. Totally platonic.

“Fuck, I wish I could have met you sooner.” groans Satoru at some point, “Suguru, shame on you! Ah, but I can't blame you for wanting someone like this all to yourself. I'd also love to have her all to myself.” he smirked.

“Ha-ha... stop flirting with me, you dog.” you smile bashfully, avoiding his blue gaze.

“Not a chance.” he winked, chin cupped in palm.

The waiter comes by your table to take your orders. You don’t know why, but he seems like an evil barista. Nose upturned, eyeliner all nearly melted off, hair a rancid yellow, hip tilt very sassy and voice very exasperated.

Anyways, you place your orders.

“—Americano.” you request,

“—Make it two.” Suguru adds,

“—Make it three.” Satoru chimes in, “Thank you.”

Suguru cocks his head at Satoru and gives him a funny look.

“Look at that; I think we’re meant for each other.”

“Eh? Satoru, what’s going on? You never drink Americanos.”

He shrugs his shoulders, “I’m going through a mid-youth crisis. Anyways—” he redirects his attention to you, “Do you draw?” he asks.

“No, not at all.” you answer, “Maybe a stick figure, but that’s where my abilities end.”

“I like that.” Satoru murmurs softly, almost affectionately. “See, I don’t get along with other artists. They annoy me. Totally crimp my style.”

“I think you mean cramp your style.” Suguru corrects.

Satoru waves a dismissive hand, only looking at you.

“So, what do you do?”

He’s leaning in.

Blue eyes lock on you.

The Americanos arrive to your table.

And Suguru’s quaking quietly, just waiting for Satoru to say something horrifyingly embarrassing in front of this girl he regards so highly.

The thread is about to snap.

You reply. “Nothing fun, I’m working in tourism management and I hate it with every fibre of my being—been trying to quit since I started—but what about you? What do you do for a living? Just murals?”

Oh god, here it comes.

Suguru braces himself for impact, like a grenade of cringe is about to be dropped on the table.

“I draw dicks.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, I’m a hentai artist.” he shrugs coolly. “I post my stuff online, recently got the second one published... in hard-copy. I have a substantial following, so, all’s been going well. But yeah. Penis. Vagina. Copulation. That’s my thing.”

You stutter. He smirks.

“Oh. Wow? Um.”

Your brows raise so high they nearly become a part of your hairline.

Suguru dives on the grenade before it explodes.

“—in other words, he doesn’t touch grass often.” he jokes to ease the tension.

“Yes I do. And Suguru’s middle name happens to be Grass.”

“Okay now.”

You lean in closer, breasts grazing the surface of the table, curious rather than appalled.

“Hentai? So, you mean—like, sexual intercourse?” you ask to confirm, totally dumbfounded.

“Yes—like, total coitus.” he mimics, leaning in closer. “Inner labia, outer labia, et cetera.”

And ka-boom.

Suguru’s hiding behind his cup—but the cup is transparent, so it’s all a cruel joke. His face has completely reddened.

Meanwhile...

Satoru is serenely calm.

Like, zero shame.

He watches you process what he’s just told you, like it’s a fun game he plays with everyone new he meets. Something like a test to see if you’re on the same wavelength as him.

He’s met every kind of person; the prudes, the freaks, and everything in-between. Right now, he’s trying to figure out where you lay on the spectrum—hoping you’re leaning more towards freak.

“I’m not a weirdo,”

“—lies.” coughs Suguru.

Satoru raises a finger, “I just appreciate sex for what it is; an art form.”

You squirm a little, rub your thighs together—Satoru’s eyes flick down, then up.

Were you appalled? No, not when a feverish smile was twitching subtly at your lips like this.

Excited? More probable, considering you were shifting around in your seat as if the chair suddenly became uncomfortable.

“I... well,” you begin blubbering, heat rising to the top of your cheeks.

The ice shifts in your Americano.

Satoru lowers his voice a whole octave—you feel him deep in your tummy.

“There’s no need to be shy,” he purrs, “we’re all adults, aren’t we? I think we can agree on this.”

“—agree on what, exactly?” Suguru joins, noting how Satoru’s practically leaned over half the table to hear you—and is that really necessary? The coffee bean grinder wasn’t that loud.

“Sex is art; in all its heavenly, nasty, glory. Sex is an artform and prudish people are the killers of that artistic expression. Sex is like a small, holy, inter-dimensional space in which souls talk to each other.”

And then came the contrarian, barging in, trampling all over Satoru’s philosophy.

“Sex means different things to different people.” said Suguru. “I think it’s vulgar to make drawings of it. But that’s just me.”

“The ancient Egyptians liked pornography—Turin Erotic Papyrus. And if you think sex is just some vulgar, nasty thing, think again. It’s a sexual union, baby. Kama Sutra. You should read it.”

“No thanks.” Suguru politely refused, “Not for me.”

Your eyes flit between them, watching the tension rise as they begin to bicker—and you don’t know what else to do but just sit there, stifling your amusement, as they go back on forth; sex is art—not always, it depends on the person—no, sex is art—that’s just what you believe, Satoru—ohhh, Suguru, purring my name like that again? Do you wanna fight?—do you wanna fight?

Eventually Satoru turns to you, “Help me out; he’s being stubborn.”

But you only shrug in response, “I don’t know. I’ve never contemplated it—sex is a bit... boring to me, if I’m being honest.”

Satoru’s eyes appear to gleam—his irises, so vividly blue, scare the shit out of you right then.

He looks mad, like only a poet or artist could be.

