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With the radiating, beaming sun blinding civilians with no mercy—from merchants, to nobles, to plebeians—the star did not leave a single mortal untouched or unaffected.The cruel rays shining upon skin glistening with sweat and hair tousled and unruly only displayed each spectator’s discomfort as the minutes rolled past and the gladiators had still yet to enter the amphitheater.

Fanning yourself, as you sat high above the stands beside the empress, you couldn’t help but express your wonder, turning your head ever so slightly to meet her eyes. “How long does Your Imperial Majesty think we will have to wait?”

“Child, how many times will I have to make myself clear? Such formalities between us are hardly ever necessary,” the woman—clothed in a purple stola—scolded, replying with a maternal smile. “But, to answer your question,” she began, clearing her throat, “I figure . . . not so long. You know how men can be: adjusting their armor, fixing their hair, getting stage-fright. It’s all the same to me. How can one worry about their appearance when it’s plausible their blood will just be splattered along the arena in the end?”

You pretended to laugh at her disposition.

Contrary to popular belief, the empress was a nice woman; an understanding woman; someone who ruled alongside her husband with equal—if not rivaling—authority and a scholar’s intellect. You occasionally thought of her as someone practically born to lead, and after spending your whole life in the palace, you’ve grown accustomed to the fact that, while the face of the empire was usually imagined to be the emperor’s, it was not seldom that the empress was the one pulling additional strings behind the stage.

Misogyny is a nasty prejudice, and if it weren’t for the way things were, you had no doubt in standing behind the idea that the empress would be just as great of a prominent ruler as those who had come before her husband.

Of course, even with being such a morally virtuous person, the empress was born into royalty, and had never served someone a day of her life; and alongside being surrounded in endless luxury, comes the inevitable quality of aporophobia. The woman wasn’t as cruel as most, however; yes, she looked with disdain at poverty and unfortunate souls, but didn’t turn a blind eye, no.

She cracked jokes at, made fun of, and used people of lower rank for her own amusement, but it was all “harmless,” as she called it, similar to having a jester in one’s court. Even while mocking those she deemed helpless and lowly, she never failed to grant them whatever resources they requested when visiting her throne. You may have heard of kindness without honesty and honesty without kindness, but kindness with neither honesty nor humility? Strange. 

Well, don’t start getting the wrong idea now. The empress could be with preconceptions, but she was a charming woman within retrospect.

Before the empress could poke fun at any more people, the Colesseum’s spectators suddenly burst into roars and bellows and yells as the appointed gladiators of the first match entered the arena. 

Two men. Both of adequate height—no less than six feet, you assumed. But, were they slaves? you wondered. No. No, they were too muscular for that. Oh, well, then again, that quality may have been from manual labour and other work of the like. Although the naked eye failed—from how high up your seats were—to see a real difference, you could still tell one of the fighters was shorter than the other, from the length and distribution of their shadows.

The taller competitor, with a reddish-brown beard and deformed knees, caught the interest of the woman beside you, and she turned to whisper (albeit poorly) in your ear and laugh about his disagreeable features.

“I heard his name was . . . Remus, or something. But, if you asked me,” the empress laughed, “I would say he was nothing but a damn fool—a fool disgracing the name of the God of War’s son.”

You met her eyes, which seemed to almost glow beneath the sun. “You suppose he will lose?”

“Suppose?” she repeated, tossing coins into a betting pool as if it were impossible for her to be wrong. “Don’t make me laugh.”

The other fighter—the shorter one—held a gloomy expression on his face, and didn’t look a day over twenty. A slave; competing for a chance at freedom? It wasn’t so far-fetched.

The referees were soon called to their positions, the armed combatants took their stances, and the munera commenced.

Swords met, shields resisted attacks, and little to no blood was drawn. Again, and again, and again. The crowds booed, raised their voices, and expressed their boredom and utter disappointment like spoiled children; it made your ears hurt, and you chewed at your bottom lip in agonizing anticipation of what was to come of these poor men. But, nevertheless, the show had to go on.

Even with the fierce sun, and beads of sweat accumulating on just about everyone’s foreheads, the fighters regained their positions and began anew—this time, with more violence.

The shorter man looked as if he finally realized he could turn his life around if victory was his and started to hold the hilt of his sword with gathering excitement rather than fear. Stabs cut through the air, piercing absolutely nobody, and consecutive gasps erupted within the stands as suspense arose alongside the growing lust for blood.

Both men lunged forward consecutively, throwing jabs at the other, just to fail and jump back, before trying again.

With the heavy toll of labour dealing on each competitor’s body and soul, they both looked equally older compared to how they actually were on the records. The fight was nothing if not unpleasant. More often than not, according to the empress, gladiatorial games were always more entertaining when the combatants were more . . . manly. Or, masculine? Attractive? All the same.

And, anyway, you couldn’t exactly deny Her Imperial Majesty’s claims. For, even as you remained with a neutral expression on your face, you couldn’t help but cast side-glances at the figures of the gladiators. Muscular, but . . . not muscular in a lovely way. Their faces were dirty, cheeks hollow, and hands grimy. It seemed like the exertion on their bodies would be more of a morality cause than how hopeless their fight was continuing to be.

Even with the increase of energy and work being infused into the swords’ clashing and shields’ refuting, only a few minutes had passed and you already began to grow bored, waiting for the moment the fight would be either called off or a more formidable opponent would be brought into the arena. A bull, for instance.

It wasn’t until a rock—thrown by a spectator in the stands—landed just beside the left foot of the taller fighter with a thudding sound that, for a second, the man froze, either confused or unable to decide on what to do, and his opponent wasted not a second more before moving in for an attack.

The blade of a gladius pierced the taller competitor on the side of his abdomen, and his sword dropped onto the floor with a dull sound, seemingly filled with a sense of inevitable defeat, as the man himself fell soon after, his body landing prone beside his weapon. The sight was almost poetic, and even the empress found it in herself to let out a little gasp (despite her early confidence in the outcome).

The arena went silent. Utterly silent.

Would the referees consider foul play? Spectator interference? Everyone wondered, and eyes moved from one man to another to try and figure out the decided outcome of the match.

You only noticed how clammy your hands had gotten throughout the climax of the match when you followed the example of other spectators to rise in ovation and break out into plaudits and hollers after the shorter fighter was finally announced victorious. Letting out a breath you did not know you were holding, you wiped the sweat off your palms at the fabric of your palla.

The gods were not on the taller man’s side this day, for, the fate of the match was due to two factors. A) the rock was interference, yes, but it was neither an advantage nor a disadvantage for either of the competitors. Since, according to the spectators, both of them could’ve been affected by it; the taller man just happened to be frozen while the other gained consciousness. And, B) any one of them could’ve stood still, but, perhaps, the taller one really was as stupid as he looked.

The empress told you both men were, in fact, slaves, and that you had been correct in your assumption. But, you had no reason to celebrate, for you felt pity for the fallen; but, anyhow, death would’ve come sooner or later to him. The rest of his life would’ve been spent bending over machines and gathering hay and tending to cattle.

On the other hand, fortunately for those hard of hearing, the applause died down more swiftly than the end of the fight came, and most spectators had already begun to seat themselves back down when the victorious competitor exited with his treasures, and two new combatants entered, instantly silencing any other leftover noise.

Their names were announced, but you could not pick up a single syllable, for, only a millisecond after, the crowds had once again broken into loud cheers and yells; these competitors were apparently not ordinary gladiators. Probably well-known, or excellent fighters, is what you assumed.

Although their match had yet to begin, the second pair of fighters were already visibly sweating beneath their heavy armor and shields.

Now, from the height of your seat, you could not distinguish which of the men were taller, but you could easily set their countenances apart.

The silver-haired one carried himself with an elegant, almost prince-like gait, and his eyes shone like the beautiful waters of the Mediterranean Sea under the rays of the glaring sun. His lips—thin and pink—occasionally formed into a taunting smile or flashed his pearly whites at swooning women in the stands. He was particularly attractive, and despite yourself, you found the act of looking at him rather enjoyable.

His eyes raised above the crowd of spectators for a moment, before meeting the emperor’s in a friendly fashion. Then, flitting to the side, he gave a small acknowledgement to the empress. And then, finally, to you. His eyes met yours with a flirty ulterior motive and he smiled an almost boyish smile, but you couldn’t deny the fact your cheeks seemed to warm at the sight of his brief greeting and acknowledgement before he turned back to evaluate the crowd with squinted eyes (courtesy of the overly sunny weather).

Clearing your throat and settling the ridiculous thumping of your heart, you sat up in your seat and, ignoring the teasing remarks of the empress, your eyes moved over to take a look at the other gladiator.

He was . . . perhaps, the complete opposite of the silver-haired one.

A total brute, if you did say so yourself. Pink, rosy hair. Defined muscles. A sharp nose and pierced ears. He had the arms and legs of a high-ranking Roman soldier, and, even from how high up you were, or how blinding the sun was, you could still clearly tell his chest would be just as chiseled as the rest of him. He was, without a doubt, a piece of eye-candy if you had ever seen one. But, what intrigued you most about him, were his tattoos. Inky, black markings that circled around his wrists, thighs, and decorated his already daunting face.

You had been staring at him for a while when you felt the intimidation of his piercing gaze meeting your figure up in the stands, seemingly having taken notice of your ogling. Sinking back down in your seat, your body squirmed nervously and awkwardly under his unforgiving stare, as if you were trying to escape his sights. 

You couldn’t understand the meaning for your very sudden and growing embarrassment for having been caught, and you pretended to avert your focus elsewhere. But minute after minute continued to pass by, and you could still feel the pair of crimson eyes burning holes at the side of your head.

Like a child finally succumbing to the scolding of their parents, you turned back to face the gladiator, and, like you imagined, he had not moved his eyes off of you for even a second. His lips were sealed in a thin line, and the expression on his face, emphasized by his seemingly bored eyes, displayed nothing but want and desire. Was it want and desire to exit the arena? Or, want and desire to avoid throwing his life away in a gladiatorial game? You could not decide on an answer.

Your eyes wandered downwards, and landed upon the pink-haired brute’s weapon of choice. He had a gladius, like most fighters of munera, but it was . . . different, in possibly the most subtle way.

A ruby lay clear as day in the dead center of his capulus—the hilt of his sword. The color unmistakably matched up with the shade of the sword’s master’s eyes, and you couldn’t help but flicker your gaze from one to the other.

The only event that managed to take your attention off of the man and his blade, was the empress, who interrupted your focus and leaned in to whisper in your ear. “What do you look at so intently, my dear?” she questioned, before waving her hand in dismissal. “Never mind; look over there. Yes, right there. Do you see that man? The pink-haired fighter?”

You nodded.

“His name is Ryoumen Sukuna, but you must know, most people have started calling him King of the Colosseum.”

“Sukuna? King of the Colosseum?”

The woman ignored your growing curiosity, and moved on to other subjects. “He’s a fine one—personal favorite of the emperor, you know. Lovely physique, an agreeable countenance, and boundless skill in a match to the death. I hear his streak of victories has not ended since he began gladiating all the way back since he was twenty.”

“How old is he now?” you asked, your desperation for information on the man growing second by second.

“Six-and-twenty? I could not tell you, darling.”

While you and the empress conversed, whispering about the combatants behind ring-adorned hands which covered your mouths (to avoid any scandal which could arouse from lip-reading), the match began and the gladiators took their designated positions before plunging head-first into battle.

Sukuna swung his blade up in the air with one quick movement before bringing it back down to strike the silver-haired gladiator in either the neck or the back of his head. But the man seemed to have guess the intention for that attack, and side-stepped away. Which, for the most part, probably would have left Sukuna to deliver a useless blow to the sands and allow his opponent an open opportunity, but it was clear to even the lowest of the lows that he was far from inexperienced with the blade.

He neither tarried nor let his mistake take the best of him, and moved to retract his weapon quicker than how the other fighter escaped it.

Blow after blow was delivered by both men, and no visible cuts or injuries were inflicted on either of the two.

Despite none of the fighters being able to land a successful hit on the other, their fails were only due to the fact that their skill was matched, and that no matter how many party tricks or ploys or schemes they had up their sleeves (or, in this case, manicas), neither one of them could fool the other. Well, at least, not for too long.

Even with the lack of blood, the spectators were still kept entertained and satisfied from the number of impressive and, to the naked eye, seemingly humanly impossible dangerous attacks.

You had noticed, after a few attempted blows—all resisted from the usage of shields, that, what looked like to be mere strategy, was probably something more on the lines of technique. Sukuna’s technique, to be clear.

With the advantage of his height nearly always towering over his opponents, Sukuna subconsciously developed, over time, a habit of striking over-head. And, with arms like his, it was no trouble for him, at all, to lift up an iron blade and do such a thing. Sukuna frequently swung his gladius and struck at the side of the silver-haired fighter’s head, which was usually blocked by the opponent’s shield, or avoided by the said opponent ducking and subsequently swiping at Ryoumen’s legs.

It was overly facetious. Too facetious, actually—for a duel that would only result in death and horror.

If it wasn’t obvious before, you were not at all a fan of gladiatorial games. No, not even in the slightest. You looked upon the thought of unnecessary murder serving the sole purpose of entertainment for all civilians ranging from plebeians to nobility to royalty with disgust and disdain. Watching two men fighting in a ring—sometimes blindfolded, sometimes with no weapons save for their hands (which are dangerous enough)—was ridiculous. Or, that’s what you thought.

See, you wouldn’t have even been present at the current gladiator fight had it not been for the coercing of the empress, who, according to her, needed you by her side, since her husband would be seated at a separate stand (for reasons you did not know). But honestly, now that you were both watching two men stab and jab at each other, it seemed to be the other way around.

The empress was enjoying herself to the fullest, while you, on the other hand, were horrified; and that was saying a lot, considering you had seen warfare since your adolescence.

“Getting bored?” the empress asked, getting your attention amidst the cheering of the crowds.

You shook your head, exiting your train of thought. “Not at all.”

The woman looked at you tenderly, and touched your cheek with her cold fingers. “Cannot say I’m surprised. Ryoumen certainly knows how to put on a show for a woman he deems rather oculorum captans.¹”

¹ Eye-catching.

You pretended not to understand whom that was directed to. “Is that . . . why he has yet to deliver an ending blow?”

“Oh, nonsense. The man’s a flirt, yes, but he would never let fraternizing stand in the way of a victory. It’s impossible. Gojo is just, perhaps, the only gladiator who could ever rival him.”

At learning of the silver-haired fighter’s name, you let your eyes briefly return to the match. Blood had now managed to have been drawn, and both of the blade-wielding beasts had now sustained injuries on their triceps. You thought yourself a lucky one to have missed witnessing how that came about, and turned back to meet the empress’s eyes while yells continued to erupt within several sections of the arena.

“Will it continue going on like this?” you asked, gesturing to the missed blows and endless clanks of shields. “It seems the men could only die from exhaustion now.”

The empress offered you a strange smile. “That won’t be necessary.”

“How do you mean?”

“This won’t be their last match. They’ll have a draw, and the editor will enable the defeated to live another day. But only for the sake of another match to take place soon after.” The woman said everything like it was a declaration, and not an assumption or probability. It made you uneasy, in a way.

“. . .Another match?” you repeated. “What ever for?”

“A gladiator match is a spectacle—it’s a source of entertainment. How will the crowds be entertained when their favorite gladiator is killed in a common, ordinary game? A game succeeding two slaves, more or less,” she added, snorting.

“So, they’ll be kept alive?”

“For another match, id est verum;² it will take place before the festival of Vulcan. It will be, by far, the greatest gladiator match ever seen by the people of Rome. Now, I cannot spoil too many details, but, all I can reveal is, expect the unexpected.”

² That is correct.

And, just as the empress had said, the match between the silver-haired gladiator and Ryoumen Sukuna was declared a draw soon after your conversation with the woman, as decided by the editor. This decision not only satisfied spectators on both rooting sides and caused an uproar of hollers, but also guaranteed an adequately sized and enthusiastic audience for the final and tie-breaking match of the year, which was, clearly, going to be the event looked forward to for the rest of the month.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈.

You were beginning to think the most crucial detail someone has ever failed to tell you was how the last man you wanted to see right now was good friends with the emperor—pals, even! Which was great, just great.

“I know you would rather die from scaphism,” said the man, as he plucked a grape from a bowl, “but you can at least try and act like you’re enjoying this instead of standing there like a sulky child.”

Ryoumen Sukuna, a proud, formidable opponent in the arena—widely known as the King of the Colosseum, continued to be a haunting presence in your life even after his match ended with a draw two weeks ago. It was embarrassing enough that you could break so easily under his stare, and that, in addition, he knew that—just as well as you did (if not better). But to have him roam around the palace? While you were living there? Mallem mori.³

³ You would rather die.

The pink-haired man held favor from the emperor, since it seemed they knew each other even before the younger began a career in dueling, and alongside their acquaintance, came the event of Sukuna’s frequent visits to the palace. It had been a fortnight since the last munera, and you had already seen the beast of a man a total of fourteen times. It was like he knew he was tormenting you.

And, gods, it was absolutely childish how much you began to loathe the color red ever since. Time and time again, the appearance of Ryoumen Sukuna was continuously marked by either a ruby-adorned weapon lazily left around the premises, or a red cloak whipping through the air as you (in that scenario) would be staring at his broad back with a bitter taste in your mouth, while deciding whether to walk away or to dig a hole in the ground and die away like a hobbit.

Red was like a bad omen for you.

Wherever it was, you could bet a hundred horses that Sukuna would turn up sooner or later.

Now, normally, if the emperor invited friends over, you would not mind—no, not even in the slightest; for, from all the years you spent kissing the asses of royals who you came across, you had learned to blend in with high society. But, with Sukuna, it was different. You couldn’t keep your cool around him; seeing him always left you heavily bothered.

Even when you first met him (or, saw him, actually; because you two never formally introduced yourselves)—even then, you failed to stay calm and composed. Was it his eyes? Or his looks, in general? He was attractive—very attractive, tu non mentior,⁴ but, was that really all there was to it? You refused to face a man solely because you deemed him unbelievably good-looking?

⁴ You could not lie.

No, that wasn’t it. Well, that was part of it, but it wasn’t all. You couldn’t stand being in the same room as Ryoumen Sukuna because—because you were afraid of him. I mean, c’mon, you’re dragged along to watch a gladiator match (and, mind you, you despise unnecessary murder), and then you lock eyes with a man who looks like he could tear the entire empire apart with his bare hands, and now you have to act friendly with him? At least, in front of the emperor and empress? You had every right to avoid him at any chance you got.

And, not only that, but, aside from his frequent—almost annoyingly frequent—visits, he always held the same damn look on his face. Red, crimson eyes that looked at you like an animal would its prey; it was like, every opportunity received, Sukuna would size you up, as if envisioning as many ways possible he could kill you just like he does his opponents. But, fuck, his eyes were your weakness.

Staring through your soul like he wanted something, and in a way that made it seem as if he knew every thought that went through your head, including your fear of him—and imagining how he could exploit said fear like the cruel brute he was.

The empress and her husband wanted you two to get along, but you just couldn’t do it. No matter how hard you tried, you could never meet those bewitchingly crimson eyes with an emotion lacking hostility.

“I am not sulking,” came your reply, moments later.

“Yeah? Then, why are you just standing in the corner of the court like someone in time-out?”

His laugh made your blood boil, and you couldn’t help but cross your arms over your chest, scowling with your eyes facing away like a scolded child. How could he stand there, looking at you with those same red eyes, and act like nothing was the matter? Of course, something was the matter! Otherwise, you wouldn’t be on the verge of throwing yourself into a bush of thorny roses.

The emperor and the missus had left the two of you in the gardens, because, according to them, they had some “business” to attend to, and thought you would be eligible enough to be able to give the guest a tour of the terrace and the courtyard which stretched beyond it. That was a grave mistake on their part, for Sukuna was right, you really would rather die than speak with the man for more than a few minutes.

“Has it ever occured to you that not everyone enjoys your presence?” you spat out, finally having mustered up the courage to approach Sukuna from your little hiding spot.

Your steps were slow, languid, but the pink-haired brute saw them as nothing short of flirtatious. In fact, when you were just a foot away, he took it upon himself to close the distance between you two, staring down at your figure with that same enigmatic look in his eyes.

“You’ve got quite the mouth on you.”

“And you’ve got quite the nerve showing up here as often as you do.” You narrowed your eyes. “Tell me, what is your purpose for coming here, anyway?”

Sukuna laughed—a cold, cruel, taunting laugh. “Can a man not step foot in his future palace?” But, when he noticed the confusion evident on your face, he smiled grimly, before taking you arm-in-arm. “Let’s take a walk, shall we?”

It was more of an order, if anything, but with the strength he used to pull your arm into his, and with the intimidatingly imperiling energy practically radiating off his body, you did not refuse his subtle coercion to take a stroll around the gardens, (especially since his gladius was still strapped in its harness).

Taking a slow pace, the two of you walked arm-in-arm around the various bushes, plants, trees, and vineyards that surrounded the estate. While making your way around the scenic landscape, Sukuna, in a low voice, began to speak.

He told you of his imprisonment, and how, for four years, he had been idly rotting away in a cell, before his persecutors decided to finally end his life and throw him in an arena. Sukuna did not attend any schooling for gladiators, and was untrained. When he first stepped foot in the Colosseum, almost everyone thought he was to die. But, miraculously, he, instead, survived. His first match, he won. His second match, he won.

The officials kept throwing him into munera, and every single time, he came out undefeated. Sukuna was a criminal since birth, but when he made a career as a gladiator (albeit against his will), he quickly made a name for himself. Ryoumen Sukuna rose in fame and fortune—not only for his skill when it came to swordsmanship, but also for his looks. The man may have been a notorious criminal, but he was a fan-favorite when it came to the ladies.

It was as if the gods regarded Ryoumen as their champion, seeing as they granted him victory through every editor that oversaw his matches.

With each gladiatorial game that passed, Sukuna’s opponents only grew tougher and tougher, which, mind you, never proved a problem. The man’s prizes and incentives for surviving the arena increased with each match, and Sukuna’s wealth grew in unmistakable abundance, surpassing even the fortune of an average nobleman.

When Sukuna was but a boy, he never dreamed of a life in the Colosseum; but in this realm, one either wins or loses. The Parcae wait for no man, and mortals of all ages and all walks of life know one thing: Vincere aut mori.⁵

⁵ Conquer or die.

“Each time I unsheath my blade,” Sukuna began, stopping just before an olive tree, “I do not know whether I will breathe for another night. But the higher-ups in this empire are all but damn fools. The last match, right before we celebrate Vulcan, will determine everything. If I kill Satoru Gojo, my name will live on long after my life’s end. If I die by his trident (the weapon my silver-haired rival wields) . . .” His voice trailed off.

“That’s not a possibility I’m against,” you interjected.

“Very funny.” Sukuna turned to look down at you. “For that’s a possibility that simply will not happen.”

“What, don’t tell me you’ve consulted an oracle or something of the sort?”

The pink-haired man laughed in your face; it was cruel and unsounding. “You dare doubt my victory, woman?”

“I doubt everything when it comes to you.”

Your stroll around the palace gardens came to a sudden end, as Sukuna roughly pulled you by the shoulders and placed you both to stand face-to-face. His expression was dark, and his tone inhumane. “Listen, and listen well, girl. The emperor offers me a prize I cannot reject. If I win my most anticipated match yet, he will bestow upon me—by the power vested by the gods above—whatever it is I please.”

You couldn’t help but interrupt once more, your curiosity getting the best of you. “You mean to tell me, you’ll ask for the empire? Is that what you mean by ‘future palace?’”

“I won’t ask for the empire. No, my prize will be something far greater. And when I get it, the empire will soon fall into my hands as easily as it was for you to fall into mine.”

“So, that’s all it is that you want? The empire?”

Sukuna leaned down to meet your eyes, his stare burning holes through your flesh. “I want control.”

“Well, let me tell you something, sir,” you began, coolly, whilst taking a step backwards with each word you spoke, “you won’t find that here.”

But when you were just about to exit the garden, and finally get the fuck away from the brute of a man you called Sukuna, you could just barely hear him utter—with that sensuously slow voice of his—five words, that seemed to stick with you even after you left the premises. “Oh, I don’t intend to.”

It was as if you had pushed your luck far too much for the gods’ pleasure, and now, they were giving you something along the lines of a punishment.

Even after Sukuna’s visits changed from daily, to every other day, to weekly, and then, to nothing but a faint memory of the past, his voice never left your head, like a deity putting a certain thought or belief or action into a mortal’s mind. It was overbearing, and you couldn’t draw the line between delusion and reality.