Then you feel a warming touch of the softest hands—Satoru grasped your hands very gently, looked you in the eyes, and moved like a swan closer to you.

“No, no... pretty baby.” he spoke like you’d upset him, “Let me enlighten you.”

“Satoru.” comes Suguru’s soft warning, “We’ve just met the sweet girl. Don’t give her The Monologue.”

“But—”

“—shut up and drink your coffee.” Suguru smiles.

“No fun...” mutters Satoru, releasing your hands with reluctance, bringing his Americano to his lips.

The air feels tight and electric. You were waiting for whatever Satoru was about to say, holding your breath—ready to be enlightened by the blue-eyed madman.

Until you were totally cockblocked by a slightly jealous Suguru.

♥︎

Suguru’s praying for something to break the tension—something to grab onto, to stabilize the situation.

Then it comes. A comedic relief.

Satoru takes a sip of his Americano—the ice shuddering loudly in his venti cup—and then his entire face shrinks into itself the moment the bitter drink hits his taste buds. He blinks rapidly as if he was personally offended by the beverage.

“—oh.” Satoru grimaces.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“Nothing!”

Suguru’s sobbing behind his interlocked fingers, elbows on the table—trying but failing to contain his weeping bout of laughter.

“He hates bitter things.”

“Go figure! Then why’d you order it, silly?” you laugh—Satoru struggles.

He struggles with his Americano. He struggles with how nice and inviting you’re being to him, despite him just admitting that he likes drawing people having.

“Ngh—thought I’d try something new... at least I’ve got sweet company to make up for this.” he flirts.

“—how charming.” you purr back.

Satoru looks at you. He really looks at you. No, you don’t understand—nobody has ever looked at you like that before. He didn’t look with just the simple animalistic hunger of a man, nor the curiosity of a stranger; he looked at you like an artist pondering his muse, with pure admiration for your features.

In this moment, he’s thinking about how to sketch you. Memorizing. The wrinkles, your smile, the shape of your face, your essence.

His eyes fall to your breasts. He can’t help that it happens—nor can he fight himself from framing the image of your soft cleavage in his mind. It’s for safekeeping later, when he draws your portrait.

If only he could stare for longer, learn every detail of your face, or better yet capture your expression when you reach orgasmic bliss.

Satoru stares you dead in the eye.

I wonder what you look like when you cum.

That’s the thought behind his baby blues. He wanted your O-shaped face in his portfolio.

The moment is disrupted. Bursts like a needled balloon.

“My shift starts soon.” Suguru’s voice breaks the small moment of silence between you and Satoru.

He rose from his seat, black hair falling over his shoulder. Satoru looks away from you.

“—whaaat? Can’t you afford to be a little late?” Satoru instantly pleaded, but it was pretty evident that he was jumping at the idea of getting alone time with you.

“Have you met my boss?” Suguru joked. “She’s probably plotting how to fire me as we speak.”

“N’aw... well, see you tonight?—maybe I’ll bring along some pretty company. What do you say?”

Satoru looks at you.

You’re lighting up at the suggestion.

“Sure. Just tell me where—I’m not one to drink, though.”

“N’aw, don’t worry; I’ll mix you something virgin.” Suguru winks at you. “Text you later. Satoru? Behave.”

“No promises.” Satoru smirks.

Suguru leaves.

And now it’s just the two of us.

Satoru exhales like he’s been holding his breath in the entire time, and flashes a cute lopsided smile your way.

Finally. We can be alone together.

♥︎

Satoru’s been sat cross-legged and shrimped over on the cafe chair — and you’ve spent an hour marvelling curiously at the strangeness of a man sitting so wrongly on a chair, spent this hour listening to his unending yap about sex is art.

He’s still going; on and on, surreptitiously inching closer to you until suddenly he couples with you on the boothside. Oh yes, he’s smooth about it—just showing you his sketchbook. No funny business.

“Be not afraid,” he warns, hesitating for dramatic effect as he opens the first page, “—you will see a lot of dicks.”

“A little phallus never hurt nobody.” you shrug, admittedly unprepared for what he’s about to show you.

“Well, they’re not little, per se.”

He opens his sketchbook.

And you can’t believe it.

You’re quaking.

Shaking.

Oh my god.

Peacocks.

So, so many peacocks. Dicks. Penises. Erections all over the place. Cockheads. Balls. Shafts—veiny ones, thick ones, thinner ones. All angles. Many positions. Some in the midst of orgasm, cumming in very graphic, very graphite detail. Cum dribbling down the shaft. Bursting out like ribbons. Penises in motion. This page right here could give a nun a nervous breakdown.

Satoru yaps next to you—calmly, like it’s totally normal and not weird to view dick drawings together.

His shoulder brushes yours. Your breath catches. He’s so goofy, so unserious; you haven’t met someone so eccentric in a long, long time, that’s why you’re falling so hard, that’s why you’re so invested in the penises.

His hands skim the paper’s edge as he tells you about how long it took for him to learn to draw anatomically correct genitalia, and why it’s beautiful to him.

“This is the natural human form, which unfortunately we have to cover up,” he sweeps a gaze over your shoulders and tries hard not to linger on the shape of your breasts, “there’s few better moments in life than than the first time two people strip for each other.”

“Haha, is it supposed to feel good? My naked moments have never been very comfortable. They’re usually... awkward.”

“It’s supposed to be awkward. Awkward is intimate, no?”

“I—well, if you put it that way, I guess so. But nakedness is just sort of embarrassing, really.”

Satoru pauses, lingering on what you’ve said. For a second or two, it’s like he’s completely stationary; just staring at you when suddenly he speaks again.

“Well, if you’d let me, I can show you the beauty of nakedness.”

“—huh?”

“Nothing.”

Warmth rips across the tops of your cheeks.

He watches your eyes widen and quickly backtracks.

“Ah—um—sorry—anyways, next page.”

You’re laughing, still processing what he just said but he’s already shifting shyly away from the topic. It’s like he put his foot in his mouth. But little did he know, he had you twitching behind your panties.

Satoru continues flipping through his drawings.

But all you can think about, as he explains some ‘mushroom technique’ to drawing penises, is his hands.

He’s got very, very pretty hands. They’re in-between dainty and masculine. Slim, long fingers that could show you six inches of heaven. Delicate blue veins popping on the back of his hand, creeping down his wrist—it makes you wonder what else is veiny—then you slap yourself out of it.

He turns the page.

And boom.

Pussy.

Everywhere—like, more than the Dicks. Looks like he definitely has a favorite thing to draw.

It’s crude and raw and—

“Pussy is beautiful.”

You choke on your Americano.

—he said whatnow?

Satoru grins unapologetically. He loves tripping you up like this.

“Sorry to be so crude—but I got a comment the other day about how I draw too many cunnilingus scenes—yeah! Crazy, right?!—so, naturally, I’m going to make those scenes even longer. Gonna put the pussy right in their face.”

“So spiteful, Satoru.” you purr.

Mm. He likes how you say his name. It makes him fluttery all over.

“I take my vagina business seriously, okay?”

“I can see that...”

“Anyways,” he turns the page, “these are my studies of the clitoris.” he asks cheekily.

“Oh wow. It’s a clit.”

“Indeed. ’Tis a clit.”

Behold: the clitoris.

Two whole spreads in his sketchbook dedicated to this little nub that most men in your life can’t find.

You squirm in your seat next to him—don’t think he doesn’t notice it. He’s noticing everything about you. Nothing escapes those eyes. He’s observing you so closely that you would feel uncomfortable if it weren’t for the sugar-sweetness of his aura. You’re convinced this boy couldn’t hurt a fly.

“And this is my upcoming comic—you get the first peek, because I like you.”

—well that rolled off his tongue a little too easily, didn’t it?

Never mind that. You don’t have time to linger on this stranger’s subtle confession, because now he’s showing you panels of pure hentai.

Mating press.

Kissing with tongue.

Praise, lots of praise. Your eyes follow the speech bubbles from the character saying ‘such a good girl’ to ‘I know you can take it, so take it’ to ‘feels like you missed me’ to the end where it’s a—

“Cliffhanger?! You’re edging me now.” you whine.

“Ha-ha, I wish—ah, er, um—kidding.” he clears his throat nervously.

The last panel is the two characters nearly getting caught and a thick, wettened cock withdrawing hastily from a puckered pussy, the last dialogue being ‘shall we continue this later?’.

“I haven’t been very inspired lately.” Satoru shrugs, mood ever so slightly deflating. “Haven’t worked on this in, like, months...”

“Hard to keep it up?”

“Not at all.”

You blink at each other.

Satoru gasps, “Oh, you mean art?—yeah, totally.”

“Maybe you need a new muse.”

You said it as a joke, but his face lit up like eureka just struck him.

“Satoru?”

“Yes?”

He damn nearly called you baby.

“I’ve gotta go.”

He wilts. He visibly wilts—leaving? Now? Why? No. You can’t be. He needs more of you.

“Oh! Y-yeah, of course. Um. Can I walk you to the bus stop?” he asked, bearing a puppy-faced look up at you. How could you turn him down?

“Of course.”

His heart begins to race.

♥︎

Heels clip-clopping, polished black shoes clicking, as people scuttle on by past you and Satoru. He was so kind to offer to walk you to the bus stop—anything to be with you a little longer, even if for just a few meagre minutes.

It was terrible.

He couldn’t even walk slowly alongside you, because the bus was leaving soon—so the both of you speed-walked together, quick-yapped, squeezed in as much as you could even though it was quite a futile attempt to learn everything about each other in the span of ten minutes or less.

The sinking sun watched the two of you as you came to a standstill. People and traffic were flowing non-stop, but in the little world you shared with this stranger, everything stilled.

He sunk his hands deep into his pockets and looked at you contemplatively.

You turned to face him.

“Shall we continue this later?”

Satoru’s cheeks redden. He blinks at you once, then twice, and tries not to break into a smile but fails miserably.

“Ha-ha... so you’ll come tonight?”

“Absolutely.”

He lingered at the door of the bus for far too long—a passer-by would think he’s your boyfriend, not a love-struck stranger. Knee-deep; he was knee-deep in it and this was just the beginning.

“Later.” you chirp your flirty goodbye.

“Later.” he comfirms in a dreamy murmur—like he’s keeping this inside joke close to him.

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

Don’t go.

Please don’t go.

Just a little longer.

He watches you walk down the aisle to find a seat, has eyes for nobody but you. One hand in his pocket, the other released from its confines just to wave you another goodbye.

His heart throbs when you smile and wave back at him.

The bus starts rattling and grunting as it moves away.

His heart throbs—

Don’t go just yet.

—and then you’re gone. Vanished. Like all this was just a figment of his imagination, or a movie set with fake props and background actors.

He’s not quite the same Satoru after you’ve left him on the sidewalk like this; he’s a changed man. You’ve colored him three shades of lovesick pink.

He’s blinking at the place where the bus with his lover disappeared around the corner, face straightening into an expression only a yearner could bear.