When you set off to fetch herbs for, say, preparing baths or something of the like, Ryoumen’s cold, dark voice, which practically dripped with malice, seemed to follow you every way you went. Feeling a hand perch on your shoulder always had you shuddering, whether it was a trick of the mind or an action actually done by someone else. Entertaining yourself with the playing of an instrument—you preferred the cithara⁶—degressed from a pastime to a new torture method. Between picking strings and producing melodies, came the haunting face of Ryoumen Sukuna, which proved more of a distraction rather than a stimulation, seeing as dissonance and incorrect, out-of-tune notes were the only sounds played.

⁶ An instrument.

You knew that you were in your right mind when you first met the fact that you avoided the man for being afraid of him, but only now, were you finding yourself validated by the shivers you got from the mere thought of him appearing. Somnus was not a god of your favor; your dreams—more like nightmares, it seemed—only filled you with more despair each time you arose in a cold sweat.

It was unfair how much of an effect the beast had on you.

Alas, your hopes of freedom were for naught.

Another fortnight passed, and it had now been a total of thirty days since you last spectated a gladiator match. You were neither surprised nor anxious when the empress dragged you along to another match at the Colosseum (by then, you had realized it was practically fate), but what you were astonished to see, however, was the sight of fires which blazed unwaveringly before you.

It was evening; the arena was lit up with several immensely-sized bonfires, whilst the air darkened with the amount of smoke flying up to the clouds above; the stands were decorated in tapestries and other displays of insignias; and the crowds bustled and roared with uncontrollable excitement and an unquenchable lust for blood.

The emperor sat in his respected box—the cubiculum—with his lions beside him, while you and the empress sat in the Imperial Box opposite to his.

The night was young, and the winds—smelling of the fragrant incense being burned—lashed and whipped unforgivably at your plaited updo and thin clothing. Even with the bright, old stars beaming down at the gold of your jewelry, your eyes shone downwards, covered ever so slightly by the veil you wore atop your head. You did not want to watch this match, but, despite the fact, you neither declined nor pressed for complaints when the empress ordered for your accompanying presence at the amphitheater.

“My child,” was what she began with, before saying, “the Parcae.”

It was short, it was simple, and yet it had the same effect on you that it would have—had her selection of words been more compious.

Fate called you.

There was no doubt in that.

For, when you found your seat in the arena . . . There it was again. That same piercing gaze delivered your way, and that same intimidated reaction you experienced. Like prey having been caught in its predator’s trap. A shiver ran up your spine at the feeling of two red, crimson eyes staring right back at you, and you worked arduously to ignore his unmistakable stare, using turning to the side and facing a neighbor or digging in your bag as an excuse to escape making eye contact.

Ryoumen Sukuna had entered through the Gate of Life, (as did all gladiators of the time), and if the growing rowdiness of the crowds hadn’t brought you to that attention, the sudden chill in the air would.

Gojo Satoru’s entrance into the Colosseum followed soon after, and you bit your lip at the memory of the last time you met his sea-blue eyes. It was distant, long-past, but you liked to think about it every now and then; sometimes when you dipped your fingers into similarly-colored waters, or, when the clouds rained and thundered over the empire.

Familiarity breeds contempt, but you did not know the silver-haired gladiator like you feared his crimson-eyed opponent. Fear is power. Power is love.

“Dearie,” called the woman dressed in ornate fabrics, as she placed a hand on your knee, “do quit the shaking of your leg. If the sight of blood brings about your nerves, we can always have someone over to cover your eyes with a palm branch when the time comes. I am not mistaken, corrigere?⁷”

⁷ Correct.

“No, Empress, I appreciate your kindness, but,” you paused, casting your eyes downward, “there will be no need. I can assure you that, blood hardly disturbs me in the slightest. I am just . . .” Your voice trailed off, your fingertips grazing the folds of your palla. “I wonder who will survive this evening.”

“My, my, my, has my dearie taken an interest in gladiatorial matches?” The empress smiled, teasingly. “I didn’t know you cared for a matter you previously spoke about with such disdain.”

Your cheeks warmed, fists clenched, and your breath caught in your throat. Embarrassment was an inexplicable feeling, and you looked to the side before changing the subject. “Who has your favor?”

“Is that even a question?” The woman erupted in laughter, surprised at how you could even question her about who she rooted for, especially due to the known fact about one man, and one man only, who had been dwelling at the royal abode as a repeated visitor.

You whispered mumblings under your breath—something along the lines of paenitemus,⁸ or, ignoscas mihi.⁹

⁸ Apologies.

⁹ Excuse me.

“My turn to question,” the empress managed, between her fit of laughter, “tell me, daughter of mine, which lucky man has your favor?”

You were silent for a moment—indecisive, one could say—but thanked the gods above when the gladiators were abruptly called to state their oaths, and, therefore, giving you an excuse to avoid providing the empress an audible answer.

You leaned forward in your seat, and watched as both Ryoumen Sukuna and Gojo Satoru spoke, consecutively, with their eyes set on one another. The crowds ceased their commotion, and watched, with intent so significant it brought them practically to the edges of their benches, as the challengers gave their swearings of the vow directly tying them to the will of the gods as they gave away their lives—the sacramentum gladiatorum, it was called.

Sukuna’s eyes were dark, that you could tell, and the overall atmosphere surrounding him screamed a lust for blood. His voice was cold, as if he wanted to get everything over with already, whilst the ruby on his swords’s hilt shone reflective under the moonlight’s illumination. He did not speak like it was an obligation, he spoke like it was a duty. 

“Uri, vinciri, verberari, ferroqua necari pateor,” they both vowed.

Each man knew he were to either conquer or die; the speaking of those words only solidified the matter for all to hear. Victor or not, the lives of gladiators are objects of entertainment according to the match’s editor’s will. The gods speak, blood drips, and blades bury the undead. Spectators are roused as both competitors ready themselves, (which is a spectacle in itself, truthfully speaking), but you, on the other hand, are only able to watch with a sense for danger in the air. It was almost amusing. Timor mortis morte pejor.¹⁰

¹⁰ The fear of death is worse than death.

As both men began to circle each other, throwing insults and taunts, you could not help but drift off to the memory of that fortnight Sukuna spent at the palace. His words lingered in your ears, and the feeling of his hands on your shoulders, his arm around yours—it was . . . you couldn’t put a finger on it. There was, just, something about what he said that gave you an uncanny feeling in your gut.

Sukuna wanted control, you knew that, but, if he came out victorious this same night, he wasn’t planning on asking for the empire. He already made sure you got that through your skull, but, all the same, you couldn’t pin-point what it was that he did want. Gold? Treasures? He already had plenty. Women? No, his collection of admirers already exceeded a great number. Land? Yes, that had to be it. But, then again, whatever it was that Ryoumen wanted, he claimed it would have the empire falling into his hands sooner or later. Land couldn’t possibly be the answer for that . . .

Whilst you stayed in your head, thinking to yourself, the match had already begun to get less boring. Both men had each delivered at least two hits to the other, and the clanks! of iron against iron could be heard audible throughout the arena.

Sukuna took side-steps, a new technique he had developed, while the silver-haired gladiator struck the tips of his trident at places most people wouldn’t have even imagined possible.

Grunting, the pink-haired man swung his gladius like it was a mere toy, while spitting on the coarse, rough sand. That action alone sent several sections of the Colosseum swooning. But, despite the fact, Gojo didn’t let any of it get to his head, and, in lieu, let out an almost facetious whistle.

“Dunno if you’re aware, Ryoumen, but this isn’t exactly a great time to pick up ladies,” was what the lean, pale man said, joking, as he continued stabbing with his trident.

“Any time is a great time; what are you going on about? Could pick up a chick with my eyes closed.”

The two men went forwards and backwards with their banter, like two boys rebelling and messing around in school. They joked like immature adolescents, but fought like champions of the gods. The skies were cloudless, with the moon shining bright, and it was thus unclear whose side Olympus was on. But what really confused you, was the sudden thumping sound that reached your ears. Especially with the lack of drums or any similar instruments visible, you were left in a sense of unanswerableness.

The sound of the thumping was loud, and continued to increase in volume as the match went on. Gojo slashed at Sukuna’s armor—the drum beat faster; Sukuna stabbed at Gojo’s helmet—the drum beat in a staccato fashion; Gojo stumbled on his own two feet, struggling to fight back against Ryoumen’s gladius—the drum did not beat faster, but, instead, crescendoed, along with the roars of the crowds.

It was incredibly overwhelming.

You turned to the empress, in order to ask if the emperor had hired any percussion players, but Her Imperial Majesty paid you no mind, for she was extremely engrossed in the fight, repeatedly expressing her frustrations and anticipation by cursing under her breath.

Everyone was in their own world. Spectators, as they watched and rooted for their favorite gladiator. Nobles, as they placed bets and other games of the like. The emperor and empress, as they analyzed the match and reactions of the crowds (as to decide who to favor when the time came for a turned thumb). And, if it wasn’t obvious before, the gladiators, as they fought for both their lives and honor.

First blood was drawn a while ago, but only now, had real stabs been given. Pierced through his armor, clutching at his chest while taking steps backwards, was none other than the infamous, silver-haired Gojo Satoru. You did not know much about him, other than the fact he was an attractive man (A/N: don’t even start with me), but you couldn’t help but feel pity seeing him come to a loss so soon.

While the drum beat faster, and the volume amplified, booming across the walls of the amphitheater, you could make out, just slightly, the life returning back to Gojo’s eyes. Blood dripped, yes, but it was not plentiful enough for death to visit the grounds of the Colosseum.

Gojo’s hands twitched, his slender, pale fingers stained with blood and marked with sand, but his figure fought back for composure, and the fact soon became clear as his legs grew stiff, and his steps grew less irregular as the seconds went by.

You weren’t the only one who seemed to notice the man’s recovery, but it would have been strange to admit Ryoumen was the one behind it all. Seeing as a duel to the death in an arena was all a mere lousy game to the pink-haired brute, it wasn’t a refutable accusation to say Sukuna was only toying with his opponent’s life. Nearly piercing through Gojo’s chest, just to stand and watch solemnly as he stumbled—you soon grew familiar with the idea of Ryoumen testing the waters: seeing just how much Gojo could take before the ever anticipated match-ending move was played.

Murder flashed in the pair of crimson eyes, and the etchings on Sukuna’s gladius gleamed under the moonlight as he drew up his sword for one last round.

Gojo regained his stance, delivered a blow at Sukuna’s side, which, for second, appeared to at least wound the beast, but Ryoumen, ever the calculated, drew back; and as the drum continued to beat and thump in the background, both men fought with a newfound rush of vitality and zeal for blood. Hollers sounded through the crowds, coins dropped into dishes, and the shaking of your leg quickened.

Sukuna kept silent, like a scheming child, while he hit Gojo with the end of his sword. The attack was with enough force for the silver-haired gladiator to be knocked down, off his feet, and onto the floor of the arena. A retaliation was not lacked, as Sukuna received small, insignificant and weak stabs of the trident to his abdomen, as Gojo fought for the continuation of his name, but it was for naught.

The climax of the drum’s beating was reached when Sukuna delivered an almost humorous kick to his opponent, before turning to face the emperor in his Imperial Box. Gojo’s face was full of yearning and want—but, whether it was for death or life was uncertain. He laid, injured and on the brink of mortality, but he was silent, and ceased any more attacks.

Crowds grew silent, but stayed as rowdy (somehow), as everyone turned to the emperor in anticipation. Clothed in the naturally designated purple toga, with a laurel wreath to emit godly status and authority, the emperor stood before and above all. A pollice verso¹¹ was given, after careful thought, and as the beating of the drum quickened, the blade of Ryoumen Sukuna’s gladius was driven through the heart of Gojo Satoru.

¹¹ Turned thumb.

But before such an action occurred, the beast did not forget, with audible cruelty, to spit out the words, “The moonlight’s illumination makes it easier . . . to see how pathetic you are.”

Blood seeped from the wound in Gojo’s chest and spilled out from between cracked lips; and as the fallen gladiator was soon carried out the Gate of Death, the beating of the invisible drum ceased, and you lost your capability to form words.

Surprise, pity, anger—they were all shown in your expression. With parted lips, and denial etched all over your face, you sunk down in your seat as others around you stood up to applaud, cheer, cry out, and much more.

At his zenith, Ryoumen Sukuna backed away from the corpse at his feet, dug his gladius into the floors of sand, and looked ‘round at his spectators. Turning his head, meeting the eyes of those who wanted him dead and those who prayed for his victory, Sukuna held a scowl on his face, like he wasn’t affected in the slightest by having just murdered a man.

Ryoumen was a man who knew how to hold himself in stance and gait, much like a god or a king. Raising his arms wide, eyes flickering to pierce everyone’s souls, his voice came out just as cold as it had been last fortnight—when he decidedly said, in front of everyone, “Behold, mortals; feast your eyes upon the monster you have set free for your pleasure.”

This was the King of the Colosseum.

You could see that much, now.

***

The sun rose proud, the mockingbirds cooed gently, and the blessing of the dawn of a new day had been upon citizens of Rome.

Senators were gathered ‘round while royals and other noblemen stood and watched alongside. Whispers and murmurs were plenty, but when the emperor asked for whatever it was that the gladiator wanted, there was a stunned silence as the pink-haired beast took long, full strides to approach none other than you. Kneeling before your feet, and kissing the back of your outstretched palm, even the gods watched with pleasure and anticipation whilst an answer revealed itself. 

Silent, swift, and yet, never before, so concise. The air was still, the noise had ceased, and even the falling of a pin could be heard clear as day whilst your figure twitched and shook ever so slightly—fear having begun its taking of your body.

It was needless to voice that same wretched look Ryoumen Sukuna offered your way, his crimson eyes peering up at you from beneath his eyelashes. It was nothing short of a horror.

The day after Gojo Satoru’s death, a circle of royal acquaintances had gathered at a pavilion of the palace to watch as the emperor granted whatever prize Ryoumen Sukuna wished for. Elephants, tigers, lions, and other beasts of the wild, were already lined up and harnessed. Stacks of jewelry and treasures littered the marble floors. It was clear the emperor had already expected what offers could be possibly made, and so he decorated the palace in accordance. But, when the fearsome gladiator chose to, in lieu, take you as his bride for a prize, there was unanimous astonishment.

Rising back to his feet, the pink-haired victor—dressed in his signature red cloak, ruby-adorned blade, and now, an additional laurel (to signify his victory the last evening)—looked down at you with a strangeness about his eyes. Your hand was still in Sukuna’s when he turned to face the emperor, who stood with a calm demeanor, contrasting just about everyone.

“You ask for the princess?” the emperor questioned, curious.

“If it can be done.”

The emperor laughed, adding, “But, you must know, son, there are many women who will not be happy by this news.”

At this, the crowds burst into laughter. The tension in the air dissipated, but you . . . you looked at the ground and at your feet, praying you misheard or were even dreaming. But alas, you couldn’t have strayed farther from the truth.

“You would kiss the hand of your prisoner?” you whispered, whilst everyone was distracted in their fits of laughter.

“Am I not a prisoner, as well?”

***

You were twenty years old when your hair was parted by a spear, separated into six locks, crowned with nature’s gifts and herbs, and covered by a flammeum (also known as a veil). With your face painted, jewelry adorned, and dress made ready, you were escorted and sent off to join in matrimony with Ryoumen Sukuna. Tears in your eyes, a palm branch in your hands, the completion of the ceremony came, and it was then time for the wedding feast: the banquet. 

It was to take place at the atrium of the palace, similar to the wedding ceremony.

Pheasants were killed, venison was brought, raw oysters were consumed, and shellfish made its appearances at the banquet. You sat beside the man you now called your husband, picking at your meals and distracting yourself with entertaining the guests. Sukuna, on the other hand, sat silent, for the most part; his hand resting on your hip as he watched, full of intent, as your lips parted and moved with each syllable you uttered.

There were a-plenty dancers, poets, and musicians present at both the wedding ceremony and banquet, but, for each ritual up until now, Sukuna had failed to take his eyes off of you. Red, crimson orbs—that seemed to never stray from yours.

It had been a week since you last spoke to Sukuna, the day he claimed you as his, and, in truth, if it were in your will, you would wish to never speak to him again. You hardly paid any mind, at all, to him as the both of you sat side-by-side, presenting yourselves as a married couple to the families, friends, and well-wishers who attended your wedding feast.

When the attention was directed elsewhere, and you received a much-needed break from entertaining your guests with talk of whatever it was that came to your mind, you reached for your goblet of wine, thirsty and parched, but were stopped by a ring-adorned, scarred hand, belonging to Sukuna, which held you firm by the wrist.

“I have murdered a man for you, dear wife,” began Sukuna, a cold, enigmatic look in his eyes as he peered into your face; “there is blood on my hands solely for your sake, and you refuse to even acknowledge my presence?”

You tried fighting back, stretching your fingers and reaching out for your goblet, but, surprise-surprise, his strength surpassed yours. With a huff of defeat, your hand—once writhing in your husband’s grasps—relaxed, and you gave into responding. “Do not forget, husband, I was not the one who called on you to do such a thing.”

Sukuna laughed, released your wrist, and opted to rest the side of his face on his fist as he watched you drink, a demented (but captivated) look on his face all the while. “Gods, I always forget how much of a sweet-talker you can be,” he snickered.

“You are delusional,” you deadpanned, continuing with your drink.

“And you, my dear, are—”

“Bitchy?”

“No.”

“Cruel?”

“No.”

“Exasperating?”

“I was going more for . . . bewitching.”

You set your wine down; silent, as you avoided Sukuna’s eyes.

But the man had different plans, seeing as he gingerly seized your left hand, and laid a kiss upon your ring finger (which connected to the vena amoris¹²), before kissing down each digit, making sure his lips met almost every piece of gold on your hand. The action would’ve been seen as romantic through your eyes, if you had forgotten what got the two of you here in the first place.

¹² Vein of love.

You did not speak until he was done, and when he was, you said, your voice above a whisper, “Husband.”

“Wife.” His response was almost immediate.

“I am . . .” You turned to meet his eyes. “I am bored, and would like to hear a story. A tale. Anything.”

“What is it you want to know?”

“Tell me—Tell me why you chose me.”

“I chose you because . . . I wanted you. Simple. Can a man not have his wants? His needs? As one chooses their life’s path, so I have chosen a woman I worship. A woman I need. A woman I love.”

“Need I remind you that lust is not love?”

A darkness came over Sukuna’s eyes, like a storm succeeding the calm. “Lust can be many things,” he replied, before lifting his goblet. “Care for a drink?”

You lifted your goblet, but hesitated, caution taking over your nerves. “I have had enough to drink for the night.”

“What, no toast for your husband?” Sukuna joked, his tone sly and cunning, as if there were an ulterior motive laced beneath his invitation.

You turned to face Sukuna, the bracelets and cuffs on your wrist sliding from their rightful places ever so slightly. 

“Never in a million eons, you devil.” Seven words uttered before you finished off the wine in your goblet in one go.

The wedding feast ended with confarreatio, which led to the beginning of the next ritual. Domum deductio took place, and, that same evening, your innocence was stolen—ripped right out from your cold, bare, fucking, hands.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈.

Marriage, actually, wasn’t all quite as bad as you had imagined . . . Okay, that was a lie.

Your first debut outdoors, after your joining in nuptials and being on the arm of Ryoumen Sukuna in front of government officials and nobles, took place a week after your wedding ceremony. The two of you had gotten up to making much use of your lectus genialis, and, even with the longing of fresh air and seeing familiar faces, it still took a bit of convincing for you to exit the doors of the estate; for, exhaustion had gotten the best of you.

It was hot outside; the sun shone cruelly, but you enjoyed being outside of the estate’s premises for once.

“I still don’t understand why you declined traveling by a litter,¹³” Sukuna said, bitterly, as he sat with his arms crossed, and his expression stern, whilst looking out the carpentum’s¹⁴ windows.

¹³ During Ancient Rome, a litter was a portable couch or bed that was carried by slaves or animals.

¹⁴ A luxurious Roman carriage used by the privileged.

“I am not a fan of parading,” came your calm reply.

“You’re a princess—by blood or not. Either way, a woman, as beautiful and alluring as you, should be treated as such.”

Your cheeks did not warm; Sukuna’s way of speaking about you like this was far from new, and you had gotten used to it, ever since your first encounter.

“Ryoumen,” you called, almost like a mother soothing a fussy child, “why do you feel the need to coddle me?”

“Coddling?” he repeated, seemingly offended. “You’re my wife, my treasure. The question should be why I would do anything but.”

The noises of the bustling street, talk of the people, and the sound of clothing against clothing, were all drowned out by the running of hooves and the whips of the carpentum driver. It was a spacious carriage, you had to admit, but with the amount of times the vehicle rocked and jerked on the uneven roads, you had soon begun to find yourself sitting impossibly close to Sukuna. Your elbows touching, shoulders meeting—it was uncomfortable due to the evident size differences.

“You forget that you won me, husband.”

“What is the difference?” sighed Sukuna, running a hand down his face. “I would’ve put a ring on your finger sooner or later.”

“. . .”

“Though, I do argue that, killing a man for your hand, was quite romantic . . . What, don’t give me that face.”

You looked at Sukuna with a stupid expression. “You . . . are a silly man.”

“All but for one woman,” he replied.

When you entered the carpentum, neither of the two of you knew where it was you were going. To the shops, to the villages, to the palace—it was unknown. Or, maybe, the destination was to remain indefinite on purpose. You liked traveling through the city, meeting the eyes of citizens you hadn’t seen in what felt like forever. You enjoyed the scent of home-cooked meals wafting through the air, and children laughing as they played in the streets. You liked it all, and you missed it all, even. But, gods, were you getting soft.

There was a pair of men passing through the road, and you would not have noticed them had the vehicle not yielded to let them pass.

“Look at their shoes,” Sukuna said, leaning in closer as the carriage was stopped, so you could hear him over the commotions. “Disgusting.” 

“Do remember you were born in a prison, husband.” You remained straight-faced whilst you spoke, as neutral as one could be whilst keeping your eyes forward.

Sukuna let out a bark-laugh. “What a saint you are, huh.”

Your carriage was just about to approach a turning corner, when, completely out of the blue, you heard one of the men exclaim to the other, “Ah, look at that one, Caius! A sight for sore eyes, ain’t she?”

His companion replied, saying, just as scandalously, “Not half-bad, my friend,” he laughed, eyeing you up and down. “Never before have I wished more to be an emperor; just imagine what works I could perform if she was a slave.” 

“If?”

“If. No way she’s anything but royalty. No man in his right state of mind would let her out of the streets if she was property.”

The two men snickered, carrying woven baskets filled with crops as they went, completely oblivious to the way Ryoumen sized the both of them up, seemingly possessed by a sudden lust for blood. Now that he thought about it, he had not killed in a while.

You tried to put a hand on Sukuna’s arm, in a poor attempt to soothe his growing anger, but he did not pay any mind to that, for he stuck his head out the luxuriously decorated carpentum, and retaliated against the perversion of the men with insults of his own. Yelling Latin curses left and right, all the obscenities in the book and footnotes. His voice was cold, and rough around the edges, but what surprised you most, was the tone in which he said, “Somnia omnia quae vis, nothi; praecidam manus tuas antequam tangas eam.¹⁵” You had never seen or heard such anger.

¹⁵ Dream all you want, bastards; I will cut off your hands before you even touch her.

But, before Sukuna could say something more offensive than “Te futueo et caballum tuum,” or, “Fututus et mori in igni,” the men recognized his carnage-filled reputation in the Colosseum from his notorious tattoos, and, with such fear they could’ve wet themselves, the both of them went, scurrying off in the opposite direction of where they came from, even going as far as dropping every basket they carried before making a run for it.

You caught a glimpse of them in their distress, and agreed—their shoes were disgusting.

Although settling into Sukuna’s estate took little time, familiarizing yourself with life as a married couple, on the other hand, took . . . some time, to say the least. The both of you had your ups and downs, and the path to warming up to your husband was a rocky one, seeing as your marriage was not out of love (not in the beginning, for the most part); so, naturally, there were some days where the two of you did not get along so well. And, who knew valets and maidservants could serve as such good marriage counselors? 

Bright, sunny days had you seated outside, beneath the shade of olive trees, and while the songbirds sang along, you often kept yourself occupied by playing your cithara.⁶ Your husband was seldom home for most of the day, and you had learned how to keep busy whilst the only company you had was the flames rising forth from the hearth, and the tamed animals which lingered while your fingers danced across melodious strings.

⁶ An instrument.

Today was different.

Sukuna had no appointments to meet, no guests to entertain, and no matches to play. He met you in the gardens of your home, and stood, stiff and broad, just three paces from where you sat on a fountain’s coping. It was as if he were afraid to approach, to disturb and interrupt your playing, but you knew he was just deciding whether or not he was welcome.