Now there’s no you here, just ordinary people as far as his eyes can see; businessmen in suits, women giving Satoru second and third glances, all the oblivious strangers scattered down a sidewalk in New York; always a rush of urgency, always with places to go—and Satoru amongst them sticks out like a sore thumb because he staggers a little, like he hasn’t got any plans on where to go because he only really wants to go where you go.

It’s not over; he’s just being dramatic.

He’ll see you again.

Later.

ㅤ ♥︎ AN──── @cupidstrace you know what's up *winkwink*

I've held onto this for little over half a year now, and finally have revised it and decided to put it into the world. It will be a short series, about three chapters long.

My ongoing fics list is growing, yay! I like working sporadically between different stories, it keeps me feeling crazy which is exactly the inertia I spin creativity off of.

Passing by each other in the halls has everyone around breaking into sweat, fearing that you may begin circling each other and snapping like territorial animals who are moments away from a bloodbath. Thankfully, your interaction today is nothing more than a sneer from him and you cocking your nose in the air.

Usually, Dean Masamichi will be burdened with yet another wrinkle from the undignified screaming matches you two have about overlapping schedules and pushing students to burn out. Of course, the pink-haired demon spawn is the cause of it all.

However, once you two were made aware by a tired medicine professor, Shoko, that the old man had developed a migraine that stems from your fights, you made a wordless agreement to settle your differences outside of the dean's office like mature adults.

Or at least try to.

There isn't much you can do when the tatted, burly man who looks unfit to even teach here, better suited for a convict in prison, is constantly out to make your already busy life more stressful.

Sukuna's favorite pastime is holding his lectures fifteen minutes over the allocated time, effectively bleeding into the student's break time and subsequent classes of his colleagues which always happens to be yours.

On top of that, he buries the class under mountains of work that don't count toward their credits nor will they do such research in their future careers. To make things worse, it's much more difficult than their coursework and he doesn't let them know if it's compulsory or not until after they shed blood, sweat and tears to get it done.

In times like these, you are their saving grace. Your content is a much-needed breeze for them, though challenging enough to be stimulating and increase their grasp of language. Unlike their sadistic physics professor, you value their sanity, often leaning back on your desk and waving a hand once you finish syllabus early.

“Alright, kids. We're done so feel free to use the rest of the hour to study for your midterms,” you tell them and a chorus of relieved sighs fill the room, books shutting and laptops being pulled out to go over practice problems. “I've seen his past papers and yeah, you guys need all the time you can get.”

Gossip is always making its way around the campus so you know all about how Sukuna finds your boisterous, relaxed energy “unbecoming of a serious scholar” and you ensure that he knows you think he's the embodiment of “suffering and bitterness.”

Still, it hasn't always been like this. You're the kind of person who tries to make a good impression on everyone but there was only so much you could take when you overheard him invalidating your field with a few colleagues and had to intervene. Science is valued more than the language and arts but that did not make the latter irrelevant.

It had happened in the breakroom while they were discussing the budget report. The bespectacled pink-haired man sighed, glancing at where you sat grading papers.

“I honestly don't know why students spend time in Linguistics, Professor. I’m teaching them how the entire universe works—gravity, light, energy. You’re just teaching them how to talk.”

“Mr. Sukuna, you’d be surprised. Half the students who struggle in your ‘Universal Laws’ class aren't failing because of the math. They’re failing because they don’t understand the way your questions are written,” you had replied without so much as lifting your head, eyes skimming your students' work.

With an indignant snort, he looks at his fellow science colleagues as if you're so stupid for saying that then addresses you again, wanting to make sure you knew your place so you'd dial back on occupying so much of the time slots. Not that that was true, he just wanted three hour sessions with his students every second day instead of the recommended one hour.

“The math is the language of the universe. It’s perfect. It doesn't need ‘grammar.’”

Unfazed, you look up and shrug. “But you don't teach the universe, you teach people. When I teach them how language is structured, I’m teaching them how to think clearly. If they can't break down a complex sentence, they can't break down a complex scientific theory.”

His lip curls in disagreement as he dusts his dress shirt, the tattoo along his jaw pulsing when he clenches it. “They just need to look at the formulas.”

“Formulas don't mean anything if you can't explain them to the world. Linguistics helps them write better reports, argue their points in meetings, and even code software. I’m giving them the ‘software’ for their brains so they can run your ‘programs,’” you explain in terms you hope he'll understand.

Scoffing, a condescending grin quirks at his mouth. “So you're saying I'm the hardware and you're the operating system?”

Nodding, you smile. “Exactly. And without an OS, your expensive hardware is just a very heavy paperweight.”

His amusement falls at your last words but you're already rising, putting your things away and ready to leave as the other men murmur about you having a valid point.

“I just don't see why the university keeps funding a module on the ‘Morphology of Dead Dialects’ while my lab is literally trying to map the dark matter of the universe. One is the architecture of reality, the other is fancy word-play.”

Pausing, you turn to him. “Sukuna, if I gave your students a textbook written in the ‘architecture of reality’ that's pure mathematical notation without a single word of guidance—half of them would drop your course by Tuesday. You think some are failing because they don’t understand F = ma? No, they’re failing because they can't parse the logical structure of your word problems.”

“I don't care if they can't break down the different parts of a question and work out what it's asking for,” he says dismissively. If they are unable to do that then they're simply not fit for the course, case closed.