“You play well,” came the sound of his voice.

“How could I not? There is never much to do around here.”

“Weaving?” He raised an eyebrow, still standing still like a statue.

“I fear I do not see as much joy in that as I used to.”

“And why is that, dear wife?”

“I find . . . other activities to take up the majority of my time.”

“Such as?”

Romans were barbarians in the arena and in the bedchambers.

You did not know sex until you were bedded by Ryoumen, and you did not know libido until you experienced what it meant to really be fucked. Growing up, sexual intercourse was always described as marital duties, but with Sukuna, it felt like a pleasure—quite literally.

Day and night, night and day.

It was all you knew the week following your wedding ceremony, and it was all you desired when coming home to the brute of a man you called your husband. The two of you did not exit the bedroom once during the week you spent after the final nuptial ritual. He had ruined you in the best way possible, you sometimes thought, and with little difficulty had he gotten you addicted to the feel of his cock, his tongue, and his fingers. Merely thinking about it all had your cheeks growing warm and your core practically aching with need.

But sex wasn’t all you received from the man; there was also endless banter, cruel mocking, rough touches, and arguments. Sukuna wasn’t a kind, vanilla man, you realized that the moment you laid eyes on him; and he was, if anything, a deviant. A monstrous one, at that. 

Retaliating against him got you absolutely nowhere, and arguments only ended in sex. It wasn’t healthy, no, but it wasn’t like anyone said it would be.

With every step you took backwards, Sukuna followed with two forwards. The two of you had been arguing about a trivial matter—it had been long forgotten, actually—but neither of you had the decency to end your quarrel. Your yells and insults echoes throughout the walls of the estate, and servants paid mind to avoid the room you two currently occupied.

“Have I ever told you how much I absolutely loathe your pompous, fucking, ass?”

“Oh, sweetheart, only about a million times,” he answered, obviously taking your anger with a grain of salt. “But, how could I not? when you always do more than just tell me.”

You narrowed your eyes at the man, and cursed. “Go rip out your tongue and rub it raw with a strigil.”

“I always forget how much I love to hear you dirty-talk.”

“You are a dog,” you spat out, as Sukuna had you backed up against the edge of a table.

“And you, my dear wife, are a beauty to behold.”

Mentally having patted himself on the back for rendering you speechless, Sukuna closed the distance between you two and placed a kiss on your hand like he always did. Sexually appealing, successful, and charming? Damn the gods for giving him it all. 

You and Sukuna were stood just centimeters apart, his arms caging you in as he stared down upon you with that unforgettable look in his eyes. It was intimidating, indeed, but you were his wife, for gods’ sake! you could surely hold your ground.

“Flattery isn’t getting you anywhere,” you said, placing your palms on the surface of the table behind you as you challenged Sukuna’s unwavering gaze, staring up at him with eyes doe and, still, equally as hardening.

“Good. Flattery isn’t quite my style.”

Sukuna raised a hand to rest on your cheek, before bringing you in for a zealous kiss. All teeth and tongue. It hurt—how rough he held you, that is—but it was a different type of pain. A type of pain you enjoyed suffering. His lips met yours, and you tasted blood on his tongue. You could not tell whose it was. Whether it was from him handling you with little to no care, or it was from him, himself, or it was from another, more foreign, source, you did not know.

You responded to his kiss with just as much violence as lust. Your body pressed against Sukuna’s, seeking as much friction as you could, whilst the two of you molded into each other like pieces of a puzzle. While Sukuna kept you pinned against the table, with nowhere to turn, your hands found their way to perching on his shoulder and on his beating heart, in efforts to maintain stability (which was proving to be a challenge, if you had to be honest).

Whispers and murmurs against lips; nipping and biting of sharp teeth; heavy breathing and the failure to catch breaths—it was overbearing. The room felt stuffy and overcrowded, when, in reality, it was only the two of you.

“Were you—mmph—acting like a bitch because you missed this?” Sukuna jeered, sloppily kissing you between each word.

“I would act like a bitch regardless.” You clawed at his chest and toga, having gone equally as mad from the mere feeling of kisses alone, but, in any way, your words came out all the same as you had intended them. “Taking me as your wife may have come easily to you, but wooing me won’t.”

“Lucky me,” Sukuna exhaled, releasing you from his nearly-suffocating kiss but not from his grasps. “I’m all for a challenge.”

One of his hands shot to your hip, his grip unforgivable and white-knuckled, whilst his other hand trailed down your thigh, slender fingers tickling your warming skin through the fabric of your clothing, and sending the hairs on your neck to stand up. You held your breath, hands back to their original positions on the table’s surface, as Sukuna reached the edge of your dress, lifting it to your waist.

Cool air hit your skin almost instantly, and goosebumps arose along your limbs. But, still, you did not breathe; it wasn’t until Sukuna’s cold, cruel voice spoke up that you did.

“What a pretty little thing you are,” he cooed, staring at the dampness of your core. “No undergarments? Must be all for me.”

He spoke as if you were a feast; it made you bite your lip to the point of bleeding, and caused your legs to almost go wobbly, like a fawn.

Ryoumen tilted his head down to meet your neck, before he sank his teeth beneath the skin of your clavicle. It was scandalous in all the best ways possible, and you couldn’t help the breathy moan which left your lips. He sucked at the wound, kissed it, and moved his lips to other areas of your collarbones. He nipped and bit at freckles and moles, sucked on your skin—leaving love marks in his way, and, despite the feat, never failing to litter sloppy and wet kisses all the while.

With his mouth on your skin, Sukuna’s hands worked elsewhere. He trailed a cold hand up your thigh, teasing you with touches to the point of it becoming agonizing, before finally getting to where you needed him most. You were dripping enough for no lube to be needed, but the man was still courteous enough to dip one finger within your folds, before following with a second. Curling them deep inside of you, and hitting just the right spot; your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your hands shook and jerked uncontrollably as you dug your nails into Sukuna’s toned biceps.

Moans and whimpers left your lips left and right, yet he was only beginning.

His fingers bullied your clit, continuing their assault mercilessly; and whilst the sound of your growing cries bounced around the walls of the estate, his pace and roughness only reached new heights, seemingly possessed by the satisfaction of bringing you to Cloud Nine.

“Sukuna . . .” you whimpered, struggling to form words. “Sukuna, please. Please, I need to—”

“Need to what?”

“I . . . nngh,” you managed, moaning within your pleas, “I need to cum. I need to cum, you stupid bastard.”

“Now, is that any way to speak to your husband?” Sukuna taunted, pausing his attacks on your neck and the skillfulness of his fingers between your legs with not even a second thought.

You were this close to being brought over the edge, and you whined and wiggled your hips as Sukuna stopped reaching so deep within you, but, instead, opted for circling the tips of his fingers around the embarrassingly wet entrance of your clit. It was not even close to enough; he was punishing you, you were sure.

“No, no—nngh! Why did you stop?” you cried, bucking your hips in an attempt at reaching bliss.

“Because you have not an idea on how to speak to the Head of the House, wifey.” His crimson eyes bore into your teary ones, and you clawed and scratched at his neck, trying desperately to pull him closer to you.

“Ryoumen, no, please. Please—I need to . . . I need to . . .” Your voice trailed off. Truthfully speaking, now was possibly the worst time to gain a conscience.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

“I . . . Please, Sukuna. I need you. I, fuck—I need you. Please.” You looked into his eyes, crying entreaties like your life depended on it. “Please, I need to cum.”

“See? Not so bad, now, was it?”

Sukuna did not resume his assault with his fingers, but, instead, for possibly the first time in history, knelt down, before you, before his wife, and pressed a degrading (if anything) kiss to your pretty, puffy lips, before attaching his mouth to your clit, sucking and licking stripes up and on it with a velocity that left you leaving permanently visible claw-marks on the furnished table.

You could not hear, you could not move, you could not speak, you could only feel. Feel the feeling of Sukuna’s rough tongue gliding through your wetness, plunging and pumping and ravaging throughout your folds, reaching spots deep within you, causing you to see stars as he reached that one good spot. It was ruthless, it was sinful, and it was so, so, so, so wrong, but, then again, it was just so, so, so, so good.

Flicking his tongue, and curling it, Sukuna continued to tease and suck on your clit. The whole act of it was just . . . incredibly intimate. Your thighs squeezed and squeezed, hands gripping his hair for support, but it was still too much. With a final kiss to your clit, you felt the coil build in your stomach, and with a scandalously loud cry, you came on Sukuna’s tongue, shaking and writhing as tears fell from your dazed eyes.

Allowing you to ride out your high, Sukuna lapped at your release, gripping onto the flesh of your ass with white knuckles to keep you from squirming and wiggling.

“Mm, tastes so good, baby.”

“I . . . ahh . . . too—too much. Sensitive.”

“Poor baby,” he cooed, mockingly, before his voice turned cool once more; “you can handle it.”

Rising to his feet, and wiping his mouth clean with the back of his hand, Sukuna stared at the wood behind you whilst watching you catch your breath, chest heaving as you depended on the table for balance. “It was a smart move to buy such a large table,” he murmured, stepping closer.

But before you could ask what on earth it was that Sukuna was referring to, he answered all your questions by lifting you up by the meat of your hips and laying you on your back on the rough wood of the table. It was cool against your bare skin, and sent a shiver running up your spine.

“You . . . What?” you questioned, attempting to sit up, before being roughly shoved back down.

“Don’t ‘What’ me, sweetheart. I’m giving you what you’ve been waiting for. Unless, of course, I’m hearing complaints?”

“. . .” You gulped, swallowing the lump in your throat, before crossing your legs behind Sukuna’s back and pulling him closer to your cunt, the hard-on—barely hidden beneath his toga—being pressed right up against where you needed him most. It sent a shock to your core.

“Now that’s a good girl.”

He pulled the dainty cloth of your dress off your body as easily as it was for you to put it on when you awoke that day’s morning, and mindlessly threw it onto the floor behind him.

“Sukuna, you—could you take any longer?” Laid bare before his eyes, you shivered, but not before pulling your husband impossibly closer. His hands planted on areas beside your head, and your lips met, molding together, as wildly as before.

Squeezing your eyes shut, breathy moans drawn forth from your lips, you held the sides of his throat in your hands, and occasionally carded your fingers through his rosy, unruly hair. All while sneakily dragging a bare foot up the fabric of his toga, revealing tattooed skin as you went. You couldn’t wait any longer, and if you were the one who had to get your husband’s cock out, so be it.

Well, it didn’t matter anyway. Sukuna couldn’t care less for your impatience; he . . . had an appreciation of the sort, for the rare times you took mild control.

Sukuna murmured, laughing against your kiss-bitten lips, “So impatient today, wifey.”

“Like you’re not?”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, looking down at you once the two of you released each other for breath. His eyes were dark and dull, but you noticed the strands of hair askew on his face, (if it wasn’t already enough for you that his toga was now completely off). “Come on. Do you really want to go down that route, sweetheart?”

“I can’t help it. Bullying is just such—o-oh!”

Despite biting your lip, you let out an embarrassingly loud moan, arching your back as Sukuna had your hands pinned down above your head on the table. The first thrust had the air knocked out of your throat, you didn’t even notice it was coming in the first place! Even with the amount of times he bedded you, you had never gotten used to his size. Long, girthy, with veins that twitched and never failed to send you straight to Olympus? Yeah, you couldn’t really blame yourself.

“All it took to keep you from running your mouth was some cock, huh? Yeah, you make such a good whore for your dear husband, don’t you.” His cold, dark voice, complemented with the contradicting degradation and praising words of his sent you spiraling albeit it was only the beginning.

You kicked your feet, whining and gasping for breath when Sukuna took the opportunity to lean down, littering bites and love marks on your bare chest, trailing, ever so slowly, all the way up to the swell of your breasts. Hands still pinned to the table, legs locked around Sukuna’s waist, meeting his continuous thrusts without fail, your back arched with pleasure, giving Sukuna easy access to your tits, bouncing in all their glory before his mouth.

He leaned over your body, the difference in your heights showing itself clearly at this moment, as he swirled a wet, warm tongue around your areola, before attaching his lips to your tit, biting every then and there around the soft mound. Your nipples, perky and hardened long ago, reacted as they always did when they met Ryoumen’s lips. Sensitive, they were, and it showed, when you squirmed uncontrollably under his assaults, eyes opening and closing with vertigo.

“Such pretty tits,” he murmured, his voice sending vibrations to your already aroused buds, “bet they would look even better all swollen with milk for my heir.”

You whined, moaning from the thought alone—argument long forgotten. Your cunt, its walls, actually, tightened at the idea of Sukuna giving you a baby, and you were sure he noticed with the way he was smiling like a madman with your tit in his mouth, one hand pinning yours down, the other twisting and pulling and pinching at your other neglected nipple.

“Mm, yeah. You like the sound of that, don’t you? clenching down on me like a vice. Want me to hold you down and make you a little mommy? Is that what you want?”

You nodded fervorously, throat dry from crying out, and mind already gone and thoroughly fucked-out.

Sukuna laughed, like the cruel man he was. “Well, if that’s what my lovely wife wants, it’s what my lovely wife gets.” 

Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you thrashed around and moaned aloud like a crazy woman as the tip of Sukuna’s cock hit you in all the right places. It was incredibly overwhelming, and with the way your walls were convulsing around the cock reaching depths deep within you, the both of you were sure your second orgasm was to come no later than the first one.

Your cervix—kissed over and over and over again by the head of his cock; your tits—groped and bitten and sucked with relentless roughness; there really was no end to the pleasure you received from Sukuna. You felt stimulation all over to the point it was embarrassing how much you were pushed over the edge by simple touches and caresses alone. Even hearing Sukuna’s grunts and the rasp of his voice had your cheeks growing warm and your skin glowing under a thin layer of sweat.

“O-Ohh, I . . . nngh,” you whimpered, your wrists growing sore as your voice grew meek, letting out a soft, quiet “Please.” 

Blood rushed to Sukuna’s ears at the sound of your weak voice, and, most importantly, also rushed to his cock. “Do you want me to spell it out for you? We’ve been over this, darling. Use your words.”

“I—but . . . Sukuna, please! I need to . . . I need to cum. I—hahh.” You let out a shaky exhale, your orgasm within fingertips’ reach. 

“You want to cum? Go on, then, and cum right on your husband’s cock, just like the slut of a wife you are.”

Everything turned to black when you reached your climax; warm, sticky whiteness running down the base of Sukuna’s cock. He finished inside of you soon after, one last grunt and deep groan marking his release, whilst his seed filled you to the hilt, reaching deep inside of your quite fertile cunt at his cock still being buried in your twitching walls. You didn’t think at all about the possibilities which could follow after having laid down with Sukuna unprotected, and it seemed it was the same for him, as well.

His grip on your wrists did not give out, but still, nevertheless, loosened ever so slightly, revealing a ring of red marks around your wrists. You breathed out a sigh, shaking with eye-opening bliss as your stomach, once empty, was now bloated with the impeccable amount of semen shot by your husband. It swelled, full and swollen, painted white with ropes of cum, and when Sukuna pressed down on the bulging outline of his cock, you let out a poor whine.

“Don’t tell me you’ve given out on me just yet, sweetheart. You don’t think we’re finished already, do you?” 

***

Crawling out from beneath messed up sheets, climbing over sprawled out limbs, and tiptoeing around in nothing but a loose-fitting stola had your escape occurred—exiting from the bedchambers smelling of musk and sex, and entering the balcony, seeking breaths of fresh air.

You did not usually awake before your husband (he was usually up and out of the room by the time you opened your eyes), but perhaps yesterday’s exertions had tired him out, seeing as neither of you slept from after supper to the break of day. And, yes, while you, too, were also thoroughly exhausted, you fell into the arms of Somnus much before Ryoumen did, which likely contributed to your quite early waking.

The view downwards was pretty. Blurred shades of green and blue and white. You could see servants walking to-and-fro, and, for a moment, you remembered when your life was something similar.

The sun shone on your face as brightly as it did when you first saw the man still lying asleep in your bed, but you did not raise an arm to shield your eyes. It was quiet, and you felt more alive than you did in weeks. 

Morning dew fell from trees, and the birds sang. The railing on which you rested your elbows was cold and rough, it reminded you of something that you could not quite put your finger on, at least, not until you heard the sound of footsteps behind you, and the yawning and cracking of unused bones.

“Surprised to see you’re not already knocked up with my kid,” came the raspy, unfamiliar morning-voice from behind you.

“Surprised to see you awake at a time after six,” you quipped, not turning around to face your lover.

Warm arms wrapped around your waist, and a bare chest pressed itself against your back as Sukuna’s lips met your collarbones, kissing your skin in greeting. “A snarky one, aren’t you? What, did last night not soothe your wants?”

He was always so clingy in the mornings. Like a needy child.

“. . .You are only wearing a subligaculum,¹⁶” you observed, changing the subject with haste.

¹⁶ An undergarment.

“It’s not like I hear any complaints,” he joked. “Besides, no one’s up here. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a servant taking a little peek.”

You swallowed. “Nonsense.”

“Smart girl.” He rested his chin on the top of your head, his weight resting on yours, causing you to lean the combination of your weight on the balcony railing. “Now, tell me, what is someone like the missus doing someplace out here?”

“Can a woman not be alone in peace?”

Sukuna seemed to pause in faux thought, before finally saying, “Not when that woman is my woman.”

“So, no?”

“No.”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“What are you doing out here?” you questioned.

“Seeing my wife,” he stated, in a matter-of-fact fashion.

“But,” you bit your lip, “don’t you have any business to attend to?”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, removing his chin off of your head and, trailing an ice-cold hand down your spine, which sent shudders throughout your body, he slid a sneaking finger up your thigh, until, with an agonizingly slow pace, he stuck a digit up your cunt. All this he did in a casual manner, like it was an everyday thing—which, technically speaking, it was.

“Are you trying to get me to leave you alone?” he asked, as if he didn’t have a finger up your pussy, “because it might be a little late for that.”

You whimpered, collapsing on the balcony railing for support when a second finger was added.

Sukuna curled his fingers, scissoring them and quickening his pace as he did so. The squelching of your cunt sent you over the edge, the idea of someone overhearing—or, worse, seeing—the two of you in this act had your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“Sukuna, please, we—nngh! We shouldn’t . . .” You let out a shaky exhale. “Not—Not out here.”

Sukuna leaned down to place a kiss to the lobe of your ear, giving a sloppy, dirty lick to the skin there. “Why not?”

“Because . . . someone—” You were cut off by Sukuna’s fingers hitting your sweet spot, and couldn’t help but let a scandalously obnoxious cry slip from between your lips, the three syllables of your husband’s name following soon after, like a prayer.

“Because someone, what?”

His voice mocked you, whilst the longest of his fingers bullied your cunt, and his thumb, every so often, circled around and applied pressure to your clit.

“Sukunanngh . . . I—You . . . You bastard,” you groaned, whining against the palm slapped over your mouth.

“What was that? Oh, you want me to fuck you?” His fingers moved faster, his voice growing cruel and dark. “Well, who am I to decline my bride, hm?”

Pulling his fingers out from between your legs, leaving you a shaking, heaving mess, Sukuna moved on to bring the ends of your dress to your hips, gripping and groping the flesh there as he pressed the outline of his cock against your slick.

Your breath got caught in your throat, choking on your spit, and you whined from the weight of his cock against your ass. You were dripping from the thought alone of Sukuna taking you right now, right here—out in the open, out on the balcony, where anyone, and I mean anyone, could catch a glimpse of their master and mistress from below.

Teasing the fat, leaking tip of his cock against your entrance, you bit your lip till you bled, pressing your ass back against Sukuna for any sort of friction to relieve you of the throbbing of your core, but that only worked against you; a harsh slap! was delivered to your left ass cheek, which sent you crying out, arching your back away from Sukuna. But that wasn’t even close to enough.

Bringing a hand to the column of your throat, his nails digging into your skin, creating red, angry crescent marks, Sukuna had you gasping for breath as he held your throat in his grasp, choking you to the point of gagging, but not yet enough to cut off your airway. 

Leaning down, he whispered in your ear, saying, in that rough voice of his, “You wanted to be fucked like the dirty whore you are? I’ll show you how much of a dirty whore you are.”

Grabbing a handful of your ass, Sukuna pushed you against the balcony railing, bending you over with ease.

“Wait, I . . . I—mmph! . . Nngh . . . Ahh—Ahh!”

Your voice, still evidently hoarse from last night, was cut off by Sukuna slamming his cock into your cunt, shutting you up as his hips pistoned against yours whilst you braced yourself by clawing at the railing below you.

“You are dripping. You really are insatiable, huh . . .” he muttered, releasing your throat as you gasped for air, only to be cut short by rough, deep thrusts that had you seeing stars.

“Sukuna . . . hahh.” 

“Tight as fuck, aren’t you? Cunt’s gripping my dick like a goddamn vice.” 

Sukuna ripped your hands off the railing, bringing them behind you and binding them together with gods knows what. Probably a cloth he found lying nearby. You writhed and squirmed and writhed and squirmed, but to no avail! Your wrists were bound to your back, held just above your ass. Now, you had no way to hold yourself steady, no longer pushing yourself off of the railing for support.

“I . . . nngh.” Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, you could not find even the strength to complain about your having been tied up.

Fully bent over, your ass bouncing with each thrust, you moaned and mewled to your heart’s desire. Slick dripped down your legs, and though the ticklish sensation left you bothered and just slightly uncomfortable, that feeling was soon forgotten by the cock absolutely pounding your dripping cunt.

Your shame was gone, you were a ruined woman through and through.

“Fucked the attitude out of you, yet?” Sukuna laughed, burying himself inside of you before pulling out, leaving just the tip in, before slamming himself back in, and repeating his assaults. He was like a big, mean bully, having fun by tormenting none other than his bride, his prize, his property.

You thought it degrading, but found heat pooling in your stomach at the afterthought, nonetheless.

“Gods, you . . . you are such a dick,” you managed out, through screams twisted between pain and pleasure, a line which you could not exactly draw.

“It’s what I do best, sweetheart.”

Birds scattered throughout the confines of their habitat at the not-so-peaceful-sounding noise of your cries, and you were sure someone had to have noticed the deviant behavior taking place upstairs on the master’s floor of the estate.

“Then hurry up and make me . . . hahh . . . c-cum, you ass. You are such a—”

One particularly hard thrust had you seeing stars as Sukuna’s cock hit your cervix, surely wounding your womb as the words got stuck in your throat, and your legs gave out beneath you. The only thing holding you up being Sukuna’s hand tangled in your hair, giving a rough tug, which forced your tear-streaked face back, and the other one being on your hip, his grip white-knuckled as his thrusts turned from rough and coordinated to stuttering and staggered.

You came without resolve, your moans merely music to your husband’s ears as he, too, finished inside of you, his cock pumping endless ropes of seed up your cunt, stuffing you till excess bodily fluids were forced to drip down your thighs. Your stomach felt warm and bloated as you were filled to the brim, seed ending up snug in your womb as Sukuna pumped you full of his cum, not wasting a drop, and even going as far as scooping up the excess fluids to shove two fingers in your mouth, allowing—more like forcing—you a taste of your actions.

After all, Ryoumen Sukuna was nothing if not a cruel man.

***

It was the eleventh of October when Sukuna left the estate without a word, and it was the eighteenth of the next week when he returned.

You had been out in the gardens, overseeing the yard-work when, in the middle of giving orders to trim the bushes to the left ever so slightly, a maidservant had come running to notify you of your husband’s departure. He did not leave a note, did not kiss you goodbye, and did not give commands for any of the servants to inform you of his leave (the maid just happened to be particularly loyal to her mistress).

“Cecelia!” was what you first exclaimed, surprised by her sudden appearance beside you. “What brings you here?”

“Mistress, I—I have brought word that the lord of the estate has taken his leave. On a horse or two.” The woman spoke between gasps for air, she seemed out of breath, perhaps from chasing after Ryoumen and his steed(s). “I saw a carriage pull away from the gates, and I . . . I supposed he did not inform you, either.”

“Oh, that’s . . . I thank you for the note, Cecelia. But that will be all. You’re correct, he did not tell me, and,” you paused, touching your index finger to your chin, “I do ponder where he went.”

You assumed your husband would only be missing for one evening, and return the next to fill you in on his seemingly hasty departures. But one sleepless night turned into two, and two turned into three, and three turned into even the advisors of the estate beginning to worry for their master. In turn, however, you had begun to grow indifferent to your missing husband.

On the fourth day, you discovered news of yet another gladiator match that was to take place. And who was to compete in it? Take a guess.