Simmering from his inconsiderate words, you have to will yourself to maintain your politeness. “But your students do. Linguistics isn't just ‘fancy words,’ it's the study of how the human brain encodes information. When I teach them about pragmatics and semantic ambiguity, I’m giving them the tools to deconstruct your convoluted exam questions. They need to understand how language frames a hypothesis before they can even begin to test it.”

“You're awfully passionate about this,” he tries to mock you but you're not having it.

“Tell me this, how many of your top achievers are enrolled in my class?” you ask, raising a brow.

Infuriatingly, he knows that it's most of them. “That doesn't—”

“And how many of the underperforming students aren't in my class?”

That shuts him up.

“If you're willing to put aside your prejudices towards Humanities and recommend my class to them, I'm sure you'll see improvement,” is all you said before leaving.

Begrudgingly, he did what you said and to his dismay, there was a vast difference in his students' scores the next time around. The smug expression you'd graced him with after finding out furthered his annoyance with you.

Now your disagreements only stemmed from him trying to steal your hours with students who had secretly begged you not to let him as he already worked them to the bone in the ample hours he had.

“This is a labor law violation, Sukuna,” you told him as you marched into his office, the smile on your face deceptively kind. “Stop eyeing my Tuesday 2:00 PM slot. You already have the kids in the morning and I know you put in a request with the dean.”

Then you left, slamming the door with more force that he thought you were capable of, rattling his stationary and frames.

He relents for a bit but then the bubbling rage in you boils over in the faculty lounge on a Thursday afternoon when you see the grades for his recent test—one that actually counts for a decent chunk of credits.

Hiro is an intelligent, hardworking student who consistently balances Sukuna's grueling labs, your linguistics projects and two jobs while somehow having a perfect GPA.

Too perfect in the physics professor's eyes, apparently, seeing as he handed him a failing grade on a paper that was objectively flawless.

“A ‘D,’ Professor?” you seethe, wanting to call him much worse than that title. “Hiro is one of the sharpest minds of his class. This will tank his graduate applications. What were you thinking? You're sabotaging a student's career just because he didn't cite a paper that wasn't even in your prescribed reading list! None of the other students did it either!”

Sukuna hardly reacts to what he considers a temper tantrum from you, furthering your frustration as you glare at him sipping his tea and poring over paperwork. “The boy lacks focus. He's been distracted and I consider this a necessary wakeup call.”

The urge to flip his desk and pull his hair like you're in a cat fight is strong but you smooth out your skirt to contain it. “Distracted by what? Working thirty hours a week?”

Spinning his fountain pen between his fingers, crimson eyes meet yours behind the glare of rimless glasses. “Distracted by you, Professor. I've seen how he lingers after your lectures, the way he laughs at your exuberant jokes. He's flirting with you.”

“I beg your finest pardon?”

Standing to his full, towering height, he closes the distance between you, staring at you down the line of his strong nose and you're once again convinced he should be at a military base or underground ring, not here in this mahogany-paneled office with all his accolades on the walls.

“You heard me loud and clear, Professor. You see, I'm doing you a favor. It was either this or reporting a student-teacher affair to the board. This grade ensures he keeps his distance.”

All the air in the room rushes out, the warm blood in your face from your outrage cooling into something icy and horrified. It's not from guilt but from pure, unadulterated shock.

“An affair? You think so low of me to believe I would jeopardize my hard-earned career, my ethics and a student's future because he may be crushing on me? That is the most vile, baseless accusation I've ever heard. You're punishing a child for a delusion you cooked up in that miserable head of yours.”

Stepping up to him, your voice trembles faintly with a rare, cold fury that sets his irises alight. “You are the most unbecoming, entitled man I have ever met. You're not being a guardian to this kid, Sukuna. You're being a bully.”

The man's composure flickers at that, a muscle jumping in his jaw. His gaze is intense and suddenly unreadable. Silence stretches, thick with years of resentment and a crackling friction that comes with abhorrence.

“You're so defensive for someone who claims that you only have maternal instincts towards your students,” he retorts in a provocative drawl. “I think you quite enjoy what the students say about you, Professor. How they see you as a walking fantasy, a “milf” as they say.”

A loud crack resounds in the office as your palm lands on his cheek in an impulsive act of anger. Hard. His head snaps to the side from the impact, neck cracking like it does when he's stretching.

There's a white-hot flash behind his eyelids that close instinctively, bright spots dancing in his vision when he casts you a look from the corner of his eye, his abused skin searing with heat and undoubtedly reddening.

Poking his tongue inside his cheek, he rolls it to feel the tenderness of his flesh as he gazes at you and to your surprise, there's a tilt at the corner of his mouth as if he enjoyed that.

But you're too appalled and livid to question it as you stab a finger into his chest, his tie and shirt creasing there.

“This is how things are going to go, Ryomen,” you address him by his first name, foregoing professionalism that was swept out of the room with your strike. “I'm going to the Dean about Hiro's grade and you will admit to your blunder and adjust it to what his paper truly earned. And after that, you're going to stay out of my way and I'll ignore you so thoroughly that even you'll forget that you exist.”

With a flip of your hair, you swivel on your heels and exit, the door slamming behind you a finality that drops one of his frames, the shatter of glass not registering in his ringing ears.

Sukuna might as well have been struck by lightning with how he avoided you like the plague after you commanded him to. You were no longer playing tug of war over the biggest lecture halls—which he didn't even use since he lived and breathed in the lab most of the time.

Tuesday afternoons are all yours and the students are more at ease than they ever have been. He doesn't overdo it with unnecessary assignments and just hands out the ones that will appear on their official transcripts. You can see the life springing back into the kids' eyes, the dark circles and corpse-like complexion dissipating now that balance has been restored in their lives.

“Professor Sukuna had a real change overnight,” Hiro tells you as he helps with your bag when you're about to clock into office hours.

Miwa nods from your other side with a hum. “Yes! He lets us do fun experiments now and even laughed at one of Taka's jokes,” she says with wide eyes which surprises you too because Taka is not funny.

“Good for him,” is all you respond with as you round the corner only for the students to seal their lips at the sight of the man in question.

He eyes Miwa then Hiro for a long moment, nodding at you in acknowledgement before making himself scarce.

“Whoa, I thought he'd scold us for gossiping,” Miwa whispers loudly.

“The man looks spooked,” Hiro agrees.

“Maybe he saw a ghost,” you offer flatly and that has them both gushing over the supernatural as you make your way to your office.

Unfortunately, being colleagues means that you have to endure his presence for the sake of your job and two weeks later, it's one of those times at the faculty gala.

The grand ballroom of this lavish hotel is a sea of black ties and evening gowns. As co-chairs, Sukuna and you are forced to stand at the entrance like a pair of mismatched bookends.

You're a vision in a floor-length silk slip dress that looks like a sunset captured on fabric—an ombré gradient, fading from a pale champagne at the neckline to a deep, dusty rose at the hem. It's adorned with delicate oriental floral motifs—trailing blossoms and branches that wrap around the bodice and skirt. There are thin halter-style straps and a matching silk cord tied elegantly around your neck, creating a sophisticated silhouette that balances old-world charm with modern minimalism.

Not one to be outdone, Sukuna opted for a tailored three-piece suit in a deep midnight navy. His crisp white shirt is fastened with silver cufflinks shaped like small, stylized gears. He wears a slim charcoal silk tie and a pocket square that—if one looks closely—is folded to perfectly match the rose hue at the bottom of your dress and his hair.

It was a suggestion from the department to show just how well you two are getting along.

The silk of your dress catches the light as you stride around the ballroom, hair pinned up by a silver comb while you're all smiles for the donors, securing funding for the new language lab. Sukuna, despite the occasional frowns that look like a man attending his own execution, is all easy laughter and rubbing elbows with the businessmen he knows.

“You're over performing, Professor,” he mutters under his breath between handshakes. “It's undignified.”

“These events are for networking and socializing, you'd know that if you weren't cooped up in your lab to the point that you flinch in sunlight,” you counter, thinking that could just be his devilish genes at work.

“Interesting,” he replies with a deadpan. “Any other advice from the social butterfly dressed like a flower?”

Beaming, you clap. “Yes! Do try moving your facial muscles into something other than a sneer.”

“I find it more efficient to let my research speak for me.”

“Your research says that you're a troll who hates joy. Don't growl at me, the Dean is coming.”

Rain lashes against the windows of the faculty lounge and you regret being an ever reliable member for offering to close up while everyone else is at the gala, drunk or retiring.

To make matters worse, Sukuna came along as he wanted to collect his coat too. The building is empty and feels a little too small.

“Hiro's grade was reinstated by the way,” you boast, your back to him as you shrug on your coat. “The external reviewer found your marking arbitrarily punitive and I agreed.”

His voice is closer than you expect. “He still stares at you.”

Spinning around, you scoff. “Regardless of that, you had no right to reprimand him like that. He's a student, he knows the rules.”

Frankly, Hiro is the type of goody-two-shoes who would throw up if he missed even a single citation or skipped a class.

“Just because you view every human interaction as a transaction or a threat doesn't mean other people have the same motives.”

“I view you as a threat,” he snaps, crowding you near the coat rack, the low lighting casting frightening shadows on his face, the intricate ink on his skin darker. “You're noisy, you're too lenient and your stupid donuts disrupt my life.”

That doesn't even make sense as he could easily block you out. He's the one constantly placing himself in your path and now he's acting like it's inevitable.

“As I should. No one told you to start bothering me so deal with the disruption. You keep trying me because I'm one of the only people who doesn't take you throwing your weight around lightly. I'm not afraid of you.”

“I don't want you to be afraid,” he growls out, eyes dark with swirling emotion that has nothing to do with hatred or anger. “I want you to be quiet.”

Answering isn't an option when his lips crash against yours in a collision, a combustion that started three years ago. Fuelled by stolen time slots, grading disputes and suppressed adrenaline. It tastes like expensive scotch, fruity wine and the bitter, sharp edge of mutual loathing.

He lifts you as if you're weightless, sitting you on the very desk you argued over countless of times in the past. His hands are rough as they slide over your dress, hiking up your skirt and gripping handfuls of your skin, pinching like he hates himself for this while you pull at his hair, a groan rumbling through his throat from the pain on his scalp.

The vitriol is indistinguishable from voracity in the wet, messy, wild clash of tongue and teeth as rain hammers against the glass, frantic gasps echoing within the room from two people who despise each other too much to stay away.

A suffocating vacuum of silence descends upon you as he drives you to the hotel you're staying at for the night. It was a precaution that the university had taken in case anyone was too drunk to get home safely. Your reflection is flushed and unrecognizable in the glass as the windshield wipers slide across it.

Sukuna is gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, looking just as frazzled as you. Neither of you dare to speak of the illogical lunacy that just happened because you know it isn't the end of it.

Not when the electronic lock of your door clicks green and he's all but shoving you inside, partly because he doesn't want anyone to catch you and partly because he's impatient.

Pushing you back against the closed door, the heavy wood thudding against your shoulder blades, his mouth finds yours again like a man who's finally given into an obsession he couldn't make sense of.