Being petty was a greatness of yours, and, while for a time, you were able to keep entertained by playing your beloved cithara, reading, or tending to your gardens, you had begun to grow bored. The estate was large enough, and, with your husband being gone, you were even more lonely than you were before. You had no children to run through the halls, no friends who could visit the property, and no duties besides your hobbies to keep you company.

On the fifth and sixth day, you had already invited over a number of “guests” to the estate. Your beauty was no unfamiliar subject to the people of Rome, and it wasn’t difficult to find men in want of serving as entertainment to you.

You had some feed you grapes, some play their music to you, some read their philosophy and literature, some tell you of stories from afar; it was all very enjoyable. Or, well, the idea of it was.

On the seventh day, you had appointed a raven-haired, older man to keep you company. He was a traveler of sorts, and had many stories of the West and the East to tell you. From wraths of gods, to legendary criminals, and heinous crimes, he knew it all. He made you laugh, and was . . . not a bad flirt, if you did say so yourself. But it was nothing serious.

You were in the middle of drinking wine with the fellow, when, by the informing of Cecelia, you were notified of a something that required your utmost attention at once. She did not explain further, but you noticed an urgency about her eyes, and did not tarry.

Excusing yourself, you stood up from where you lounged rather casually on the ornately designed sofa, and took graceful, calculated steps down a hallway to the left wing of the estate.

You were nearing the room Cecelia pointed you to when, to your utter surprise, a rough hand had pulled you to the side, keeping your back flush against the chest of a man you could not see, for his other hand held the blade of a dagger right against the column of your throat. Your breathing grew ragged, and your hands went up to attempt (and fail) at removing the dagger-wielding hand.

Your heart pounded, and the blood rushed to your ears.

“Did you miss me, . . . wifey?”

His stray hand was gripping the flesh of your hip, and held you firm above the ground, where you dangled, your legs kicking around uselessly.

“Sukuna? What—What are you doing?” you managed to whimper out, against the dagger being pressed against your neck.

“As much as I love to hear those pretty sounds of yours, angel,” he began, before his voice suddenly turned cold, “there is a man in my house, standing next to my woman, and making her laugh. Care to explain?”

He did not release you from his grasps, but lifted the blade just a centimeter away from the skin of your throat so you could form coherent sentences. How thoughtful.

“When my husband has left for a week with no explanation, am I supposed to not keep myself occupied?”

“So you’ve borrowed a man to keep you company.”

“Are you turning this against me?”

“Should I be?”

Learning your husband has yet to retire from gladiating, and discovering he has come home, with a dagger to your neck upon arrival, was infuriating enough to make you forget the possibility of throwing yourself into his arms in greeting. He did not tell you a word about his match, prior and after, and you were the one in the wrong? Men were nothing but animals.

“. . .”

You kept silent, your face defeated, and Sukuna, finally having decided to let you go, released his hold on you and sheathed his blade once more, before dropping you back onto your feet. You nearly stumbled over yourself finding your balance, as Sukuna began to turn away, walking down the marble-tiled hallways.

“My hands are bloodied. I will be in the bathing quarters.”

All this he said, whilst his back was kept to you.

Several moments later, you had a valet escort the raven-haired guest out of your estate, and, next thing you knew, you were storming down the hallway, the sound of your footsteps reverberating throughout the estate, an evident display of your boiling rage. Your maid-servants weren’t unfamiliar with your and the master’s almost daily feuds, and were, by now, practically accustomed to setting out changes of clothes for when your arguments concluded.

Cursing to yourself as you went, your footsteps continued to thunder as you approached the bathing quarters, where you could hear small splashing sounds inside. You threw open the door, the scowl and glare on your face both clear as day whilst you walked in a straight line towards the pink-haired man who sat at the steps towards the end of the pool.

He was naked, completely bare in all his glory, but you couldn’t notice, not from how clouded your vision was with anger, no. His arms were resting on the edges of the pool, and his expression was cool as he leaned back, watching you approach him with not even a flinch.

“You motherfucker. You think you can just come waltzing in here, and avoid all your problems? You don’t pay any mind to the fact I’ve been worried sick, because my husband has left the estate with not even a word of explanation, and then, come to find out, he’s been gladiating?” You berated him without end, pointing a finger at his emotionless face as you walked along the pool’s edges. “Who do you think you are? 

“We’re married, remember? You won me. And now, you’re putting your life on the line? Whilst we are married? I don’t give a fuck whether you’re competing to win more wives, Ryomen, but where does that leave me, huh? If you die? I was just some temporary toy for you, and my life will basically end, as well? I will have no worth, Sukuna. No one takes in a ruined woman. And I’m not a solicitor, or, at least, I don’t want to be . . .”

Sukuna didn’t respond, and you were honestly thankful, actually. You feared, if he did speak, you would fold within seconds, so you took the time you had to get your frustration out and your point made.

“Why couldn’t you have just told me you didn’t retire? I mean, I would still hate you, but . . . fuck, you are such an ass.” You ran a hand down your face, stopping just two paces away from the beast, before continuing your storming. “Gods, you take new lows each day. I can’t believe my life is tied to yours for as long as I live—!”

You were shut up by the action of Sukuna pulling you down by the ankle and dragging you into the pool, manhandling you in all your writhing and struggling, and seating your ass right on his lap with ease, your back flush against his bare chest as his hand came up to wrap around your throat just as it had earlier.

You screamed, but another hand came up to cover your mouth, muffling any whimpers and noises you let out. Through your anger, you could not remember to think about how your dress was now thoroughly soaked through.

“Mmph . . . !” 

His face tilted downwards despite your struggles, and his lips whispered into your ear, his breath fanning hot air against your skin that left you with a strange tingling sensation.

“You never stop complaining, do you? You want to know why I left? Without explaining? Has it ever occured to you that, maybe I wanted you to truly hate me, after all, so the potential news of my death wouldn’t affect you? You make me out to be an animal, but even the gods know I’m not heartless.” You could practically hear his eye rolling. “C’mon, wifey, don’t you know, I’ve no need for another wife when I’ve already gotten my hands on a goddess right here. A goddess, that just so happens to be the world’s biggest bitch.” 

You struggled against Sukuna, your legs kicking and splashing in the water as your nails clawed at tattooed biceps. “Mmph! Mmm—Mmph . . . !” 

His left hand released your neck, but he didn’t let up on your mouth. “I only took the match because I was bored. Truly. Wanted to taste blood. But, what would you know about that? You’re an angel.” His voice was mocking, and dripped with malice. You shivered.

You gasped, desperate for air, when Sukuna finally removed his hand off your mouth, but your relief was short-lived when he tore the fabric off your body in one swift tear.

“What?” he asked, jeeringly, when you looked at him in confusion. “We’re already in the baths, might as well undress, too.”

The water was only up to your belly button, and a shiver ran up your spine from the low temperatures of the room. Sukuna, however, was like a walking, talking bonfire; he literally emitted heat.

Your nipples hardened from the air, and you squirmed around on Sukuna’s lap, growing uncomfortable. “You . . .”

“What’s the matter, honey?” He feigned concern, cooing. “Feeling pity? Gonna admit your mistakes?”

“I—”

He cut you off. “Let your body do the talking, and maybe I’ll find the heart to forgive you.”

Sukuna’s hands trailed down to your chest as he spoke, cold fingers going up to grope and pinch and tweak at your hardened nipples with each syllable he uttered. It sent a shock through your body, and you bit your hand to keep quiet.

“O-Oh, my . . . Nngh . . .” You mewled and twitched uncontrollably.

You didn’t know how much you loved the feeling of Sukuna’s hands fondling the mounds of your tits until you met your husband, and even then, he reminded you almost every day.

“Yeah? Does that feel good?” he asked, voice full of sarcasm. “What I fuckin’ thought, you whore. So needy and bitchy, all for some dick, aren’t you.”

Sukuna continued his assault on your buds, pulling and tugging at your nipples like it was child’s play. You arched your back at the stimulating sensation, your core growing warm from his fingers alone as you continued to attempt suppressing your noise with a fist in your mouth.

“Hahh, I—Sukuna . . . Mmph! you . . . You bastard.” 

You pressed your naked thighs together, your own hand flying in-between to apply pressure to your clit; your orgasm soon hit you like a chariot. The friction newly added was more than enough to finally throw you over the edge as you came from solely Sukuna playing with your tits, groping and squeezing like they were mere toys.

“Fuck, wifey. Making a mess from only my hands? Maybe I have been depriving you.”

Your release dripped all over your hands, and Sukuna brought your fingers to his mouth, sucking the juices off like wine. His lips made squelching noises around the bodily fluids, and you couldn’t help the moan that left you as you felt the warm wetness of the sensation.

“Sukuna . . .” you whined, eyes growing teary with need.

“I’ll give it to you soon enough, princess. Quit your nagging,” was the reply that came, whilst Sukuna refused to let go of your fingers, even going as far as biting on them, leaving a clearly indented mark of his teeth on the skin, before finally releasing your hand from his grasp, and wiping his mouth clean of your slick.

Sukuna’s muscles were toned, abs flexing, and skin tanned from the ever-so cruel sun that shone down on the people of the empire. Even if his hold on you was gentle, his distribution of strength was enough to make it seem otherwise. That was made quite clear when he decided to abruptly cut your bliss short by lifting up your thighs by the backs of your knees, pinning them to position by your ears.

Legs spread, pussy weeping, back arched; you looked a mess. If that wasn’t humiliating enough, your hair was disheveled, body marked up with teeth marks from previous nights, and you could do nothing but claw and scratch at Sukuna’s arms. But, hot mess aside, (or not), you looked nothing short of a damn feast in Sukuna’s eyes.

Whimpering, mewling, and crying out, your ass was sat on Sukuna’s bare lap and the only thing running through your mind was your insatiable lust for being ruined by the brute you called your husband.

True to his word, Sukuna lifted your ass up with ease, before bringing you back down, practically smashing you onto his cock with one rough thrust. His tip pierced your cervix without fail, kissing all your sweet spots like habit.

It had been seven days. Seven, fucking, days without this man. And the first thing he did was fuck you like he meant to break you.

All the wind was knocked out of your throat as he continued to mercilessly slam his hips up into yours, bouncing you up and down without abandon whilst he kept your legs spread in the air.

The two of you had never tried this position before, but, gods, were you thankful for having done so. From this angle Sukuna’s cock reached areas deeper within your cunt than ever before, and with your thighs separated, it was significantly easier for Sukuna to fully bottom out before thrusting his entire length and girth back in, fucking you through the tears that fell and the sobs that left your lips from the constant thrusts, and bounces, and the frequent feeling of his hips pistoning against yours.

“Awh, don’t tell me my sweet wife is crying.” 

You nodded weakly, hiccuping, completely delirious.

“Shame. Your tears will only make it worse,” he said, darkly, wetting your skin even further as he licked a stripe up your cheek, ridding you of the tears that fell from your eyes.

Throughout all of Sukuna’s rough fucking, you came multiple times, his cock filling you with warm seed up to the brim. Eyes rolling into the back of your head, thighs shaking, pussy squirting all over, and lips quivering; but not once, never in any of those times, did he stop for you to catch your breath and regain your composure. He fucked you through every orgasm and continued to the next and the next.

Water splashed all around your naked bodies, and you couldn’t tell if you were more wet from the pounding of Sukuna’s cock, or from the pool you two were currently in.

Your skin was warm, wet, and glistening with sweat.

Behind you, you could hear Sukuna’s jagged breathing and, every so often, his grunts. The man wasn’t a very vocal one, but he never tried hiding his moans and groans, per se. He had no shame in whining in your ear from how tight your walls clenched down on his cock, and definitely wasn’t afraid of whimpering from the feeling of your ass grinding down on his chest, your slick dribbling down his naked abdomen.

“Ahh . . . ! Ahh—Nnghh . . . !” 

“Mmm . . . unghh . . .” 

“Hahh, o-ohh . . . !” 

Sounds of cries and plap, plap, plaps! filled the bathing quarters, and your cheeks warmed from the embarrassingly lewd noises the two of you made. That, and the feeling of veins on Sukuna’s cock twitching and sliding up and down and in and out of your weeping cunt had your eyes rolling backwards and your toes curling with the coming of an orgasm.

“Now, hahh, you gonna tell me why there was a man in my estate?” Sukuna managed to ask you, whilst he kept his cock ramming your poor, used pussy, lips of which were puffy and erect with need.

“W-What? Why are you—”

“Asking that?” he cut you off, finishing your sentence. “Dunno, maybe because my wife was home-fucking-alone with the dirty bastard.” 

His cock twitched inside of you, and you clawed at Sukuna’s biceps as he spoke. It seemed that, with every second the two of you spent speaking about the man who was in your home, Sukuna grew more and more frustrated, his thrusts turning out clumsy and sloppy and rough.

“I . . . I t-told you already, Sukuna,” you whined, stuttering from his thrusts. “He was just keeping me company, I . . . unghh, swear.”

“Only keeping you company?”

You nodded profusely, your voice growing weak from Sukuna’s cock repeatedly hitting your sweet spot. “S-Swear. Hahh, I . . . ahh . . . mmph! I swear—I swear.”

“Yeah? You swear?”

“M-Mhmm . . . Gods, please, Sukuna, o-ohh! gods, I need to cum. I need to cum!”

“Why not, go on, then. Cum all you want on your husband’s cock. Yeahh, atta girl. Shit, you’re fucking milking me dry, aren’t you. Want my seed so bad, don’t you? Want me to fuck my kid into you?”

You mewled, music to Sukuna’s ears as every last drop of cum fell from your cunt, coating his dick with your fluids whilst the two of you rode out your highs. Your walls were painted white with Sukuna’s seed, filling you to the hilt as he kept his cock buried in your warm, wet cunt. Yeah, this one would surely take—Sukuna would make sure of that.

After all, this was bound to happen.

“please, what? use your fucking words.”

“want you to fuck me. please help, oh my god, please.”

god, he had never heard you so fucked out. so fucked out that you would admit to wanting, to needing, his help. it made his cock throb, causing the sweetest noise to escape your lips as he swelled inside you. and that was enough for him to finally wrap his arms around you and pull you flush against his muscular chest, your body immediately going limp.

planting his feet flat on the bed, he started fucking up into you with abandon. the tip of his meanly curved cock repeatedly slamming into your cervix. his hands frantically trailed up and down your back, finally exploring your skin. you felt so fucking soft, so smooth under his rough, calloused fingers.

“is this what you wanted? huh, you fucking slut?” he spat, words so fucking harsh and in stark contrast to how he truly felt about you. he was so stupid for not doing this sooner.

“yes, fuck yes- m’gonna cum. so deep, fucking me so fast, ‘kuna” you moaned into his neck.

he hated what you did to him –a supposed “fuck boy” who lost it at your stupid fucking nickname for him.

“don’t call me that you fucking brat” is what he wanted to say – what got caught in his throat when he felt his stomach tightening, his abs flexing against your stomach.

gripping your ass hard enough to bruise, sukuna pulled your hips as close against his as he possibly could. a string of fucks and shit spilling out of his mouth as he shot his load so deep inside of you, the two of you cumming together. it was so cute, how your pliant body convulsed around him.

lifting yourself up slightly, your arms framed his face and you nuzzled your nose against his.

you were so fucking cute.

“what the fuck are you doing?”

“mmm, nothing. you just felt so good ‘kuuna. been waiting for you to touch me,” you whispered, breath ghosting his face.

He stood from his chair, nearly knocking over a stack of textbooks in his haste to shake your hand. His hand, when you took it, was surprisingly warm and soft, though his grip was a little too tight, and you couldn't help but notice how he towered over you even with his slightly hunched posture. 

Up close, you found yourself noticing things you'd somehow missed during all those lectures — like the sharp line of his jaw, the faint shadow of his stubble, or the way his hand swallowed yours whole. Even the sweater vest he wore (which should have been insanely uncool) somehow worked for him in a way you couldn't quite explain.

"So… where do you want to start?"

And just like that, it began. Twice a week, tutoring sessions, afternoons that slowly evolved into something neither of you could quite solve for. Because here's what Satoru's calculations hadn't accounted for — the way you'd scrunch your nose when concentrating,  the sudden brightness of your smile when you finally understood a concept, or how your perfume would make it impossible to focus on derivatives.

And your variables? They never included the endearing way he'd push his glasses up when flustered, how his eyes would light up when explaining complex theories, or the fact that beneath that nerdy shell lurked a wickedly sharp sense of humor. 

But perhaps some equations weren't meant to be solved. Perhaps they're meant to be experienced, one tutoring session at a time.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡♡ ⋆｡°✩

"Okay, explain to me again why I can't just try random numbers until something works?" You were sprawled across the library table, exhausted after hours of studying. Your head ached from staring at equations for so long, textbooks and papers strewn about in complete chaos.

Satoru rubbed his own tired eyes behind his glasses, but his voice remained patient as ever. Even after spending the entire afternoon explaining the same concepts, he hadn't shown a single sign of frustration. "Because that's not how calculus works. You need to understand the underlying principles—"

"But the underlying principles hate me." You dropped your head onto your textbook with a groan. "Can't we just agree that whoever invented all this shit was a sadist and call it a day?"

"Newton invented calculus," he said, then immediately regretted it when he saw your expression. "Though, uh, Leibniz developed it independently around the same time, which actually led to a controversy in the mathematical community—"

"Satoru," you cut him off, but there was fondness in your voice. "You're doing the thing again."

"What thing?" He pushed his glasses up.

"Your nerdy thing where you get all excited about math history." You sat up, propping your chin on your hand. "It's cute, but it's not helping me understand why this limit doesn't exist."

He nearly dropped his pencil. Had you just called him cute? No, you'd called his nerdy rambling cute. There was a difference. Probably. He'd have to analyze that later.

"Right, um, the limit." He cleared his throat, trying to remember how to form coherent sentences. "Think of it like a cheerleading routine."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Just... bear with me." He sketched a quick graph. "When you're doing a flip, there's a point where you're neither going up nor coming down, right? That's kind of like this limit—it's approaching a point where the function isn't quite doing either thing."

"Did you just... learn cheerleading terms to explain calculus to me?"

Heat crept up his neck. "I may have watched some videos. For educational purposes."

"That's..." you trailed off, looking at him with an expression he couldn't quite calculate. "That's actually really sweet."

"Oh... uhm, I'm just trying to be a good tutor," he said, but his heart was doing something strange, something he'd never felt before. It definitely defied all known laws of physics.

"Well, Mr. Good Tutor," you leaned closer, and he caught another whiff of your perfume, "explain it to me again. Using more cheer analogies."

And so he did, drawing parallels between derivatives and tumbling passes, using formations to explain functions, and somehow, the math started making sense. By the end of the session, you'd not only grasped the concept but had also taught him the proper terms for various stunts. A fair trade, he thought, even if the librarian had shushed you both multiple times.

As you packed up your books, you paused, twirling your pencil in a way that completely distracted him from his thoughts. "Hey, we have a big game this Friday. Against State. I'll be cheering, obviously."

"Oh." He began cleaning his glasses, a nervous habit you'd come to find oddly endearing. "That's... good luck?"

"I'm inviting you, dummy." You rolled your eyes, but your smile was warm. "You should come watch. See how the other half lives."

"The other half meaning...?"

You gave him a look. "People who don't spend their Friday nights solving equations for fun."

"I... um..." A faint blush rose on his cheeks as he fumbled with his glasses. "I've never really been to a game before."

"Then it's time you finally have the full college experience." You shouldered your bag, then leaned down to write something on his notebook. "Here's my number. So you can text me when you get there. I'll make sure to wave at you during our halftime routine."

Before he could manage a response that wasn't completely pathetic, you were gone in a swish of pleated skirt and floral perfume, leaving him staring at your phone number like it was a problem set from the deepest reaches of abstract algebra.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡♡ ⋆｡°✩

Satoru spent the next three days debating whether or not to text you, writing and rewriting messages that never got sent. What was the protocol here? Was there a specific formula for how long to wait? Should he reference tutoring to keep it professional? 

In the end, you'd asked someone in his physics course for his number and texted him first,

You: Hope you're still planning to come to the game tomorrow! Look for me in the front of the formation.

He stared at his phone for so long his screen went dark. Then, taking a deep breath, he typed:

Satoru: Should I bring my textbook to study during halftime?

Your response was immediate: NO omg spare me! No books allowed! Just come watch me flip through the air.

Satoru: I'll try to come. Is there a dress code?

You: Great! Promise I'll make it worth your while & No dress code. But if you ask me, I'd say wear something blue. It suits your eyes.

Suits my eyes? he thought, a strange warmth spreading through him as he starred at the text. He’d never considered his eyes particularly noteworthy. They were just…blue. Nothing like yours, which were…well, yours were something else entirely. He couldn't quite describe them, but they were captivating, drawing him in like an infinite decimal, endlessly fascinating and impossible to fully comprehend. His own eyes, by comparison, felt plain, almost…functional.

Stop. He was overthinking this. It was just a game. He was just going to watch you cheer. That was all.

And that's how Satoru found himself standing in front of his mirror on Friday night, wearing the only casual clothes he owned — dark jeans and a blue button-down his sister had forced him to buy. Though he kept his favorite sweater vest over it. He'd even attempted to style his usually messy white hair, but it still fell in his eyes no matter what he did.

Walking into the packed stadium felt like stepping into another world. He had never been to a college game before — his weekends usually involved physics journals and quiet library corners, not roaring crowds and marching bands.

He found a seat near the front, as your text had instructed, and immediately spotted you warming up with the rest of the team. The energy you brought to math was nothing compared to this. Your movements were precise, athletic, stunning. Your uniform shimmered under the stadium lights and your smile could have lit up the entire campus.

When the game began, he tried to follow the action on the field, he really did. But his eyes kept gravitating towards you, leading your squad through each cheer. He found himself analyzing the physics of your movements — the perfect parabolic arc of your jumps, the calculated precision of each flip, the way you seemed to defy gravity itself when thrown into the air.

But it was during halftime that his brain truly short-circuited. Your squad took the field for their main routine, and there you were, front and center, exactly as promised. He watched in awe as you were lifted into complicated formations, your movements so graceful they made his carefully ordered world tilt on its axis. When you pulled off a series of flips that seemed to defy gravity, he actually found himself calculating the rotational velocity in his head, just to make sense of how you'd done it.

You spotted him in the crowd during one sequence, flashing him a smile that made him forget every equation he'd ever memorized from his mental hard drive. Your eyes met his just before you were launched into another stunt, and he swore his heart momentarily flatlined, a zero on the number line of his existence, until you landed safely.

Even from the bleachers, he could see how the effort brought a lovely pink blush to your cheeks, and yet you made it all look so effortless. You were radiant, breathtaking in a way that no mathematical formula could ever quantify. And in that moment, watching you shine in your element, Satoru realized he was in serious trouble. 

After the routine, you broke away from your squad and made your way up to where he sat. Your face was still flushed, loose strands of hair clinging to your neck, and even slightly out of breath, you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"So?" you asked, dropping onto the bench beside him. "How'd I do? Any notes on my rotational mechanics, professor?" Your attempt at a teasing smile turned into a slight wince as you rolled your shoulder.

"Are you okay?" His hands hover uncertainly near your shoulder.

"Just a bit sore. That last lift was..." You rolled your shoulder again, grimacing.

Without thinking, Satoru shrugged off his sweater vest and draped it over your shoulders. "You'll catch a cold." He noticed how the cooling sweat had left your arms covered in goosebumps. His vest was ridiculously large on you, but something about seeing you wrapped in his clothes made his heart do strange things in his chest.

"My hero." You smiled tiredly and pulled the vest tighter around you. It smelled like him, like clean laundry and whatever subtly pleasant cologne he wore. "But you didn't answer my question. What did you think?"

"I think you broke all known laws of physics out there. Your trajectory during that last flip sequence was..." He caught himself rambling on about angles and momentum and quickly changed course. "You were amazing."

You leaned your head against his shoulder, the simple gesture making his breath catch. "Thanks for coming. It's nice to see a familiar face in the crowd."

"You have plenty of people watching you," he said , hesitantly letting his arm settle around your shoulders when you shivered slightly. "The whole stadium was cheering for you."

"Yeah, but..." you paused, and he could feel your smile against his shoulder. "Somehow, seeing your face out there made me the happiest. Especially since I know this isn't really your scene."

"I'm glad I came," he said. "Though I did bring flash cards, just in case."

Your laugh was warm against his neck. "Of course you did, you giant nerd." There was unmistakable affection in your voice that made his pulse quicken.

"Someone has to keep your GPA up." He was proud that his voice remained steady, even as you snuggled closer into his side.

"Mmm, about that..." You stifled a yawn. "I might need extra help with derivatives next week."

"Of course." Satoru tried to ignore how right it felt to have you leaning against him. "Same time as always."

✮ ⋆ ˚｡♡ ⋆｡°✩

The following week, something had shifted between you. Maybe it was because he'd seen you in your element, or because you were still wearing his sweater vest (which you'd "forgotten" to return), but the usual study room felt different somehow. Warmer. More intimate.

You'd chosen to sit closer to him than usual, close enough that your arm brushed his whenever you reached for your calculator all while the light, floral scent of your shampoo kept pulling his focus away from the equations.

"So, if we take the derivative here…" he began, but lost his train of thought when you leaned closer to see what he was writing, your ponytail brushing against his shoulder.

"Like this?" You picked up your pencil to attempt the problem, your free hand absently playing with the sleeve of his sweater vest you wore. 

He had to clear his throat before speaking. "Almost. Here, let me show you." His hand covered yours as he guided your pencil through the correct steps, and he couldn't help but notice how soft your skin was, or how neither of you pulled away even after the equation was solved.

"You're a really good teacher, you know?" you said quietly, your hand still beneath his. "I actually understand this stuff now." 

The proud smile you gave him made his heart flutter in his chest. Somehow, making you understand calculus felt more significant than any academic achievement he'd ever earned.

"You know," you said, finally pulling your hand away from his to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, "you help me so much with all this. I feel like I should do something for you in return."

His glasses fogged up slightly as he rushed to respond. "Oh! No, you don't have to—I mean, this is... I enjoy—"

"Come on, there must be something." You turned in your chair to face him. "Oh! Do you need help meeting someone? Like, dating-wise?"

Satoru nearly chocked on air. "What?"

"Yeah! I mean, I could introduce you to someone! Actually, Sarah from my squad was just saying how smart guys are totally her type—"

"I'm not—" he started, then stopped, his cheeks flushing. "That is…I'm already…there's someone I…"

"Oh? Tell me! Who's the lucky girl?" You tried to keep your voice light and cheerful even as something heavy settled in your chest. You weren't sure why the thought of Satoru being interested in someone made your stomach twist so uncomfortably. After all, it made sense — he was brilliant, kind, and underneath those sweater vests and thick glasses, he was actually really handsome. Of course he'd have feelings for someone.

"It's... complicated. She's way out of my league. Popular, athletic, beautiful..." He trailed off, adjusting his glasses.

"Satoru Gojo," you said, poking his arm, ignoring the way your heart seemed to sink with each word he spoke about this mystery girl, "are you holding out on me? Come on, spill! Who is she? Maybe I can help—" Even as you offered, you realized you really, really didn't want to help him get together with anyone else.

"We should probably get back to derivatives," he cut in quickly, his face now completely red. "Don't you have a exam next week?"

"Right. Yeah. The exam." You turned back to your textbook, trying to focus on the equations that suddenly seemed blurry. 

You found yourself stealing glances at him as he explained the next problem, wondering about this girl who had caught his attention. Was she in one of his advanced physics classes? Someone who could actually understand all the complex theories he got so excited about? The thought made your chest ache, like a bruise blooming beneath your ribs.

Satoru seemed equally distracted. His usually clear explanations were interrupted by nervous pauses whenever your hands accidentally brushed. He kept adjusting his glasses, and somehow managed to knock over his pencil three times in the span of five minutes.

"Sorry," he mumbled after the third time, both of you reaching for the pencil at the same time and quickly pulling back when your fingers touched. "I'm not usually this... I mean, I should be more..."

"It's okay." You smiled, even though your heart felt heavy. "We all have off days. Even brilliant tutors."

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and in his blue eyes, you saw a question hanging in the air between you. For a moment, it seemed like he might voice it, but then he quickly looked away, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"Maybe we should call it a day." You needed to get out of there, needed space to process why knowing he liked someone hurt so much. "I think my brain is full of derivatives anyway."

"Oh. Yes. Of course." Was it your imagination, or did he sound disappointed? "Same time next week?"

"Yeah," you managed, slinging your bag over your shoulder. You were still wearing his sweater vest, you realized. "Oh, I should give this back—"

"Keep it," he said quickly, then immediately looked like he regretted speaking. "I mean, if you want to. For studying. It might help with... derivatives."

"Derivatives. Right." You hugged the vest closer. "Well, thanks for today." You hesitated at the door, fingers playing nervously with the soft fabric of the vest. "Oh, um... we have another game next Friday. Against Eastern. If you're not too busy, maybe you could come? You don't have to, obviously, but it was nice having you there last time."

"I'll be there." And those simple words made you feel lighter than air.

"Great," you said. "And good luck with... you know. Your crush and everything." 

You hurried out before he could respond, missing the way he watched you leave with a longing expression, or how he whispered "You have no idea" to the empty study room.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡♡ ⋆｡°✩

The next Friday came quickly, and true to his word, Satoru was there in the same spot as last time, his blue eyes following your every movement. The game was going well, the energy in the stadium electric, and your squad was nailing every routine.

Then came the halftime show.

Everything started perfectly — the music, the formations, the stunts all flowing together just as practiced. You caught Satoru's eye just before your final sequence, his presence somehow both calming and exciting at the same time. But then something went wrong.

Your base thrower put too much power into the toss. You felt it the moment you left his hands. Too much height, too much force. Your trained body tried to adjust in the air, but the angle was off. Instead of landing cleanly in the waiting arms of your teammates, you came down awkwardly, taking most of the impact on your left side.

The crowd gasped. You bounced up immediately, muscle memory and pride making you finish the routine with a smile, even as pain shot through your shoulder and hip. Your squad mates shot you concerned looks, but you waved them off.

But as soon as the music ended and the crowd's attention returned to the game, you felt the full effect of the fall. Your vision swam slightly, and your left arm didn't want to move quite right. Still, you maintained your smile, not wanting to worry anyone.

After the game, you tried to slip away unnoticed, your shoulder still hurting from the bad landing, when Jake — your base thrower — cornered you near the locker rooms.

"Hey, wait up!" Jake had been trying to get your attention for weeks, his throws getting more aggressive as if he wanted to prove something. "You okay? That last stunt was pretty intense."

"I'm fine," you said curtly, taking a step back. "Though maybe next time try not to throw me into orbit?"

He moved closer, using his height to crowd your space. "Come on, don't be like that. I was just trying to make you look good out there. You know I'd never hurt you on purpose." His voice dropped lower as he leaned in. "Maybe I could make it up to you? There's a party at my place tonight..."

"I said I'm fine." You tried to step around him, but he blocked your path with his arm against the wall. "Jake, back off."

"Why are you being so cold? Everyone knows you're the best flyer on the squad, I was just trying to show that off. Besides," his eyes narrowed slightly, "I've seen how you've been spending time with that nerdy tutor. What's his deal anyway?"

"That's none of your—"

"Is there a problem here?"

Satoru's voice cut through the scene, surprisingly firm for someone who usually stumbled over casual greetings. He stepped between you and Jake, and for the first time, you realized just how physically imposing Satoru actually was. His usual oversized sweaters and shy demeanor had always made him seem smaller somehow, but standing next to Jake, you could see that Satoru was actually taller, his shoulders just as broad. Something about the way he positioned himself — protective, solid, unmovable — made your heart race.

"This is none of your business," Jake snapped, but you noticed how he took a small step back, clearly reassessing the situation now that he was face-to-face with someone who matched him physically.

"When you throw my friend at dangerous velocities and then proceed to intimidate her?" Satoru's voice was cold in a way you'd never heard before. "That makes it my business."

"Your friend?" Jake scoffed. "Since when does a nerd like you—"

"Back. Off." Each word was precise, and though Satoru's voice remained quiet, there was steel beneath the softness. He shifted slightly, making sure you were completely shielded behind him.

Something in his tone must have registered because Jake finally stepped back, holding up his hands. "Whatever, man. Didn't realize she had a bodyguard." He shot you one last look before walking away. "See you at practice."

The moment Jake was gone, Satoru turned to you, his stern expression melting into concern. "Are you okay? That landing looked bad, and now this... Do you need to report him? I can go with you to—"

"I'm okay," you said. "Just sore. And annoyed. Jake's been... difficult lately."

"He shouldn't have thrown you like that. The angle was completely wrong and the force way too much. I calculated the trajectory and it was at least thirty percent more power than necessary for—" He caught himself rambling and adjusted his glasses. "Sorry. I just... I was worried."

You couldn't help but smile at how quickly he'd switched from intimidating protector back to your adorably nervous tutor. It was also…endearing. And it did something strange to your insides, a fluttery sensation, like a thousand tiny butterflies had suddenly taken flight in your stomach. It was a feeling you couldn't quite name, but it made you want to lean closer to him, to thank him, to…something. You weren't sure what.

"Don't apologize. It's cute when you get all mathematical about things. And... thank you. For stepping in like that."

He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly flustered by your praise. "Um, are you... hungry?"

You smiled. "Starving, actually."

✮ ⋆ ˚｡♡ ⋆｡°✩

You and Satoru headed to the diner around the corner from the stadium, a cozy, retro place you loved — all chrome and neon, red vinyl booths, and a jukebox humming in the corner. You slid into a booth while Satoru ordered milkshakes and burgers for both of you, and somehow you weren't surprised that he remembered your favorite flavor from that one time you'd mentioned it during a study session weeks ago.

You talked about everything. Silly stories, your cheerleading, his lab accidents and he even revealed that he rock climbed in his spare time, which, you realized, explained a lot. You found yourself laughing more than you had in ages, and every time you made him laugh in return, that warm feeling in your chest grew stronger. 

Before you knew it, two hours had passed, your milkshakes long empty and the burgers nothing but crumbs. The diner had mostly emptied out, the neon lights outside casting colorful shadows across your table.

"Is that what you want to do?" you said as your eyes fell on the physics textbook peeking out of Satoru's bag while you stole one of his remaining fries, "After college, I mean? Something with physics?"

"Yeah, I'm hoping to get into the quantum physics program. They only accept a few students each year, but their research on quantum entanglement is insane. They're working on this project with superconductors that could change how we think about wave function collapse. And their particle accelerator facility is one of the best in the country, so I really hope to..." he trailed off, suddenly looking shy. "Sorry, I'm probably boring you."

"No, not at all!" You found yourself genuinely interested in the way his whole face brightened when talking about physics. "It's nice seeing someone who knows exactly what they want."

"What about you?" he asked softly, pushing another fry your way. "Any plans?"

You sighed, slumping back in the booth. "Honestly? I have no idea. Something that doesn't involve math, that's for sure." You tried to laugh it off. "Maybe communications? Or business? I just... sometimes it feels like everyone else has it all figured out."

"You're actually better at math than you think. You just approach problems differently. More creatively. Like how you connected those derivatives to your cheer routines last week? That was smart."

You felt your face warm at his words and fidgeted with your straw wrapper. "You're just saying that because you're my tutor."

"I'm saying it because it's true." The firmness in his voice made you look up. His blue eyes met yours with an intensity that made you feel truly seen. "And whatever you choose to do, you'll be amazing at it. You're brilliant in ways that can't be measured by math."

Something in your chest squeezed at his words, at how completely sincere he sounded. No one had ever looked at you quite like that before, like they could see past the cheerleader uniform to something more. You opened your mouth to respond, but found yourself at a loss for words. Seeming to sense your nervousness, Satoru cleared his throat and changed the subject. "So, um... about earlier. Does that happen often? With Jake, I mean?"

You let out a heavy sigh. "Jake's been... persistent. We went on one date last semester. Probably the worst decision I've ever made. He spent the whole time talking about himself and got angry when I wouldn't kiss him goodnight." You stirred your melting milkshake absently. "Ever since then, he's been acting like he has some kind of claim on me. Using our stunts to show off, getting too close during practice."

"Has he hurt you before? During practice?"

"Not exactly, but..." you hesitated. "Sometimes the way he throws me feels more like he's trying to prove something than actually do the routine right. Like today."

"You should report him. What he's doing isn't safe. If he's letting his personal feelings affect—" Satoru's hands tightened around his milkshake glass. "Sorry, I just... I don't like the idea of him putting you at risk."

You paused at the sudden intensity of his words, and somehow they made your heart melt like ice cream on a summer day. "You're so sweet," you said quietly.

"I'm just worried," he replied, then quickly added, "As your tutor, I mean. Can't have my student getting injured."

"Right. As my tutor," you echoed, trying to ignore the strange ache at his words. "Of course."

The walk back to your dorm was quiet but comfortable, the night air cool against your skin. Satoru walked close enough that your arms occasionally brushed, sending little sparks through you each time. You found yourself walking slower than necessary, trying to stretch out these last few moments with him. When you reached your building, you turned to face him, suddenly nervous. 

"Thanks for everything tonight. The rescue, the dinner, just... everything."

"Anytime," he said softly, the streetlight catching his blue eyes, making them seem impossibly bright beneath his white lashes.

Before you could overthink it, you rose on your tiptoes and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. His skin was warm under your lips, and you could feel him freeze at the contact. When you pulled back, his face was completely red, one hand touching the spot where you'd kissed him like he couldn't quite believe it had happened. His glasses were slightly fogged up, and something about how adorably flustered he looked made you brave.

"Can I ask you something?" The words tumbled out before you could stop them. "Have you... I mean, do you have much experience? With girls?" You immediately wanted to die of embarrassment. "Sorry, that's so personal, you don't have to—"

"No!" he blurted, then winced at how loud that came out. "I mean, not really. I've been... focused on academics mostly. And girls don't usually..." he trailed off, adjusting his glasses in that nervous way of his. "Why do you ask?"

Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it. "Can I..." You swallowed hard, gathering every bit of strength you had. "Would it be okay if I kissed you?"

His eyes widened behind his glasses, lips parting in surprise. For a moment, he seemed to be running calculations in his head, processing your words like data input. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

Rising on your tiptoes again, you gently pressed your lips to his. He was completely still at first, seemingly frozen in shock, and for a terrifying moment you thought you'd made a horrible mistake. But then his hand came up to cup your face, surprisingly steady for someone who'd been so nervous moments before, and suddenly he was kissing you back.

And oh — for someone with "not really" any experience, he kissed like he'd been thinking about this for ages. His other hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss with a confidence that made your knees weak. Your hands fisted in his sweater vest as his thumb stroked your cheek, and you couldn't help the small sound that escaped when he gently caught your lower lip between his.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathing hard. His glasses were completely fogged up now, but you could still see the intensity in his eyes behind them. He hadn't moved away completely, his hand still cupping your face, your bodies close enough that you could feel the slight trembling in his breathing as you tried to process how your adorably awkward tutor had just given you the best kiss of your life. 

"See you at our next tutoring session?" His thumb brushed your cheek one last time before he slowly pulled back.

You could only manage a nod, your mind still fuzzy from the kiss. As you watched him walk away, occasionally glancing back at you with that sweet, slightly dazed smile, you realized math had suddenly become your favorite subject.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡♡ ⋆｡°✩

You'd been staring at the same equation for ten minutes now, but none of the numbers made sense. How could they, when all you could think about was that kiss from the other night? The way Satoru's hand had felt on your face, how confidently he'd pulled you closer, the soft brush of his thumb against your cheek—

"Are you okay? You seem distracted."

His voice snapped you back to reality. You were in your usual study room, but everything felt different now. The space seemed smaller somehow, more crowded. The fact that it was unusually warm for spring didn't help. Satoru had rolled up the sleeves of his button-down to his elbows, his sweater vest abandoned over the back of his chair. You'd never realized how distracting forearms could be until now.

"I'm fine!" you said too quickly, forcing your eyes back to your textbook. "Just... struggling with this problem."

"Here, let me show you." He leaned closer and reached for your pencil, his hand brushing yours in the process. You both froze at the contact, the air between you growing thick with unspoken thoughts.

"Sorry," he murmured, but didn't move away. This close, you could see the faint freckles dusting his cheeks and nose, how his blue eyes darted briefly to your lips before returning to the textbook.  

You weren't sure who was actually more distracted. You, who couldn't stop thinking about that kiss, or him, who kept adjusting his glasses and clearing his throat whenever your hands accidentally touched. The usual comfortable silence of your study sessions had turned electric, charged with everything neither of you were saying.

"Maybe we should take a break," you suggested, your voice coming out slightly breathless when he reached across you to grab an eraser, his arm brushing your shoulder.

"Right. Yeah. Good idea." He leaned back in his chair, both of you falling quiet. You could practically see him thinking, the way he always did before solving a complex problem, while your own thoughts kept drifting back to that kiss, to how surprisingly confident he'd been—

"About the other night—" you both started at the same time, then laughed nervously.

"You go first," he said, adjusting his glasses.

You took a deep breath. "I liked it." Your face felt hot, but you forced yourself to continue. "I mean the kiss. It was good. Like, really good. Which kind of surprised me because you said you didn't have much experience, and I was wondering..."

"If I lied?" He gave a small, self-ironic laugh. "No, I meant what I said. I haven't... I mean, there haven't been many girls. Actually," he cleared his throat, looking everywhere but at you, "there haven't been any. Girls, I mean. Before."

Your eyes widened. "Wait, was that your first kiss?"

"No! I mean… I've kissed a few girls before, but nothing serious. I was always too focused on academics to really... pursue anything."

Pursue anything? What did that even mean? Your mind was already racing with thoughts of how much you wanted to pursue everything with him. The study room suddenly felt too small, too warm. You stood up abruptly, needing to move, to do something with this nervous energy coursing through you.

After pacing a few steps, you turned back to him. "Would you... want to kiss me again?" The words came out in a rush, and you immediately wanted to take them back when you saw his stunned expression. "Sorry, that was probably too forward. If you don't want to, that's totally okay, I just thought—"

Your rambling stopped as Satoru stood and walked to the door behind you. He turned the lock with a soft click that made your breath catch. When he turned back to you, there was that confidence again, the kind that made you weak in the knees.

And then you were against the bookshelf, his hands cupping your face as his mouth found yours. This kiss was different from your first — more urgent, less hesitant. One of his hands slid into your hair, the other dropped to your waist, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss.

You gasped against his lips, your hands gripping his shirt as he kissed you like he'd been thinking about this all day — which, based on how distracted you'd both been during studying, he probably had.

He pressed your back further against the bookshelf, the force of his kiss sending several books tumbling to the floor. Neither of you paid any attention. You were too focused on his hand tightening in your hair, the surprising strength of his grip on your waist.

Then, without warning, his hands slid down to your thighs, and he lifted you effortlessly. You gasped in surprise. All those times you’d wondered about the strength of his broad shoulders hidden beneath his sweater vests… turns out you hadn't been imagining things. He carried you to the study table, setting you gently on the edge. 

You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively as he stepped between them, one of his hands bracing on the table beside you while the other cupped your face. His kiss deepened, his tongue tracing your lips before slipping inside. "Is this okay?" he murmured against your mouth, always thoughtful even in moments like this.

You nodded, pulling him closer by his shirt. "More than okay."

"Would you want me to—I mean… can I... try something?" 

Try? What does he want to try? Your pulse quickened and you simply nodded, not trusting your voice, already breathless from how he said 'try' like you were his favorite research subject.

His lips found yours again as he gently pressed you back against the table, your math notes scattering forgotten to the floor. His mouth moved to your neck, drawing a soft gasp from you while one hand traced down your side with surprising confidence, his body fitting perfectly between your legs. And you began to wonder, for someone who claimed to be inexperienced, Satoru seemed to know exactly what he was doing — and if this was him being inexperienced, heaven help you when he gained some confidence.

His mouth then traveled lower and lower, lifting one of your legs up over his shoulder so that he could kiss down your inner thighs and your last coherent thought, before his lips were on you, was that some lessons were definitely best learned outside textbooks.

Everything that followed were barely contained curses and moans as Satoru pushed two fingers inside, pressing deep and slow while his tongue worked on you. It wasn't long before you came, you back arched, pressing closer to him as you reached your climax, your thighs involuntarily closing around his head. But he was quick to react, grabbing your thighs and spreading them apart, his tongue still on you, drawing out every last shudder of your orgasm until you thought you couldn't take it anymore, your fingers tightening in his hair, not sure if you wanted him closer or to pull him off you.

It took you a few moments to come back to reality. Your breathing heavy, body still trembling as you tried to process what just happened. Your brilliant, sweet, cute, nerdy math tutor had just made you cum on that table in the study room of your college in a matter of minutes — and it was better than any long sex you'd ever had with anyone else.

Satoru slowly eased his fingers out of you and kissed your thighs again, as if he couldn't get enough of you. You didn't say anything for a long time, so he must have been getting nervous, because then he asked, "Was that... okay?"

You pushed yourself up on your elbows to look at him. He adjusted his glasses, which were clearly covered with something liquid you were sure came from you, in that adorably nervous way of his.

"Okay?" You let out a breathless laugh. "How are you so... I mean, where did you learn to...?"

"I'm good at… studying."

You were silent.

"Hah?"

✮ ⋆ ˚｡♡ ⋆｡°✩

The days following your tutoring session in the study room felt like walking through a dream. Neither of you had explicitly talked about what happened — what it meant, what you were to each other now. Your study sessions continued like always, like he hadn’t made you cum on this precise table with his mouth just a few days before. So much for being inexperienced.

Satoru remained surprisingly composed, if a bit more touchy than before. His hand lingered on your lower back when he leaned in to check your work, his fingers brushing strands of hair behind your ear when you concentrated. You caught him watching you with that intense blue gaze more often, though he'd quickly look away and adjust his glasses when you met his eyes.

You figured he was waiting until after your upcoming exam, not wanting to distract you more than he already did. Though honestly, how were you supposed to focus on math when all you could think about was his hands, his mouth, the way he'd— okay, let's not go there.

At least cheerleading practice had gotten better. Jake had done a complete 180° shift in behavior. No more aggressive throws, no more hovering around after practice, not even the usual suggestive comments. It was almost unsettling how quickly he'd backed off, though you weren't about to question the peace.

It was during one of your regular study sessions, while you were working through practice problems for your upcoming exam, that Satoru finally brought it up.

"How has Jake been lately?"

"Oh, uhm… actually, really good. Well, not good exactly, more like... absent?" You tapped your own pencil against your textbook thoughtfully. "He barely speaks to me anymore, which is weird considering how persistent he was before. It's like someone scared him off or..." You paused, the pieces suddenly clicking together. "Satoru, did you say something to him?"

He pushed his glasses up, a tell you'd learned meant he was either nervous or hiding something. "We may have had a conversation."

"A conversation," you repeated flatly.

"About physics." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Specifically about force, momentum, and the potential consequences of their misuse."

"Satoru!"

"What?" He finally looked up at you, and there was that flash of confidence again, the kind that made your heart flutter. "I simply explained some basic principles. Like how someone with my understanding of applied physics could theoretically calculate exactly how much force it would take to—"

"You threatened him with physics?" You weren't sure whether to be horrified or impressed.

"It was more like an educational discussion." His blue eyes met yours, surprisingly serious. "I don't like seeing people I care about being put in dangerous situations."

Your heart stuttered at his words. People he cared about. That was... something. Maybe not a definition of what you were to each other, but definitely something.

"So," you said, trying to keep your voice steady despite your racing pulse, "you care about me?"

His hand stilled on the page. For a moment, he just looked at you, and the intensity in his gaze made you forget how to breathe. "Didn't what happened in this room last week make that fairly obvious?"

Heat rushed to your face at the memory. "We haven't really talked about that."

"No," he agreed softly. "We haven't."

The air between you grew thick with longing. Your practice problems lay forgotten as you both gravitated closer, drawn together like opposing charges in one of his physics equations.

"I wanted to wait," he admitted. "Until after your exam. I didn't want to..." He swallowed hard as you shifted closer. "To distract you."

"You're always distracting," you whispered, close enough now to see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. "With your stupid glasses and your physics metaphors and the way you explain math like it's poetry."

His hand came up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek in that way that made you melt. "We should probably talk about this properly."

"Probably," you agreed, already leaning in.

"After your exam," he murmured against your lips.

"After my exam," you echoed, and then his mouth was on yours, and for a while, neither of you did much talking at all.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡♡ ⋆｡°✩

You almost floated through the library's quiet halls, clutching your exam results to your chest. The paper was slightly crumpled from how many times you'd unfolded and refolded it, just to make sure the grade was real. Third highest in the course. You. In maths. It felt surreal.

The library was nearly empty, everyone else either at the game or starting their weekend celebrations. You should have been there too, in your uniform leading cheers, but your shoulder still hurt slightly from that bad landing last week. As much as you hated missing a game, the forced rest had given you extra time to study, which clearly paid off.

Besides, you knew exactly where to find him — the same spot where he always studied on Friday nights, tucked away in the far corner between the physics and mathematics sections.