With equal ferocity, you grip at his tie as if it is a noose and draw him closer, clawing at his shirt with your other hand like you want to strip away his cold, unfeeling exterior and put some emotion on his unfriendly face.

“You're so fucking loud,” he hisses against your throat as if he's not sucking at an extremely sensitive spot that have your knees ready to buckle.

“Stop doing that then,” you whine, palms on his chest to shove him away but he refuses, as unmoving as a brick wall as he hums, teeth sinking into your neck, something hard twitching against your lower belly when you moan.

“I didn't say I hated it,” he retorts, mouth popping off your skin, red and swollen as he fumbles with the ties of your dress, tugging at the string at your throat and taking it off too. “Could've used this as a leash but you'll probably bite my head off.”

Glaring through glazed eyes, your scowl confirms that as he chuckles, allowing you to shed him of his suit too, the dim light from the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room bathing his sculpted, rippling abdomen littered with what looks like religious tattoos in a blue glow.

“An aggravating prick like you should not look like this,” you cuss under your breath and he barks out a laugh as he ushers you to the living room.

A sound that's half-snarl, half-chuckle passes his lips as you both paw off each other's remaining attire with clumsy desperation rather than calculated precision.

Yelping, you're flabbergasted when he spins you around and presses you face-first against the cool glass of the window, bare for anyone to see just like he is behind you. But it's late and you doubt anyone would look. Still, the thrill is there, your nipples prickling against the surface.

“Sukuna, the bedroom is right the—”

“Don't get cold feet,, Professor,” he coos in a demeaningly sweet voice. “You're the one always flaunting yourself in those fluttery dresses and tight blouses. You can handle a little bit of exposure.”

That takes you aback as you're strict about following dress code. Does that mean he's found you attractive all this time that even your modest work outfits were slutty to him?

Below you, Tokyo is a grid of twinkling lights and bustling nightlife but within this suite, the air is thick with the scent of his cologne and your perfume that mingle in the most mouthwatering cocktail.

“I didn't know you pay that much attention to what I wear—Oh!” A sharp moan rips from your throat as he slams inside you with a blunt, punishing force.

Sukuna knew you're wet enough, slick dripping down your thighs and slathering his cock but he wanted to shut you up for once. There's no tenderness as he pumps in and out of you. It's not seduction that brought him here, it's eviction. The need to kick you out if his fucking mind.

“Enough of your fucking blabbering, Professor. Everyone knows you teach linguistics so let's see if this pussy talks too,” he muses in a cunning voice, tongue running along the edge of his teeth.

Arching your back, your palms smudge the glass, the city lights smearing in neon as your vision blurs, breaths fogging the window. Over and over, he thrusts feel like a rebuttal for every eye roll, every smart comment and every scoff you cut his way.

Each shove of his hips had your body bouncing against the glass that squeaks from your naked skin rubbing against it, cheek squished to it so your head doesn't hit it. He's not gentle in the slightest and you can't find it in you to be offended, not when he's rutting like a mindless animal, finally unrestrained after pretending to be composed for so long.

It's immensely gratifying to hear his harsh grunts, gravely groans and long, drawn-out moans coming from behind you, chorused by your wanton, unbidden mewls and whimpers as the clap of your supple flesh against his.

Your drooling cunt gurgles around his ramming shaft with a shluck, shluck, shluck staccatoed by the plap, plap, plap of his thighs smacking yours, the muscles in them flexing against your jiggling skin.

“There it is. She does speak. But talking with your mouthful isn't polite,” he scolds your pussy, a hand sliding down your hip to dip between your thighs, middle finger slipping between your folds and rubbing your clit in firm, deliberate circles that have tremors wracking through you.

Biting down on your lip, you suppress the urge to cry out his name that's clawing up your throat, unwilling to give him that satisfaction. And the last thing you need are your colleagues wondering if Sukuna finally gave into his threats about wanting to murder you only for them to walk in on this obscenity.

Twisting at the waist, you tilt your head back and glare at him over your shoulder. Blush hair hanging over his ruby eyes, his half-lidded gaze locks onto yours and narrows. He looks every bit of the satanic being you always accuse him of being.

His cock throbs and swells inside you, the drag of it within your gloving, gummy walls delicious as you pulse them and delight in how the snap of his hips stutters.

“Don't look at me, woman,” he snaps but his hand plastered to your hip, kneading and bruising the skin there doesn't move to push your head away.

“Professor,” you remind him, wiggling your ass back against him, smirking when his eyes dip to it, watching the flesh ripple. “Why? Afraid you'll come too soon?”

“You have something to say for everything, huh? You with your easy A's and clicking heels. Ruining every organized system I try to build.”

A laugh bubbles from you, breathless and drunken. “And this is your way of ruining me in return?”

“We'll see,” he hums as he knows it'll take much more to snuff the defiant spark in your eyes than this. “Professor.”

That's exactly what you want. The raw, unvarnished truth of his frustrations towards you. His body heat is scorching as he leans in, resting his forehead against your shoulder blade while you press yours to the cool glass for some reprieve.

A breathless groan falls from his lips and rattles down your spine at the feeling of your pussy fluttering around his suffocating cock, tingles of arousal and heavy pumps of blood narrowing all his nerves into the length that's thrusting in and out of you.

Brows crinkling, he's in awe and annoyed at how wet you are, he'd almost think he came already from how you're spilling all over him.

“You wanted this as much as me, didn't you?”

“So you admit to wanting me,” you tease.

“Do you think my cock would be inside you if I didn't, Professor?”