Sure enough, there he was, surrounded by his usual fortress of textbooks. His white hair caught the warm light from the desk lamp, falling into his eyes as he bent over what looked like quantum mechanics homework. He hadn't noticed you yet, and for a moment you just watched him, feeling your heart swell with affection for this brilliant, ridiculous man who had somehow made you understand derivatives.

"Guess who got an A?" you announced, dropping into the chair across from him.

Satoru's head snapped up, his blue eyes widening behind his glasses. "You got your results?"

You slid the paper across to him, unable to contain your smile. "Third highest in the course. Can you believe it?"

He scanned the paper, and the pride that bloomed across his face made your chest tight. "I can absolutely believe it." His smile was soft, genuine. "You worked so hard for this."

"I had a pretty amazing tutor," you said. "Thank you. For believing I could do this even when I didn't."

"You did all the work. I just helped you see what was already there." But as he spoke, you noticed something in his expression — a tightness around his eyes, the slight slump of his shoulders. Now that your excitement was settling, you could see his exhaustion.

"Are you okay? You look... stressed."

He let out a long breath, running his hand through his already messy white hair. "That obvious, huh?" He gestured to the complex equations covering his notebook. "I've been working on this quantum mechanics assignment. There's this one problem that's just..." He trailed off, frustration evident in his voice.

"Wait, something the great Satoru Gojo can't solve?" you teased gently, but your smile faded when you saw the genuine worry in his eyes. "How long have you been working on this?"

"Since..." He glanced at his watch and winced. "Before sunrise?"

You looked at the dark windows, realizing the sun had long since set. "You've been here all day?"

"Had to get it right." He stifled a yawn. "It's an important assignment and I just can't seem to get it right."

"You need a break."

"But I'm so close, I can feel it. If I just—" His words cut off as you disappeared under the table. He looked down, eyes widening behind his glasses as you crawl under the table to his side and settled between his legs.

"What are you..." His voice caught as your hands slid up his thighs. "Someone could—"

"The library's empty." Your fingers were already working on his belt. "And you need to relax."

"This is a terrible idea," he said, but his breathing had already grown uneven.

"Then tell me to stop." You looked up at him through your lashes, enjoying how his pupils dilated. Instead of answering, his hand slid into your hair, and you took that as permission to help him forget about quantum mechanics for a while.

His breath hitched as you undid the button of his pants, the zipper sliding down with a soft hiss. His cock was bigger than you'd thought, and your eyes widened slightly as you took in the sight, your fingers tracing the length, feeling his veins beneath your touch. Why is it always the quiet guys with the biggest cocks? 

You moved slowly at first, wanting to give him the full experience if this was to be his first blowjob ever, your breath ghosting over him before you finally took him into your mouth. You started with just the tip, your tongue swirling around it, tasting his precum, before licking along the sensitive underside of his shaft, and then sealing your lips around him.

"Oh god, that's... that's—fuck it’s so good." His head tilted back, eyes closing, his voice strained with the effort of keeping quiet. 

His hand tightened in your hair, not pushing but holding, gently guiding your movements. With his other hand, he gripped his math notes on the table, the pages crinkling under his tight grasp as if they were his last hold on sanity.

You took him deep and Satoru swore he could see stars. His moans became more urgent, less restrained. "Yes, just like that, oh fuck, feels so good." His words broken by throaty moans that he tried to muffle with his free hand pressed against his mouth. "You're going to make me—oh god, so close." 

His thighs tensed under your hands, his breathing becoming ragged. You could feel every shudder, every twitch of his body. "I'm gonna— I'm—" His words cut off as his orgasm hit, his body tensing, his hand holding your head firmly but gently as he spilled into your mouth, his cum hot against your tongue. "Oh fuck, oh fuck," he gasped, a series of curses tumbling from his lips and amidst the swearing, you swear you caught a fragment of a mathematical theorem, though you might have misheard.

Afterwards, his body trembled, his breathing heavy and uneven, his grip on your hair loosening as he slumped back in his chair, completely spent. "God, that was... fuck, that was amazing."

"Still thinking about that assignment?" you asked innocently,  emerging from under the desk to find him looking like a mess, with his face flushed, glasses askew, and his white hair a bit damp around his forehead as he tried to regain his breathing.

"I... I can't even remember my own name right now." He pulled you into his lap for a kiss. His thumb traced your cheek as he kissed you gently, making your heart flutter in your chest.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡♡ ⋆｡°✩

A few weeks later, your head rested comfortably in Satoru's lap as you watched him read through his graded quantum mechanics assignment. Warm sunshine filtered through cherry blossoms above, casting dappled shadows across your shared blanket beneath the old tree on a lazy spring afternoon on campus. A gentle breeze carried the scent of fresh grass and early flowers, ruffling his white hair as he studied the papers held above you.

His glasses caught the sunlight, making his blue eyes look like summer sky caught in glass. Your own textbook lay forgotten beside you on the blanket. You were more interested in watching Satoru and the slight smile that played on his lips.

"So?" you finally asked, reaching up to poke his cheek. "How did you do?"

He looked down at you. "Perfect score." He tilted the paper so you could see the bold A marked in red at the top. 

"I knew you could do it!" you exclaimed, reaching up to cup his cheek. "My brilliant quantum genius." You sat up, turning to face him properly, your knees brushing his thighs on the blanket. "I am so proud of you. But I didn't expect less from my tutor."

He leaned into your touch, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. "Speaking of tutoring, have you checked your final grade for the semester?"

You had, actually — multiple times, still not quite believing it. "A solid A. Turns out I'm not so bad at maths."

"You were always good at it," he said softly, brushing a fallen petal from your shoulder. "You just needed someone to help you see it differently." He paused, adjusting his glasses in that endearingly nervous way of his, the lenses catching the golden afternoon light. "Though I have to admit, I'm a little sad our tutoring sessions are over."

"Who says they have to be?" You leaned into him. His arms immediately wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. "I'm taking Advanced Calculus next semester."

His eyebrows shot up. "Voluntarily?"

"Well," you played with the collar of his sweater vest, "I heard the TA for that class is really cute. Bit of a nerd, but in a hot way. Plus, I have it on good authority that he's dating this amazing cheerleader…"

"Is he now?" His hands tightened on your waist. "Sounds like a lucky guy."

"Oh, he is." You leaned in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. "Though not as lucky as she is."

He caught your chin and tilted your face up to his. "I love you," he said simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he hadn't just made your heart stop with those three words.

"I love you too," you whispered back, and when he kissed you, it was sweet and warm like the spring sunshine itself, perfect and precious as the moment suspended around you, there beneath the trees where your love had grown from equations into something far more beautiful.

You intertwined your fingers with his, loving how perfectly they fit together, and couldn't help but smile at how perfectly everything had worked out. Who would have thought that one failing grade in maths would lead to this? To finding love in derivatives and fun in mathematics, to discovering that the quiet genius in the back of class would become your everything?

But then again, maybe it was all just simple math: one struggling student plus one brilliant tutor, multiplied by countless study sessions, divided by shy laughter and hesitant kisses, equals a love story that even mathematics couldn't complicate.

And that was an equation you were more than happy to solve.

masterlist + support my writing

author's note — thank you so much for reading !! to be honest, i've been feeling pretty stuck lately with my longer series, doubting my writing and wondering if i'd lost my spark or so. but i think this story is quite cute and i had so much fun writing it. there's just something so sweet about those library crushes, and falling in love between the pages of textbooks. hope you enjoyed it too !

for more stories check out my masterlist. your support means the world to me. until next time, lots of love & happy early valentine's day <3

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here !

tags — @fayuki @starmapz @snowsilver2000 @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna

@cocomanga @nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @sugurbo @janbannan

@bloopsstuff @ihearttoru @momoewn @yokosandesu @90s-belladonna

@fairygardenprincesss @juneslove21 @glenkiller338 @gojossugarcandy

"An admirable answer, I suppose." He says finally, voice dripping with sarcasm. You’re bright fucking red on your cheeks and ears now. "But let's consider the consequences of that. If you were to go down this path, you might be seen as an obstructive defense attorney, who is so obsessed with the truth she hurts her client.”

You gulp, hating the way he leans on your desk, how he casually destroys your psyche. “With all due respect Professor Gojo, I disagree.”

He raises a brow, smirking, looking so handsome you wanna smack him. There had been nothing but shared looks for two weeks, you all had crossed no lines, but every move of his makes you ache, so you despise him more. “Oh? You disagree, do you? Explain, please.”

“What sort of attorney would I be if I don’t seek the truth?”

“A shit one for defense. You’re thinking about prosecution.” His voice is mocking, as he leans forward on your desk now. “Even so, what if despite your best efforts, you were unable to find the real killer? Your client's fate rests solely on your shoulders."

You feel a knot forming in your stomach. The weight of his words is crushing, and you can't help but wonder if you've made the right choice, being here, you begin to feel those hits of doubt. Professor Gojo's gaze pierces you like a knife, making you feel exposed.

You take a deep breath and steel yourself. "My responsibility as their lawyer is to provide them with the best possible advice and guidance of course, while also upholding my own personal values. I will not put those aside."

The classroom is silent as your words hang in the air. You can feel the tension building, as if everyone is holding their breath, waiting to see how this will play out. You glance over at Professor Gojo, and his expression is unreadable, as his lips then turn up, into a little smirk, shocking you.

“You stand by your convictions, even if it fucks you over? Fucks over your entire career?” His voice raises a bit, that silken timbre hitting hard. You nod, and the bell thankfully rings. “We’ll touch more on that next week.”

The class files out, and so many people go up to him, to his desk, to ask questions or to talk, you slip out quickly, heart fucking racing. He seemed to delight in putting you on the spot, in pushing his experience and authority on you. It was overwhelming. But in a weird way, it gives you some fucking insane thrill, one you question…

***

You peek at your phone, Maki is inviting you to a party tonight. Though at the same school, you all don’t see each other much, in different dorms and different classes. You answer with an ambiguous maybe, sighing when you think of the last time you went out… when that infuriating man made you cum so fucking hard you throb thinking of it.

Fucking Gojo.

You thumb through the book, as a pretty girl comes in, wearing a gorgeous red business suit. She smiles at you, her hair is a dark brown with bangs that gently frame her face, she has a little scar on her cheek that seems to only make her more captivating. She walks to you, smiling.

“Heard Professor Gojo is giving you a hard time, huh?” You flush at that, looking down a bit. “I’m Professor Geto’s teaching assistant. Utahime.”

“It’s so nice to meet you, Ms. Utahime. I've seen you around.” You stand and shake her hand, which has a surprisingly strong grip.

“Of course. I've been getting started at this new position. But Gojo? He’s a shithead.” You snort at that, and she grins. “He’s a damn good lawyer, and teacher, but he pushes hard. He pushed me very hard, I think I contemplated killing him and being my own attorney.”

You burst out laughing then, you instantly like her. “He’s a challenging professor, which I enjoy, but he certainly is-”

“Fucking gorgeous? I know ladies, you don’t have to go on about it.” Gojo walks in, his Gucci shades on, thankfully covering those ridiculous eyes of his, and his hair is casually falling over his forehead. Utahime scowls at him.

“You fucking wish, Gojo.” He sticks his tongue out at her, she flips him off, and you can’t stop your giggle.

“Something funny, Miss Brat?” He demands, staring at you, and Utahime shoves at him now. He runs around the empty library as she smacks at him.

“Gojo, do not even!”

“What Hime, jealous? Ouch!” She thwacks him good then, and you’re enamored how wild these ‘professionals’ are. In a way it’s kinda fucking awesome.

“Her name isn’t Miss Brat . Get your shit together, god.”

“You’re still sad I didn’t fuck you that night, hmm? After all these years! Ow, shit that hurts! That’ll leave a fucking mark!”

“I never wanted to fuck you, dickhead. Ugh. Anyway, let me know if you need anything…” She says your name, turning from a vicious little thing to a sweetheart, you smile at her, and Gojo scowls.

“I will, I really appreciate that! I’ll see you in class tomorrow?”

“Absolutely. Bye hunny.” She waves, scowling at Gojo as she shoves past him, and he huffs.

“Bye Hime!” She flips him off again, storming out, and you’re in a fit of giggles now, until his gaze catches you, pushing down those round shades just so. “Well, Miss Brat, whatchya reading hmm?”

He snatches the book from your hands, and you glare up at him, standing up and trying to grab it, but fucker was way too tall, you end up hopping up as he grins like some psycho, holding it out of your reach. You huff and he peers up at it, pursing those pretty glossy lips of his.

“Hmm… didn’t take you for an Aristotle girl.” He muses, and you sigh, sitting back down, crossing your arms and glaring up at him.

“What does that even mean?” You demand, and he pulls a chair, spinning it and straddling it, resting his arms on the back casually. You gulp, thinking how fucking hot he looks, shoving that down hard.

“Figured you’d like Plato.  Aristotle is a bit too logical for someone as feisty as you.” He says, flipping through the pages, his eyes scanning over it.

“I can be logical…” He smirks at that. You roll your eyes. “What are you doing here anyway?” You ask, and he smirks, placing the book down in front of you, leaning across with those stupid long arms. All of him was stupid long… 

Fuck.

“Blushing? From me just near you?” He taunts, leaning closer, you take a shaky breath, inhaling that likely expensive cologne he wore that made him even more delectable to you.

Fuck Fuck.

“No, it's just warm in here.” He laughs at your lie, and you pick the book back up, flipping to the page you were on and trying to ignore him.

“Hmm, I have an idea, Miss Brat.”

“That’s not my name, Professor Dickhead. What’s the idea?” Your eyes narrow as he slides off his shades, those glittering eyes boring into your face.

“Write a ten page essay on this book.” He taps the philosophy book you’re reading, you frown at that.

“I have enough work to do. Why extra, on philosophy?”

“Because you’ll get a reward for it. Something no one gets as a first semester, let alone a first year. What ya think?” You bite your lip a bit, taking a shaky little breath. “You’re tempted, hmm?”

“What reward?” Your eyes narrow, and he throws back his head with laughter, making you flush more.

“Not anything like that, you’re such a pervy little brat.” You scowl, standing then and gathering your books. He grips your wrist, your throat goes dry at the touch, looking down at him and his fucking grin. “Stop, you haven’t even heard me out.”

You exhale, yanking your arm back, hating what every little brush of his skin did to your body. “Go ahead.”

“I’ll take you on a field trip.” He says with a grin, you roll your eyes, snorting, before laughing hard. He glares, yanking your wrist again. “Excuse me, Miss Brat, I am your professor. You’re so disrespectful.”

“Sorry. A field trip? To where, the Zoo, Sir?” You keep giggling, and he stands, shutting them up when he’s just an inch from you with that hard body. You exhale, biting your lip again, and he gently puts his thumb to your lip, easing it from out of your teeth, shooting desire hard through your entire body.

“I wish corporal punishment was still a thing. I’d whip the fuck out of you.” He glares, and you don’t laugh then, because the thought of Gojo bending you over his desk smacking you? Yeah that did insane things…

“Sorry, Mr. Gojo.” You manage, sighing and looking up at him, clutching your books nervously to your chest. “Go ahead.”

“I’ll bring you to the case I’m working on, it’s a big one-”

“The fucking case where where the politician’s son is accused of killing that prostitute?” You interrupt, your eyes wide, he smirks.

“You would know what case I'm in. Stalker .”

You roll your eyes. “Not at all… but of course I know about it. It’s all over the news and everything. I heavily follow cases. How the fuck can I get on that? Like would the school let me?”

“Easy, write the essay. Impress me, and I’ll get the approval for it. You’re a star student already, it should be easy for you to come along. Maybe it’ll help you decide on a major, seeing the real world of law, hmm?” He suggests, and you nod eagerly. “Knew you’d be in for it. One more condition.”

“What, anything!” He smirks at your enthusiasm, and you brush your hair back nervously.

“I need it done by tomorrow. And you’ll read it out to me.” You frown at that, brows knitting, as you think of the work you’re swamped with. “If you can read it proficiently, under pressure, I’ll take you.”

“Under pressure?” You sigh when he smirks again. “Fuck… I mean… yeah, I’ll do it. I can.”

“Exactly what I thought.” He brushes the backs of his fingers against your cheek, and you tense, eyes locking on his lips. “You’re wearing makeup.”

“Um… yeah, I do a lot.”

“Not face makeup. Usually just your eyes.” You blink at that, wishing you could make your heart stop racing inside your chest.

“Ah… I mean, maybe that’s true. I looked a little pale so I threw on some bronzer.”

“Hmm. You don’t need it.” He backs away now, hands in his pockets, and you can just barely breathe now. How did he notice things like that? “All right, I’ll see you in my office at five pm sharp with it.”

You fidget, peeking at your watch. You had less than twenty hours and that was with no sleep. “I will be there with it.”

“All right Miss Brat, hop to it.” He winks at you as he walks out, so casually, and you sink back down into the chair, fucking breathless. The scariest shit? You were just as excited to spend time with Satoru as you were to see this court case, what the fuck did that say about you?

You pull out your laptop, getting to work, the library isn’t busy at this time, so you can focus on the essay without distraction. As you write, you can’t help but think of Satoru, his touch, his smell, his voice. You shake your head, focusing on the words in front of you, you could do this, you could totally knock out a ten page essay for a chance at this.

***

The next day you’re fucking drained, going through each lecture exhausted, to the point Professor Geto stopped you after class, concerned look on his handsome face, and Utahime also comes to you. She’s frowning, and you hold in your yawn, struggling to smile.

“I’m fine you all, just had an extra credit thing for Mr. Gojo.” Professor Geto smirks then, rolling his eyes, and Utahime huffs.

“Dear god, what extra credit!” Utahime whispers, and you laugh a bit at her expression, shaking your head.

“Not anything crazy. A ten page essay on this book about Aristotle he found me reading.” You hold it up, and Professor grabs it, with his elegant hands, humming a bit to himself as he studies your face then.

“Huh, Aristotle? Would take you for a Plato girl.” You giggle then, so tired you’ve lost it, yawning wide.

“Satoru…. I mean shit.” You freeze, and they both look at you curiously, making you flush red. “Professor Gojo said that too.”

“Mmm, we are best friends, makes sense.” He hands it back to you with a smile, Professor Geto was devastatingly handsome with his angled features and long hair. Another model to fuck with all of you students.

He held himself with a quiet allure, confident but not overtly insane like Satoru… Professor Gojo… fuck. You needed to be more careful.

“He shouldn’t be giving her extra work.” Utahime says to Geto, and he sighs, looking at you with chocolate eyes.

“Well, what’s the reward?” You grin at that.

“Going to his court case tomorrow.”

“Well your eyes lit right up.” Geto muses, and even Utahime nods. 

“I’d have done it too.” She comes to you and rubs your shoulder softly. “You’re done with it already?”

“Mmhmm. I have to read it to him though, ugh.”

Geto is just grinning now, and Utahime rolls her eyes. “Satoru is such a little shit, I swear. Just go in with confidence, you’ll do well.” He also touches your shoulder gently with a little smile.

You smile at them both. “Thank you all. Promise I’ll get to sleep tonight! Shit, what time is it?”

“Four fifty.”

“I gotta go! Bye!” You run out of the classroom then, exhaling as you head to Gojo’s office.

You knock on the door when you get there, and he calls out for you to enter. The office is surprisingly neat when you walk in it, a stark contrast to the chaos he brings into your life you think, but his classroom was also impeccable, so it makes sense. He’s sitting at his desk, looking up at you with those piercing eyes, leaning his chin on his hands with a smirk, looking fucking irresistable as ever.

“You’re just on time. Good.” You walk over and place the essay down. “Ah-ah. You're reading it to me, remember?”

You bite your lip, exhaling nervously, taking the paper back, then you squeak in surprise as he picks you up, sitting you on his big black desk. You look at him with wide eyes, and he’s gone to lock his door, a loud click resonating, your thoughts run fucking crazy when he’s behind you, taking your hair down out of its bun, bobby pins scattering along the desk.

“What the fuck?” You look up at him incredulously, but he just has a huge grin, his fangs glistening in the soft light of his office.

“Remember I said you’d read it under pressure?” You scowl, as he walks slowly around the desk until he’s in front of you, looming so tall, bending over until his lips are just a breath away.

You clear your throat, tilting your head back to look at him. “What about it has to do with my hair down?”

His grin grows, and he gently places a thumb and forefinger under your chin. “Nothing, I just like your hair down.”

“You’re such a shithead.” He chuckles at that, then eyes you intently.

“What is pressuring is how you feel for me.” Your mouth drops open, and you’re sputtering for a moment, opening and closing it. “You can’t act like it’s not true, just a touch…” He barely brushes a bare thigh, you hold in your moan. “Makes you tremble. And just a…” He leans in so close, breath hot against your lips. “Yeah, it makes you bright fucking red.”

“Does not.” You glare, and he just shakes his head with that annoying smirk plastered on his face, gently rubbing his fingers up and down your body now.

“Your thighs shift when you are watching me in class.” You bite back another moan, struggling to keep still, but you fail, your thighs do fucking move together. “Just like that. Think I didn't notice?” His blue eyes hit yours, and your resolve wavers.

“So my thighs shift… So what?” He leans even closer, and his thumbs brush the sensitive part of your inner thighs, making you fucking wet immediately, and you hate him for it.

“You wriggle your hips when you watch me too. Like this.” He takes them in his hands, pressing you hard on the desk, and you can’t stop the whine that comes from the back of your throat. “Need that friction hmm?”

“Fuck you, Satoru.” You whisper, feeling tears prick your eyes then, your breaths coming in little pants. “Why do this? Why push me so goddamn hard, call me out all the fucking time, with some advanced essay request? Do you really fucking dislike me so much-”

“Dislike?” He cuts you off with a glare, and you blink rapidly, swiping the little tears that fell. “You’re not as smart as I thought.”

“And you call me unintelligent! What the fuck even is this?” You go to get down and he holds you there, hands on your waist, so big they nearly cover it, squeezing and making you moan again. “Fuck, you…”

“I push you because I see potential.” He cuts you off then, and you meet his gaze, which has grown serious. “I’m doing this because…” He trails off, easing his grip and sliding his hands down your body. “Because I’m masochistic.”

You sniffle a bit, shaking your head. “You’re pushing me so hard.”

“I know. And I won’t stop.” He tilts your chin again, making you gaze at that pretty fucking face. “Now, the point is, your desire for me makes you unfocused. It’s a challenge. So we use it, and you push through it, can you do it?”

You tremble, hands hot and sweaty. You suck in a breath, shutting your eyes for a moment and focusing. You wanted to deny it, to not admit what was blatantly obvious to this conceited man. But… “Yes. I can do it.”

“Good girl.” His hands brush your hair back as he murmurs those words, in that deep timbre, you…

Fuck.

“Don’t say that.” You hate what it does to you, his words, that shit eating grin when your watery eyes open.

“Now, begin, Miss Brat. Let’s see how you handle this.” His breath is against your neck again, tickling delicate skin, making you shiver. “If you do well, you’re in tomorrow. I won’t push anything too far either, just enough to throw you off. Okay?”

You nod, realizing the challenge he was throwing, and you pick up your papers, reading out loud in the most confident voice you can muster. “Aristotle's idea of natural law holds that certain principles are inherent in human nature. That has helped to shape the development of natural law theory. Mmnh…” Saroru’s big hands brush up your thighs, making you wetter between them, you struggle to focus.

“Continue on, Miss Brat, you’ve just begun.” You clench your teeth as his fingers brush little circles, hypnotizing you, taking over all of your damn senses.

“Aristotle's emphasis on human reason and the balance between individual rights and social order has influenced the development of constitutionalism, far more than his counterparts or teachers. Plato and Socrates for example… unh. Fuck!” He laughs as he kisses your thigh, bent down between you, and your eyes go wide. Just a brush of his lips, you drop the paper.

He bends down to grab it, his breath so close to where you ache for him you feel tears prick your eyes. He smirks as he hands it back to you, leaning in close now. “So that’s what really gets you, does it remind you of that night?” He purrs the fucking words, and you clench your jaw so hard it hurts. “Does it?”

“Yes, fuck. Ugh.” You look away, and you hate it when he’s leaned against you again, as he’s read you like a book.

“Continue on, you can do this.” He orders, so casually, like he wasn't destroying your mind.

You take a breath, struggling to keep it together, when he decides to run his fingers through your hair now, reading more of the essay. You struggle not to just arch your head and enjoy it, but no, you’ve gotta fucking focus. “Aristotle's concept of justice as a balance between extremes has influenced legal theories, especially when it comes to justice as we know it… Fuck… please…”

“Shh.” His breath is hot on your ear, he nips the earlobe just so with his sharp teeth, flicking his tongue on it. You clench your thighs tight, damn near aching with how bad you want him. “Keep going, baby girl. Remember, you’re under pressure.”

You struggle to focus as the words jumble further on your paper. “Ethics is the most emphasis surely, as his focus on human character has led to a greater focus on ethical considerations in decision-making. It brings to light all of the things that make human beings tick and…”

You inhale sharply when he's behind you, brushing your hair to the side with one hand, then sliding off your blazer. “Aww, you’re a whole Aristotle stan, aren’t you baby girl? I’m so intrigued.”

 “Professor Gojo…” You trail off, he has his big hands on your shoulders, burning you through the blouse with his touch.

“You're doing really well.” He praises you, and you are surprised as fuck. “Keep going, pretty. Almost done.”

“Fuck…” You shake yourself out of it. “As for Aristotle's methodology, which emphasized empirical observation and scientific inquiry, it has influenced the development of evidence based decision making in law. It makes… mmm…”

Satoru is in front of you, brushing the back of his hand down your cheek. “No bronzer today hmm?” You flush, shaking your head. “Good, you have a natural blush when around me. Continue.” His face is buried in your hair, then soft lips kiss your temple. You're trembling so bad, trying to hold it together.

“Aristotle's concept of stability and continuity has influenced the development of legal systems as we know it. Without Aristotle's advanced ideas, we may have been much further behind. His ideas… carry…” You're almost done when he brushes his hands down the side of your breasts, blue eyes locked on yours.

“You're so close, pretty. Finish. ” He watches your back arch when he brushes his thumbs over the taut nipples, over your lacy bra and the blouse, you nearly lose it. But you finish. You fucking do it.

“To…to conclude, Aristotle's ideas have had a profound impact on various aspects of legal thought and practice, and they are still shaping the way we think about law today.”

“Good," He says, his voice gruff. "It's good."

You look up at him, your heart racing, and your eyes meet his. For a moment, the very room seems to hold its breath, and you can feel the electricity flickering between you. The tension is so palpable you could reach out and touch it, he is unusually quiet and serious, when you lean in slightly, your body betrays you, and he mirrors the movement, his face just inches from yours.

“Was it okay, Satoru? Really?” You whisper, he cups your face, nodding, and you're even closer, your hand is pulling on his tie, you can taste his minty breath, tempting you further.

“It was really good. I wouldn’t say if not. Especially for one day.” His fingers play along the neckline of your blouse, brushing your collarbone, he leaves goosebumps everywhere he touches.

“Thank you… I…”

But before anything happens, there is a knock on the door. Thank god, what even could happen between you two that would be anything other than an entire disaster?

“Busy.” Gojo mutters, and they seem to leave. He exhales, shutting his eyes for a moment and resting his forehead on yours, holding your face gently, before pulling back and staring down at you.

“What is it?” You murmur, and he shakes his head, sighing.

“You look so hot on my damn desk. This image is gonna be burned in my fucking brain.” He runs his hand through his hair, sighing.

“I…” You trail off, letting go of his tie and looking down. “Sorry, I got carried away a bit I think.”

“You?” He scoffs at that, and leans in again, barring you with his arms against the desk, gaze devouring you. “You get to go. You did a really good job.”

“Oh my god! Really?” He nods, and you grin, throwing your arms around his neck eagerly and hugging him. He tenses, and you ease away, but he pulls you back against him, standing up and holding you.

You’re dangling there in his arms as you hug him tightly, and you bury your face in his neck for a moment, feeling how good that hard body is on yours, his thrumming heart against your aching breasts. How good he smells, you want to inhale his scent forever. How much this reminds you of that night, of the guy you instantly fucking liked and wanted.

You…

“I’m sorry, Satoru. Got carried away again.” You murmur, and he eases you down, hands not leaving your little waist, he looks down at you, so intense, you can see your desire mirrored in him. In his parted lips. In his hooded eyes. “I'm tired and not thinking right.”

“Don’t apologize.” He says, voice husky.

“I’m really excited.” You ease your arms down, struggling to come down to Earth, to reality, which is damn near impossible, as you can hear your panting breaths and loud heartbeat in his quiet office.

“I’m glad. It’ll be in the morning, so just make sure to prep.” You nod eagerly, then turn to grab your things off his desk, and you’re against him again. He hisses, gripping you tight around your hips, thumbs pushing into your lower back.

You look back over your shoulder. “Satoru?”

“Why is your ass so goddamn nice? Especially in this fucking skirt.” He demands through clenched teeth, and you feel his hands tighten further, bruising grip, as he presses you against the desk.

“Fuck…” You manage to cry out, covering your mouth, when you feel his length hot and hard against the small of your back.

“Yeah, fuck.” He mutters, his hands grab your hair tight then, still loose and flowing, and you arch your head back, fucking uncaring at this point. He could fuck you then and there and you’d literally say thank you.

Why did he make you like this?

“Satoru…” It’s a little whine, his name.

“Why does my name sound so good on those fucking lips?” He’s muttering the words through gritted teeth, and pulls your head until you face him. “Do you know how badly I wanna bend you over this desk and feel that tight cunt around me?”

You manage a shake of your head, blinking rapidly, his hands slide your skirt up, and you grind your ass back for more, moaning. You know you all can’t do it, you fucking know, but the thoughts… the touches…  when he pulls the fabric of your skirt as he pulls your hair, and you breathe into each other's lips.

“We… shouldn’t… right?” You manage, his lips ghosting above yours, before easing his grip. He exhales, kissing your shoulder, sliding your skirt down, leaning over you to grab your blazer.

“I… ahem…” He puts on a smirk suddenly. “I know I get you so horny and wet, but control yourself, Miss Brat.”

‘You fucking ass!” You turn around and shove him hard, he snatches you up, wrapping the blazer around your shoulders, laughing.

“Am I wrong? Bet she’s soaked.” He slides his hand back up, and it takes everything in you to smack his hand.

“Fuck off, Professor Dickhead.” You huff, pushing past him.

“Wait…” You turn to him, glaring, and he’s got his hand running through that silvery white hair again, messing it up, making this literal perfect man look just a bit human.

“What?”

“Let me take you to your dorm. It’s gonna rain.” You roll your eyes, shaking your head. “No?”

“It’s not gonna rain. It was nice out…” Thunder claps in the background, making you jump a bit, and he just smirks. You wanna smack him. “I’ll go out in it.”

Now he glares at you. “You wanna be soaked? More than you already are.” He looks down at your lap again, you turn away. “Jesus, you're so stubborn. Will you please let me?”

“Whatever, why?” He walks past you, unlocking the door.

“You gotta be presentable tomorrow, not all sick because you got drenched. Come on, it's not like it’ll be long.” He grabs an umbrella, a long clear one, and snatches up his briefcase as well.

You quietly follow him out of the office, and through the school, until you’re at the door and see how badly it is raining, pouring down and the wind is going insane, making rain swirl around. Gojo opens the door for you, popping the giant umbrella out and putting it on top of you both.

It’s a downpour, soaking everything in seconds, except for the two of you under the clear shelter of the umbrella. You can feel the heat of his body through the fabric as he holds you close, and even with the chill of the rain, it’s like you’re on fire. Every step you take is a battle against the urge to lean into him, to let him consume you, to just say fuck it and epic kiss in the rain.

You can’t.

You don’t.

You keep walking, trying to keep your mind on anything but how badly you want to feel his hands all over you again, a mere tease, making you shiver as you all near his car, a fancy silver sports car likely worth more than anything you’ve ever seen. He opens the door, holding the umbrella still, and you climb in quickly, shivering as he comes to the other side.

Gojo revs up the engine, and the car lights up, you’re trembling as you watch his big hand wrap around the gear shift, putting the car into drive, but he looks at you first, catching your hungry fucking gaze and smirking. 

“Seatbelt, Miss Brat.” You giggle a bit, breathless, sliding it in with trembling hands.

“Sorry.” You manage, and then the car zips through the soaking wet streets. You find yourself enamored by him, by every clench of his jaw, by the way his hand grips the steering wheel.

“Need to take a picture?” He teases, and you roll your eyes, sighing, hugging the blazer around you a bit.

“Should have asked you that with me on your desk.” He smirks at that, his blue eyes catch yours just so, the windshield working overtime as you all sit at the stop sign, waiting.

“I’ve got a whole fucking mental picture I’ll use later.” You feel overheated, your chest tight with his words, fidgeting with your hands, exhaling. The rain is spattering on the roof, and it’s just you and him, together, side by side. No school, no bar, nothing but you and… “You okay? You’re quiet.”

“Yeah, just cold.” You lie straight up, shivering more. But you know it’s not the cold. It’s him. It’s the way he makes you feel, full of fucking desire that throbs through you.

“Want the heat on?” He asks softly, you shake your head, smiling over at him, as the car speeds through the wet streets, the rain beating a rhythmic pattern on the windshield, the wipers swiping back and forth in a hypnotizing dance. All of it was making your resolve lower.

“No, it's a quick ride, don’t worry.” You murmur, tensing when one of his hands goes to your thighs then, hot and burning on your chilled skin, goosebumps rising where he touches. You can feel your heart racing, your breathing getting heavier.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, you know that?” He says, his voice a rough whisper in your ear, and you blush harder than you thought possible as you look at him, realizing you all were at a stop now.

“Don’t say things like that, please… you don’t understand what they do to me.” You murmur, trying to keep your voice steady, avoiding that gaze.

“Baby girl… I know what it does to you.” His hand climbs higher, and you can’t breathe, it’s like the car is suffocating you now.

“Then don’t.” You manage to bite out, and Satoru turns back to the road, continuing to drive in the rain, and the car ride is tense, the scent of his cologne fills the small space intermingling with your own scent.

As you pull up to your dorm, you finally dare to glance at him. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are dark and intense, watching you, his gaze going down to where his hand is on your thigh. You shift in your seat, internally cursing, slick desire dripping down through your inner thighs even, so close to where his hand was it would only take the smallest inch further to reveal it.

"Listen," he says, his voice low and serious. "This isn't going to be a cakewalk. You're coming to a serious case tomorrow. You need to be on your toes."

You nod, feeling a mix of excitement and fear. "I understand. I'll be ready."

“And you won’t be interfering.” He slides his hand fucking higher, and your heart is racing now. “You don’t smack my hand away. Why?”

“You even have to ask?” You bit out, looking at him now, your lips parting, his eyes dart to them, hunger in their blue depths.

“You should smack it away.” He says, husky, and you go to take his hand off you, but you falter, instead you grip it, sliding it up that inch, to where his thumb feels it, feels the sticky wetness on you. He exhales, gripping you tightly, sliding his hand up until it comes in contact with your dripping cunt.

“Fuck…” You curse, when his thumb brushes you over your panties, and he exhales, moaning, leaning over you, and you all sit there for a moment, the rain thundering around you, your heart beating so loud it’s all you can hear.

“Saoaking fucking wet.” He murmurs, swirling his finger again and pressing up, and you fucking lose it, moaning, arching your hips up, gripping onto his business jacket, your lips right next to him.

“We shouldn’t…” You whisper, and then cry out when his long fingers stroke you up and down. “I shouldn’t have… shouldn’t be…”

“Why don’t you let me get you off real quick?” Satoru murmurs, sliding his fingers under the waistband of your panties now, moaning when he fully feels you, and you’re already gushing from just that.

“Fuck… Satoru… “ You hiss at his touch. “I can’t get it out of my fucking head. And I hate you for that.” You mumble, he tilts his head at you, eyes narrowing as he slides a finger up in you, and you throb around it, cries loud in the little car, louder than the pouring rain.

“You hate me, hmm?” He whispers, and you nod, tears pricking your eyes when he crooks his finger now, breath against your lips, you grind shamelessly in the chair, tummy clenching when he finds that spot.

“Yes. Fuck you for knowing my body somehow. And… fuck… mmmn…” Your eyes flutter shut when he crooks up again, hitting the little spot again, you see stars and black dots everywhere, cursing.

“Well guess what?” He leans even further, even closer, brows drawing low. “Fuck you for this perfect little pussy. Fuck you for being so wet.” You’re whining, pathetic now, tears pricking your eyes, as he slides his finger out, leaving you gasping.

“Fuck you completely.” You shove at him, and he scowls, then brings his finger to his mouth, sucking you off him, moaning, shutting his eyes, so fucking sexy. “Fuck you for looking like that!”

“Fuck you for tasting so fucking good.” He growls, and you’re both panting, your wetness is on his full lips. “I thought it was just alcohol, but nope. You taste as good as I remember. Now I think of eating you out while you’re at your fucking seat in class.”

“I think about sucking your dick under the fucking desk. So.” He blinks at that, and you turn insanely red, looking away. “And fuck you for that too.”

“Fuck you for always eye fucking me in class.” He growls the words, yanking your hair back, dominating every bit of your body and mind.

“Fuck you for… just fuck you, Satoru.” You’re crying now, and he’s watching you, smirking at you.

“ Are you crying ?” Your fingers itch to smack him, you shake your head, and you all sit there for a second, the rain getting harder, the windows fogging up with the heat from you two in the car, and you want to fucking kiss him so badly... You want to grab his hair and pull him into you, so he doesn’t stop, so he never stops.

But you don’t.

Because you’re both fucking insane, and you’re in a car, outside your fucking dorm. So instead you sit there, panting, trembling, staring at him, and he at you, as his grip loosens just slightly, as you feel yourself getting so wet your panties are ruined just like the damn night you met him.

“Not crying.” You say, firmly, and he smirks down you, so fucking charming and gorgeous you wanna smack him.

“You don’t wanna get off, baby girl?” He whispers, sliding his hand back down your waist, making you make some pathetic wine he seemed to enjoy.

“Of course I do, but where does it lead? Me fucking riding you in the car?” He grins big then. “Satoru…”

“You can’t just get off? You gotta fuck me hmm?”

“I need to go.” You unsnap your seatbelt, shaking hands fumbling, he slides his hands off you, unbuckling it for you.

“Poor baby can’t function, huh?” You glare again at him.

“Fuck you.”

“Gonna be all horny in the court room, how can you go?”

“I’ll use my rose toy.” At that his eyebrows shoot up, and you cover your mouth, falling back in your seat. “Fucking ignore that.”

“I am going to need a video of that.” You shove him, and he’s laughing at you now, with that pretty grin of his. It sucks.

This sucks.

“You wish, Professor Dickhead.” You go to open the door, peering at how bad it’s still down pouring.

He’s out of the car in a moment, then he’s opening yours, holding the umbrella up high so that you two are back under it together, he’s looking down at you, that white hair just a little wet. You errantly brush it back, then put your hand down, flushing, realizing where you were, who you both were. He takes the hand then, leading you to the doorway, which had an overhang.

“I’ll be here at 8 AM sharp, Miss Brat.” He murmurs, still too close, body still up against yours. You nod, shy suddenly, next to the man that had just tasted you, your fucking Professor. “Want my number?”

“What? No.” He laughs at you, white teeth showing, and it lights up his stupidly pretty face.

“Do you know how many women would die for my number?” You shrug, and he continues to laugh. “You’re such a little brat.”

“Am not. I just don’t want it.” You look down, at his exposed neck, where the knot of his tie had come loose, and your shaky hands go to slide the knot back up, you hear his hitch of his breath, see his Adam’s apple bob up and down.

“If you’re going to this case we need to keep in contact. I won’t be sending you dick pics, you’re not that lucky.” He winks and you chuckle against your own will, shaking your head and smoothing your hand down his tie.

“Mmm, true. You won’t get any videos either, Professor Dickhead.” He pouts at that, taking his phone out of his pocket then.

“My heart’s broken. But don’t worry.” He leans close, whispering in your ear, tickling it like crazy, making you throb with need. “I remember exactly how that pretty pussy looks.”

“Fuck off.” You whisper, pathetically, you don’t move, and you don’t mean it, though. Pathetic for this idiot professor who was ruining you with casual, silly little fucking movements. “Hate you.”

“I hate you . Hate how good you smell. Taste. Annoying brat.” You pull back to glare up at him, meeting his scowl. “Take my number, brat, and count yourself lucky to have it.”

“Conceited dick.” You take out your phone, and scan his little code, he pops right up in your phone. You giggle maniacally when you change his name in there, and he scowls at you.

“What’s so funny, brat?” You show him his name - Professor Dickhead- and he rolls his eyes, glaring at his phone, then smirking maniacally back, when he snaps a pic of you so quick it throws you off.

“What? Satoru!” You yank and hop up and he finally lets you see the phone, and it’s literally a pic of your cleavage in a top that’s ever so sheer and wet, with the name ‘Miss Brat’. “Dick!”

“Bitch.” You huff, turning away, and he snatches you by your wrist. “Don’t you want a picture of me?”

“Nope, sure don’t. I see you enough and it annoys me.” His laugh is hot against your neck.

“You’re a good liar, that will make you a great lawyer.” You turn to glare up at him, his touch eases, he’s just barely brushing his fingers down your hand now. You ache to hold his hand in your own, to entwine your fingers in his.

“Really, thank you, I am excited for tomorrow.” You whisper, and he sighs, hands releasing you now. You are just standing in front of him in the rain, under the cocoon the umbrella keeps you all in, hearing his breaths behind you.

“You’re welcome, little brat. Maybe if this works out and you bust your nice little fucking ass…” You yelp when he pinches you, whirling back around. “Then you’ll be in line to earn that internship. You’ve got a few months still, but…”

“Yeah?” You raise a brow. He shrugs, casually.

“If you can keep up with how hard I’m going to push you.” The words take on something else, your mind is fucking wrecked you realize.

“I can take it.” He smiles at that, touching your chin gently.

“All right, go on in, I’ll see you in the morning.”

You dash inside, and your heart is fucking pounding, when you’re up in your room you hop out of all your clothes, wincing when you slide off the underwear that’s just sticking to your goddamn thighs now. You start the shower, cursing internally as you peek at your phone, at his goddamn number.

You’d been ready to fuck this guy on his desk, on his car…

And you had shit for experience.

You wouldn’t say it, but it made it all even worse, you were so far out of your wheelhouse as it was. You struggle not to touch yourself in the damn shower, to not push this all way further than it needed to be, but you find your clit and lean back against the tile wall.

Images of him fill your head, the way he looked at you, the way his eyes had gone dark blue when he touched you. The way his voice had gotten all low and gruff when he said he fucking hated you. You start moaning out loud, as you slip your fingers in, stroking fast, but it’s nothing like just one of his ridiculously long fingers, you can’t hit that damn spot.

You go back to rubbing your clit because at this point it’s puffy and so sensitive it happens fast. You come hard, gripping the little shower bar and leaning, your knees wobbling, feeling like a damn mess, and it’s all because of him. When you’re done you slump against the wall, panting, so confused what this man made you into.

He’d make fun of you if he knew.

You step out, sighing, drying up and then getting ready for the next day, planning your outfit, planning what to bring with you. This was an insanely serious case, one of the biggest, all over the television, and you had watched Satoru on them, he was fucking the best, not that you’d stroke his ego and tell him.

Your phone lights up when you’re settled down under the blankets, and you see his number and name pop up.

Professor Dickhead: Good night, Miss Brat.

How did something so simple make you nearly tear up again? You exhale, hand shaking as you swipe it up and open the messages. You nervously bite your lower lip, lips that ached for a goddamn kiss, one you had almost three months ago now. You couldn’t get the taste off your mind. You hate this.

You: Good Night… Satoru.

Not professor Dickhead, for some reason, it didn’t fit at the moment.

Well…

Satoru Gojo hearts the message you sent, and you hate the stupid smile on your face that it brings, the smile that lingers as you fall asleep, and you dream of him, anticipating the next day, such a huge day for you and your career, but also, spending time with him.

Fucking Professor Gojo.

Chapter 3

Tips of tongues. Teeth, then hands. Hot and insistent. When Sukuna’s mouth collides against your parted lips, you’re lost. Completely gone. Because the kiss is an assault, a drawn-out battle—one you’ll likely lose but one you’ll not forget.

With his lower hands trapping your hands at the small of your back, you’re helpless against him. A woman tethered, held at his mercy, ready and willing to be offered up to a sensation that feels both forbidden and wrong.

And Sukuna must feel it too, because he takes. Gods, how he takes, like a man starved, denied sustenance for a lifetime.

Mouth opening wider against his, your gasping pants slip through the narrow space between. Your knees grow unsteady at the sound of his heavy breath, coiling through you like sin. It’s everything you’ve imagined him to be. His body, raw power, looming over you, impossibly tall, a beast ready to consume.

Tilting his head, the King of Curses deepens the kiss, the edges of his mask brushing your cheek while the massive hand cradling the back of your head holds you firmly in place, unable to break the embrace even if you wanted to. And that control sends a searing heat through you, yet some defiant sliver inside pushes back. As his dominance sinks down, you rise onto your toes, pushing up into his mouth with equal carnality. 

Laving your tongue slowly across his bottom lip, you earn a guttural grunt in response. Emboldened, your teeth follow on the next pass, pausing briefly before sinking down and biting hard.

A growl travels up inside his chest, and the hand at the back of your head tunnels deeper into your hair. Fingers tightening around the strands, he fists them, and without breaking the kiss, he yanks your head back, wrenching you painfully.

“Fucking bastard,” you breathe into his mouth, the words steaming between you as you drag the spot you bit back between your teeth.

Another graze. Another bite. Harder. Until you taste copper on your tongue. His grip on your hair tightens in warning.

“Reckless little bitch,” he muffles a hiss against you before capturing your lips again while his upper left arm—the only one not touching you—catches you around the waist.

In an instant, Sukuna lifts you, your feet slipping free from the floor, leaving a slick puddle of blood behind. Pressing you firmly against his chest, he strides forward and, in one, two, three steps, shoves you back. The kiss remains unbroken, your spine slams into the nearest wall, and a sharp burst of pain radiates through your wounded body. When a soft cry escapes you, your mouths come apart for the briefest heartbeat. But Sukuna doesn’t let you pull away. On a growl, he crushes you back to him, capturing every sound with the greedy smack of his lips.

You moan, a mix of pain and pleasure. 

Closer.

You need to be closer, or you’ll lose your mind. Which you likely already have.

“More.” A breath into him.

Dizzy, you can’t tell if the word escaped or still lingers, trapped inside your thoughts.

He pushes his pelvis forward, knocking into you, rolling his body into yours. And you can feel them—the swell of his bulge.

Fuck.

“Give me more of you.”

You’re just as uncertain who said that.

Him.

Growling deeply, Sukuna drags his open mouth over yours, and you eagerly part your lips to meet him.

The kiss grows frantic, angry, bordering on violent.

Together, you seek every corner possible, every dip and curve of the other’s mouth. Your teeth release his lip, and your tongues thrust together, his curling around yours. You kiss until you can’t breathe. Kiss until you hear his heavy breath against your face again, and that sound alone draws another moan from your throat, louder and more desperate than before.

Yes.

Madness.

This is insanity.

Lowering your feet back to the floor but keeping you pinned to him, Sukuna’s legs cage around yours, his wide hips sinking forward to trap you between the wood at your back. His upper hands shift to engulf either side of your jaw, thumbs sliding up to press into the soft skin before your ears. He forces your head to tilt up while you try to find every new angle of him you can reach. It’s still not enough—though it should be. You should be thinking of the regret that will follow.

But there’s no room for that now.

No time.

This is a need that demands to be satisfied.

With a slow slide, his upper right hand shifts, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. It feels as though he wants to touch your lips not just with his own but with his fingertips, too—like he’s trying to memorize their shape.

The action momentarily pulls you back. You’re unsure what to think.

But as your mouths realign, the kiss changes.

The earlier brutality eases. Bruising presses soften, replaced by slower, lingering touches. It becomes a lazy exploration. Where his thumbs rest, they trace tiny circles, and your noses nudge and brush together. A deep purr rumbles from his chest, and you grow weak against him. Tongues glide now, smooth and crawling, speaking not of dominance but of something frighteningly tender. 

A longing.

And one more emotion that’s—

“Enough!” Sukuna growls, yanking his head back abruptly.

The embrace topples.

The spell shatters.

Your eyes flick open, and reality crashes back down once more.

Staring up, still pinned to the wall, both your laboured breaths intertwine, caught in the heat where your bodies almost touch. He glares down at you, panting, as if you’d just tried to kill him.

“We’ll not do that again,” he murmurs thickly, voice rough. The eyes on his mask appear a little bit larger, heavy-lidded but burning as they pierce down and into you.

“We’ll not do what? Kiss?” you say, the sneer curving your lips impossible to hide. “Even though you’re the one who had me crushed between you and the damn wall.”

You wriggle in his tight hold for emphasis, and Sukuna leans back, his mouth twitching with irritation.

“If you think you’ll find that kind of warmth here...” His gaze falls to your swollen lips, staring for a moment longer before they lift. “You won’t.”