Kissing your teeth, you drop down on his cock, clamping down especially tight. “Less talking, more fucking.”

At this point, you didn't care that he's taking you against the glass where anyone could notice and whip their phones out to record. It's not like they'd identify your faces from this far up anyway.

His tattoos are, though…well that's his problem, not yours.

Sukuna knows that he's being reckless by doing this here but it feels too good. Then again, a nasty feeling coils in his gut at the thought of anyone seeing so when you're done coming, soaking his thighs and your own, he moves you to the bedroom.

“Ryo,” you gasp against his mouth when he slips inside you again and he freezes momentarily, not liking the thud against his ribcage at the nickname.

Growling in irritation, he snaps his hips against yours faster, almost carving them into yours to give you more of him but there's no more to give as he hits the end of you, drawing out little, airy moans from you while deep grunts come from him.

“Don't call me that,” he chastises, ears aflame.

Whatever sugary feeling in his chest could be drowned out by your molten hot, quivering insides. Your scent makes him lightheaded, saturated now that he's this close, almost as suffocatingly sweet as your smiles, his nose buries in your hair to smell your shampoo, groaning at how soft your body is beneath his strong one, beneath his hands and snug around his cock.

Your spasming, clenching cunt is melding around his shaft, stretching like he's the most you could take and the sight of your tummy bulging made his head spin. A gush of wetness douses his cock when you're coming again and it makes his mind all mushy, eyes rolling back when you tighten around him even more, milking him.

“Shit, been wanting to do this for so fucking long,” he confesses, inebriated by you. “Mouthy woman, never giving me a chance to show you how much you drive me up the wall.”

Moaning low and throaty, he bites down on your shoulder as he pounds into you, his orgasm welling in his stomach like a tide he knows will pull him under. Your softening, melting moans grow high-pitched and whiny as your nails dig into his back, manicured tips burying deeper when one of his hands tug at your legs to wrap them around his waist.

The trickling tip of his cock kisses your cervix, pearly strings of sticky precum clinging to your insides in webs. The throbbing amplifies when you suck in a breath as he sinks his teeth deeper into your flesh, a zap shooting through his groin as he spills his seed inside you.

Jaw slackening, his teeth release your bruised flesh, deep indentation there as his eyes shut tight, stars bursting behind his lids, your name a curse on his lips while his massive arms embraced you.

“Ah, fuck,” he pants loudly, a wrecked moan pouring from his mouth. For a man who's had scientific breakthroughs and experienced some of the most amazing phenomena first hand, nothing compares to coming inside this insufferable, conniving, brilliant professor.

Pistoning his hips, the smack of your thighs against his is deafening as he fucks into you deeper and harder, drawing out the last dregs of his orgasm until his thrusts grow sloppy and sporadic, turning into hard grinds that have a shudder rolling through you, back bowing as you come again.

A strangled noise leaves him when you cunt milks his spent cock for every last drop he has to give, his arms giving out as he collapses on you, crushing you into the mattress with a huff. He's a boneless heap of heat and steam, legs jelly and head swimming.

Goosebumps raise on his sweat-slicked skin as his name falls from your lips in airy sighs, your legs parting further to invite him into your cuddle, arms curling around his shoulders as you press your lips to his neck, nuzzling your face into his it like you want to burrow underneath his skin.

“I'm not done with you by the way,” you mumble through the dreamy haze that blankets you both.

A puff of laughter escapes him, light and muffled against your breasts. “Better not be. Always running up and down for your students, I expect more stamina.”

“I'm gonna rip your fucking tip off with my teeth.”

A hum of approval thrums through his chest as if that was a sultry promise rather than a very real threat. “Go ahead. Slap me again while you're at it.”

“I knew that did you in,” you snort, pushing him off you so he's on his back and you can straddle him, taking your time to admire his tanned skin and the ink running parallel down his body.

By the time the dawn rolls around, painting the sky in otherworldly purples and blues, Sukuna rolls off you, having spent hours putting you in every position he dreamed of and you doing the same to him. Both of you stare at the ceiling, chests heaving. Your makeup is smudged, just some smeared eyeliner and glitter left, your unspooled hair a fanned out halo.

Your disdain is still there—sizzling, potent and not entirely resolved—but it's laced with the realization that instead of flushing each other out of your systems, you just acquired a very addictive problem. What was supposed to be an eviction became a hostile takeover.

Later that day, once you get a good look at yourself before your shower, a shout of horror escapes you that has Sukuna rushing in to see if there is an intruder or a spider.

No, it's just you gaping at the handprints, hickeys, and bite marks littering your skin, eyes wide with incredulity as you glare at the half-dressed man in the doorway.

“What the fuck, Sukuna? Were you trying to maul me?” His eyes are puffy, hair unruly and sticking up in odd directions, only sporting his boxers and shirt as he had to fetch breakfast from room service.

“Says the one who was biting and scratching me like a fussy kitten,” he drawls then turns and shrugs off his shirt to show you the art work if your claw marks on his back. “Aren't you a wild one, Professor?”

Facing growing hot, you feel a familiar, heavy puddle of arousal sink into your lower belly at the sight of his back muscles marked by your nails and teeth which you choose to ignore. You already tore into him enough last night, drank and devoured as if he were your first taste of chilled water and a hearty meal after being stranded in the desert for ages.

“Whatever, that won't happen again,” you declare and he nods though the way his eyes, hooded and appreciative, linger on your body with that lazy, knowing gleam tells you he's going to change your mind about that very soon.

note: was gonna add scenes of them at work after but got lazy lol