Warmth.

As if he ever understood what that was to begin with.

You fight back a sardonic laugh that is eager to rise. Even with your limited experience of whatever this warmth is he speaks of, you know there’s no place for it between you and the King of Curses. Especially now. Anything that might have been possible is already buried.

But choices remain, and there’s still something you want.

You want to make this man regret every moment of knowing you. You want him to hurt as he has hurt you. You want to walk away from this, knowing you’ve left a permanent fucking scar on his soul.

You want to ruin him as he has ruined you.

“And what is it that I’ll find here?” You lift your chin, your face solid and emotionless, even as you battle against the sensation of blood soaking through your garment.

The pupils of Sukuna’s ripple-like eyes dance and move across your face, then drop, tracing the lines of your figure.

“You already know the answer,” he coos lowly.

Shifting his upper right hand, it leaves your neck to trail downward, grazing the neckline of your sodden yukata before taking hold of the front panel.

“What we’ve both wanted.”

There’s a pounding starting in your chest. 

While his upper left hand joins the right, his lower hands readjust their hold, keeping your wrists firmly pinned. And slowly, he begins to part the garment.

The pounding turns into a flutter that forces its way through your pulse—whether from arousal or the fact that you’re still bleeding out, you’re not sure. But you refuse to drop to your knees and beg for him to heal you.

“And you presume to still know what that is,” you murmur, gaze fixed on his face, defying the pull to look down at the hands undressing you.

The King of Curses gives another tug at the garment, revealing the curve of your clavicle, and the skin around his four eyes crinkles with a growing smirk.

Arrogant.

Leaning in close, a few unruly strands of pink hair slip free.

“Don’t I?” he whispers smugly, tilting his head, then pushing the fabric open further. Without the pressure of the yukata, the wound on your shoulder trickles a thin line of crimson down your chest, tracing your sternum before descending to the floor.

“Then tell me to stop.” His voice drops, becoming a low rasp. 

That thumping in your heart turns racing, the beat echoing too loud inside your throat. Hands finding more garment, he pushes it open further, exposing the ends of your collarbones and cool, damp skin pebbles where the fabric disappears.

“Tell me to stop…”

Your pulse hums and brightens, heat sliding down your body to your stomach, then settling between your thighs.

“I won’t.”

“Say it.” His aroused gaze dips, lower eyes following the curve of your shoulders as he reveals more of you. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

You shake your head softly.

“I can’t.”

Because it would be a lie.

You want to give in to your desires, to be taken by him, to pull him under and keep drowning him.

To keep going.

Sukuna’s hands still, his eyes slipping back to yours.

“Then don’t,” he murmurs.

Away from your shoulders, the ruined fabric is pulled aside. You shudder as the tops of your breasts are exposed. With another slow push, it parts cleanly down your torso, falling off your shoulders and down your arms. The swell of your breasts spill free, and peaked nipples catch in the dim light, but Sukuna doesn’t look. He keeps his eyes held with yours. Your chest rises and falls. More and more skin is revealed. Once the garment catches and hangs loose at the resistance of the waist sash, his upper hands plane smoothly across your stomach toward it, fingers teasing the fabric. You swallow softly, aware that with a single tug, the yukata will fall.

“Look at you…” he whispers, loosening the simple knot slowly. “Covered in blood…” He pulls one end of the tie. “Just like the first time I saw you, all those years ago.”

The sash slides free. The layers drop, and fabric slips from your body, pooling silently on the floor at your feet.

Standing there, exposed before him for the first time, a wave of insecurity peaks, your eyes hesitating under its weight. You fight the urge to look away but keep your attention on Sukuna’s austere expression. He still doesn’t look down at your naked figure. Instead, he leans in, his upper right hand moving to the laceration he cleaved into your shoulder, and with a single sweep, he heals it, the hurt flaring then fading. Gently, he wipes away some of the dried blood with his thumb. After that, his upper left hand climbs around to your back, finding and tending to the final wound etched in there.

Eyes falling shut, you exhale with relief.

But suddenly, there’s a yank at your wrists. Your eyes snap open. Sukuna forces you into an arch as he bends your arms behind your back.

“What the hell are you doing?” you demand, shifting on your feet as he binds you with your yukata sash, tying it tight around your wrists and letting them rest securely against your body.

“That’s funny.”

He pulls away once he’s finished and turns, offering you his muscled back, before striding toward the unlit iron brazier in the corner.

“What is?” you grind out, tugging against the strip of fabric holding you, but it doesn’t give.

Swiping a hand over the brazier, Sukuna revives the fire within. A pocket of soft reds flares, touching his figure in a dark glowing silhouette.

“If you think I’d trust you not to touch me,” he mutters, head tilted down toward the flame, “just to try and kill me while I take you, then you’re proving, yet again, to be far more naive than I thought.”

He pauses, then steps away.

“I’ll not have you touch me again.”

Your nostrils flare. Of course, neither of you trusts the other.

“Besides,” he continues, stepping to the garden door. He pauses in the open threshold, facing the velvet night with his back still turned to you. “Seeing you bound while I fuck my cocks into you while spread out beneath me will be...” He trails off, leaving the thought unfinished. Whatever circles around in his twisted mind has drawn him into silent contemplation.

“You’re aware I can’t use my gift again so soon after you provoked me, right?” you growl, tapping a small step in his direction.

The firelight crackles and cuts, dancing over and illuminating his back and sirwal. It’s still smeared with blood and dirt from your encounter in the forest—an encounter where you awakened something you never knew you were capable of.

“If you were more disciplined,” he spits, resting a hand on the delicate panel of the sliding door, “you could.”

“Not everyone is as cruel and powerful as you,” you snap back, anger cresting in the timbre of your voice.

Those thick, inked shoulders tense and swell.

“A martyr through and through.” Sukuna shakes his head. “And with that, you’re fragile. Always needing someone to mend you after every little hurt!” 

He slides the door shut with a sharp bang, making you jump. The force stirs the air, causing the firelight to flicker, shadows to scatter apart before reshaping themselves again.

“One day, that weakness will cost you everything!”

A notch grabs at your brow.

The fucking hubris of this man.

The urge to yell back at him digs into your tongue. You want to demand why it even matters to him, why he cares at all.

You open your mouth, take another step, but before the words even slip free, he turns, and his eyes fall on you.

You freeze.

In an instant, Sukuna’s anger banks into one of heavy silence.

Quiet.

He takes you in, takes you apart.

Every aspect of you.

Your chest rises and falls, and his gaze follows its familiar path, beginning with your eyes. It lingers there briefly before drifting slowly downward—tracing the curve of your face, the line of your neck, and continuing lower to your torso and hips. His eyes crawl across the apex of your thighs before continuing down your legs, before finally stopping at your feet, perhaps even pausing on the tips of your toes. At the extreme amount of dedication he pours into studying your body, your throat dips softly, and you swallow.

When Sukuna drags his four eyes up, deep hunger darkens the edges of his red irises. The pupils dilate. Swollen and black. They’ve become lust-ridden, and he’s become a different creature in the span of a heartbeat.

Without breaking eye contact, his upper hands move to the knot securing his sirwal, and with a simple tug, it unravels. His lower hands follow, hooking his thumbs into the waistband, and slowly, he pulls the garment down. Your entire body tenses as you watch, your brow furrowing in anticipation. As the fabric slips over his two jutting cocks, they strain against his abdomen, causing blood to rush to your cheeks. Looking at them, it’s difficult to breathe. They sit atop the other, thick and big and hard and in the fiery light, you see the soft, distended veins that run along the underside. You see the tips, swollen and red, leaking with precum, see two black banded tattoos encircling them, one near the base and another below the crown.

He is…

Well, words can’t do him justice.

Squeezing your thighs together, a throbbing settles in your folds. You should be running in the opposite direction, not standing here face-to-face like this, because it becomes harder to look anywhere else, leaving you so exposed and vulnerable, especially after everything that’s happened tonight.

“Sit.”

The command pulls you out of your thoughts, and finally, you avert your gaze. Sukuna lets his garment fall completely to the floor before pointing to the raised futon.

Nervously, you step across the room, your eyes following the shifting patterns of light dancing on the ground to distract yourself. As you near the futon, tucked in the softer shadows, your heart begins to thump out a harder rhythm. Bound and reaching it, you turn and perch on the edge, letting your feet dangle, toes grazing the wooden floor.

The room remains silent.

Soft crackles hiss from the brazier, and warmth fills out the space.

But it’s too quiet. Uncomfortably so.

From the cool blue shadows near the garden door, where Sukuna stands, his lower red eyes watch you, unblinking. Then he finally moves, pulling away from the frame.

“Lay back and open your thighs for me,” he orders flatly, sliding a hand through his hair.

Taking his time to cross the space, his sturdy tattooed thighs flex and strain under his weight, his heavy cocks swaying while resting against his abdomen with each step. Coming to stand at the edge of the futon, towering over you, the slit on his torso begins to part, and the maw awakens. Another flutter rushes into your pulse.

“Are you planning to shove me between its teeth again?” you ask, nodding toward the abyss.

Sukuna says nothing, lost in an inward retreat. He’s gone so withdrawn and guarded that it's painful to even look at him.

With a quiet huff, you edge backward as best you can, keeping your balance until you lie back and carefully drop your knees to the side. Once they rest into the soft, whispering folds of the quilt, your eyes wander up and latch on to his.

“Wider,” he growls, jaw clenching. “Show me the spot that has you aching the most.”

You do, pushing your legs out further until the muscles of your thighs burn. You present him with your core. It’s throbbing, aching and growing wet under his intense gaze dripping over you.

“Better,” he mumbles, raising his two bottom hands to his cocks. “Just like that, keep them open.”

Hands curling around each rigid shaft, he palms them into his fists, and slowly, so fucking slow, wrists moving, he begins to stroke himself.

Up and down, and up and down.

You watch him take pleasure in himself, a little too mesmerized by the soft sound of his skin and the rhythm of his massive hands gliding over his dicks. It’s erotic and intoxicating. And just the very idea that he’s standing before you, pumping himself while his upper eyes rest on your face and the lower pair hungrily devours your cunt, draws a heat across your skin. An urge to touch yourself climbs into you while he works himself, but you can’t, not like this.

“I can see that pretty shine forming while you watch this.” It takes a moment, but slowly, his heavy body relaxes, the tension leaving. His breathing grows audible, and a flush moves across his skin.

“It's making you drip all over my sheets like a filthy whore,” he admonishes you roughly on an upstroke that grows faster, his heavy balls lifting and falling, and your head grows tingly at the sight.

“Tell me, how wet are you for me?”

Swallowing, you subtly lick your lips and push up on your elbows.

“Soaking,” you murmur half-heartedly, too busy watching his cocks drooling for you, watching how his fingers grip tightly around their girth, imagining your tongue or your hands on them, touching the veins ridged down his shafts or tonguing your way over the swollen heads.

Only then do you realize this is the first time you’ve seen a fully erect man before you, and it’s embarrassing how captivated you are by him.

Ryomen Sukuna is, to be clear, perfection.

“Louder!” he orders, his voice a growl. “And bring those perverse eyes up here.”

Your gaze moves to his smirking face.

“I said I was soaking!” you hiss, trying to match his tone with your rising voice. “Asshole…” you finish in a mutter.

Tipping back his head, he reveals the strong column of his throat—a throat you once wondered if you could strangle. Sukuna grins, like the devil himself, before widening his stance and staring down at you along the length of his broad nose.

“Good girl.” The praise is enough to set your blood hot and emerges from his lips in a husky purr, followed by a ragged exhale tearing from the back of his throat. All four of his eyes remain on you, devouring you as you lay stretched across his sheets like an offering.

Aroused, you start to move your hips—soft, lazy undulations, back and forth to ease the tension in your core.

“Fuck,” Sukuna breathes quietly, eyes tracing the subtle movements with his lower eyes.

He likes this.

The skin-on-skin contact of his hands and shafts grows louder, and heat scorches you further as you watch his fists squeeze tighter, his strokes becoming heavier and faster. His mouth tugs slightly, then parts, the muscles along his abdomen flexing and tensing. The tips of his cocks well with more pearly beads, enough that on the lower one, a droplet slides down the length of his shaft until it pulls away and falls to the floor. Your breaths become unsteady at the sight of it. Of his members becoming slick and glistening. They look like they’re aching, desperate to be touched. 

“Look at your sweet virgin cunt begging for me to fuck it,” he grunts past his teeth, and you’re almost panting as his voice becomes coarse with arousal.

Subconsciously, you bring your legs together and squeeze, hips and thighs gently moving back and forth for friction.

“With the way you’re looking at me, practically eating me alive while stroking yourself,” you say, your words catching slightly, “it seems like you want it too, maybe even a little desperately.”

Sukuna’s mouth twitches at your comment. Dangerous to tease him like this, but you keep going.

“You haven’t fucked in months.” You push and grind your thighs harder, and he watches, stroking his cocks in rhythm. “Since the weather was warm.”

Still unsure what’s truth and what’s lies, you watch his reaction closely.

Nothing.

You pause and tilt your head before opening your legs wide for him again, tempting and rolling your hips back and forth.

“Haven’t fucked since—” You raise an eyebrow as if you aren’t afraid of the consequences. “Since the first day I arrived… have you?”

You’re clenching and throbbing around nothing, and the King of Curses’ nostrils flare.

“I wonder why that is,” you taunt, swivelling in tighter circles.

Sukuna stops pumping his cocks but grips them tightly at the base.

“Am I wrong?” Your voice becomes light.

He says nothing, but his mouth twitches. And now you’re fighting a cocky grin. 

So, not a lie?

“You know,” he growls dangerously, dropping his hands from his shafts. “The more you try to speak with such overstated pride…” He steps forward, bending, then reaching so his fingers dig into your thighs. He drags you to the edge of the futon. Your eyes come level with his, indignation spreading across his snarling face. “The more you’re getting on my fucking nerves.”

With his upper left hand curling around the back of your neck, he forces you to sit up on your knees, back arching in a contorted position. He bends further, keeping his eyes with yours.

“Open up for me,” he hisses angrily into your face, gaze darting to your mouth, then back up.

That demand, that stupid demand. He’s said it to you before, and now that everything is laid bare and coming from him again, it sounds so different. 

You hesitate.

Watching you sternly, he reaches down to his upper cock, and runs his thumb along the tip, collecting the precum that has beaded there. 

“I said open.” He nudges his chin and brings his hand forward just shy of your mouth. “I’ll not ask again.”

Catching his gaze, you part your lips, tongue pulling away to peek out slightly. His eyes hood, becoming heated with lust as he stares at your open mouth. Slowly, you watch as he brushes his slicked thumb onto your bottom lip, where he drags it across. Curiosity has the tip of your tongue darting out to taste the pad of his finger. His eyes darken further, while you savour the saltiness of his early seed.

“Since you’re desperate enough to pry into my private life, I’ll tell you.” His voice roughens. Finger pressing harder, he pulls your lip down, revealing your teeth. “No, I haven’t sought out anyone else since you arrived. For a while now…”

He pauses, his words trailing off, and you wonder if he’s reflecting on the seven years spent despising you.

“My thoughts have been consumed… elsewhere,” he concludes with a grumble.

You stare at him, searching his face.

“A truth, for once?” you murmur, his finger still resting against your drawn-down lip.

It steals a half smirk from him, and he nods. Leaving you unsure of what to say. But the expression he wears quickly fades. His jaw doesn’t unclench as though he’s holding back the rest of that truth.

“And with that arrival,” he continues, tracing your bottom lip back and forth, lower eyes tracking the movement. “I’ve wondered for a while what this mouth would look like wrapped around my cock. What it would feel like to do the most depraved things to you.” His thumb leaves your lip, and his hand slips to grip your neck. “To witness you kneeling before my feet and worshiping me while I fuck your throat raw… watch you choke on it until your eyes well with tears that belong only to me.”

His fingertips trace the curve of your neck with care, sliding down to rest in the hollow of your throat.

Words fail to form. The possessiveness behind what he says and the image he’s pushed into your mind. It leaves you with only soft, unintelligible sounds.

Dipping his thumb into the groove of your clavicle, Sukuna pauses.

“However…”

His eyes narrow to dark ruins.

Whatever truth or reflection was there vanishes.

“I’ve waited too long for this.” A growl edges his voice, lip curling back, he bares his teeth.

Without warning, he releases you and pushes you roughly onto the bedding, where you land with a sharp inhale. As you shift, trying to find a comfortable position for your bound hands, you catch sight of him sinking to his knees at the edge of the futon. You look up just as he grabs your ankles, pulling you closer to the edge. Without pause, he roughly hoists your calves onto his broad shoulders and dips his head between your open thighs, working his jaw as he does. Making eye contact with you, he opens his mouth and spits onto your entrance. Your breath catches at the sensation before he reaches forward and starts to rub his thumb along your slit, swirling the saliva up and down and then slowly, he sinks two fingers in deep.

Blinding heat spills across your vision. The intrusive pressure of being filled by him again has your mouth dropping open silently, but a long moan soon follows from up your throat, making Sukuna’s eyes hood.

“That’s it,” he husks, pushing further until you see his knuckles softly brush your skin. “Let me hear you.”

You’ll not restrain yourself any longer.

“Oh, fuck,” you whine around the increasing pleasure of him working your body so well, mesmerized by the sight as he pulls and drives his fingers in and out. Your juices and his spit make soft, sticky noises that mingle with the crackling of the fire.

Erotic.

Pumping his fingers, his lower left hand comes up and switches, replacing his fingers that were in your cunt only to drag them down lower while the other one slips back inside your wet heat. He pauses at your asshole before leaning in to spit there. Your body jumps, and then he’s pressing one solid finger against your tight hole. Shifting side to side, you feel uncomfortable at the pressure and try to shut your thighs closed, but when his eyes shoot up to your face, you still.

“Relax,” he grumbles quietly, looking away and dipping his head down to drip more saliva onto your ass. “I’ll not let it hurt.”

Pushing his upper hands under your asscheeks, he spreads them wide, letting the spit curve down to reach his finger, and finally, with a gentle twist, he slowly breaches the ring of muscle. 

There’s a bright ache.

“Sukuna!” You don’t mean to wince out his name, but it comes along with the new sensation of having that hole filled for the first time.

“There you go,” he coos darkly, working his fingers, pumping them, stretching you open. He brings his head down and adds his tongue to the mess, licking and nipping at your drenched folds before nudging, then flicking right across your tight nub.

You tense, a knot forming in your abdomen, then you’re gone—falling, deeper, farther, endlessly.

Losing yourself to him again.

A pull too strong. 

One you can’t seem to deny.

Fingers fucking into your holes, lips sucking, and tongue moving steadily back and forth across your clit, pleasure darts through you. You’re quickly becoming a moaning mess beneath his mouth. And bound at his mercy, all you can do is let your back arch off the sheets, let your legs press inward over his tattooed shoulders until your heels dig into his skin. The King of Curses muffles a deep grunt into your damp sex and adjusts the hold he has on you.

A tight hold. One you can’t break.

Back and forth, in and out, faster, more pressure.

“Pathetic.” Sukuna pulls his mouth back, red eyes staring up at you from the planes of your body.

“What—ah!”

He adds another finger inside each hole, and your question cuts into a mangled whimper at the stretch. Guiding his mouth back down, he breathes heavily across your cunt, his tongue pushing up and into your lips and assaulting its way across your swollen clit over and over again. And you’re gasping, moaning, squirming in his grasp so much that his upper hands abandon their grip on your ass to pin your hips down.

“Look at that,” he mouths against your slit, tonguing you before tugging your folds impatiently into his mouth, and you clench. He teases your pussy again before releasing it to lift his head.

Both your eyes wander to each other, staying for a moment.

“Look at your tight cunt and ass relishing in being played with by the very monster you failed to kill.”

He pauses.

That look. His gaze is cruel.

“You should be embarrassed!” he sneers.

Humiliation snags in your chest.

“Fuck you!” you hiss, and he drives his fingers deeper to hit a sweet spot making your mouth fall open on a whine.

No longer able to form something combative, your soft pants turn into frustrated groans, loosened muscles trembling and contracting under the constant stimulation as your orgasm builds. Head falling back deeper into the mounds of pillows fitted across the futon, your eyes drift to the ceiling before sliding shut.

“That’s what I thought,” he growls, his words muffled as he eats at you eagerly. “Look how well your body is enjoying this.”

The tip of his tongue lashes back and forth across your sensitive nub until all you hear is wetness clicking. You open your eyes, shake and tremble under his mouth and under his words.

“You enjoy me,” he adds, his licks and sucks becoming firmer, pumping fingers harder, head moving up and down to reach your flushing core.

Back and forth, in and out, faster, more pressure.

You moan loudly.

The approaching orgasm causes a warmth to reach and unfurl inside your belly, forcing your eyes into a soft squint and brows to furrow. Opening his mouth, Sukuna circles and flicks his tongue rapidly across your clit again, and you rupture. Your sex clenches. Mouth dropping open, a desperate cry rips out of you, and you cum, grinding your pelvis to prolong the sensation. And Sukuna is groaning loudly into you, lapping up the arousal that softly gushes out of you.

If the clash between you earlier in the night didn’t wake the entire shrine, the sounds of pleasure he’s tearing from your soul and the ones escaping him surely would.

Both of you undulate together. Breathe deeply together. 

Sukuna drinks and sucks at your entrance, his eyes finding yours, and you watch him.

“And you enjoy me just as much,” you choke out, words lost in your throaty cries of bliss.

“Say it louder! I can’t hear over all your whining and moaning,” he rumbles at you before dragging his tongue around the fingers plunging in and out of your pussy, spit dripping down to soak the ones inside your ass.

Lifting your head higher, you blink down at his massive figure, kneeling at the end of the futon.

“I said you enjoy me just as much, if not more!” you hiss spitefully. “Just admit it.”

Pulling his fingers out of you abruptly, he shoves your legs off his shoulders, pushes you flat against the bedding, and rises. You sit up instantly, but he’s already closing in, crawling onto the futon and toward you. Your pulse kicks into overdrive as you scramble to create space, but his massive body comes closer, his stomach mouth huffing, tongue laving out. And bound as you are, moving away is useless, and he seems to know it. A sadistic chuckle rumbles from Sukuna as he slaps a hand around your ankle and tauntingly reels you back to him. You slide across your backside until you’re face to face, him hovering over you, the grin on his lips widening into something twisted.

Smoothly, he flips you onto your stomach, and your skin sinks into the soft quilt beneath you, but your body stiffens as his lower hands glide possessively over your thighs to your hips before yanking them upward. With your arms pinned awkwardly behind you, tension coils tightly in your chest. It only winds further when his massive frame settles heavily behind you.

“You want to know how much I enjoy you?” he whispers into your neck before swiping his tongue up to your ear. You shudder at the feel of it, pushing back against him with an exhale.

“Yes,” you say softly.

He huffs into your skin. You shut your eyes. 

The heat of his naked body pressing against yours feels foreign, yet everything about this moment feels inescapable, though you didn’t want to admit it.

“I’ll just let you feel it instead,” he purrs deeply, easing a knee between your thighs to spread your legs apart.

His two bottom hands move to grasp your waist, clamping down and hauling you back. Eyes opening, you suck in a tight breath. There’s tension as you feel the press of his pelvis hovering near your backside, and the tip of one of his leaking cocks slides against your seam, sending a thread of nervous anticipation through you.

“And like I said once before.” He loops his upper right arm around your chest. Lifting your torso from off the futon, he keeps you suspended there, arching your body taut like a bowstring in his hold, then takes your jaw into his upper left hand, fingers angling your head back, your gazes meeting. 

“You’ll watch as I enjoy taking everything from you.”

From over your shoulder, his lower left hand leaves your waist and fists his upper cock. Using the arm twining around your chest as leverage, he pulls you back while he comes forward. There’s nudging against your soaked folds, pressure, and then stretching. Your eyes hold onto each other, his red ones boring into you. Strangely, it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Guiding you back, the thickness of his girth starts to fill out your pussy, making your brow softly pinch and mouth drop open. You groan, breathing through it. It aches, acute and burning. The sensation of being taken by him, taken by anyone for the first time, it’s overwhelming. Sukuna starts to breathe heavily, his cock pressing deeper, and you watch his face, the way he concentrates, and the way it twitches. Despite all the animosity, the way he pulls you back—slowly, carefully—his chest rising and falling, eyelids heavy, is gentle. Time spent wondering what it would feel like to be filled and fucked by him, touching yourself, imagining it, and now you’re about to find out.

Once his hips slot against your backside, you’re shaking, and he tosses his head back, exposing the line of his neck.

“You’re so tight.” With his voice taut with pleasure, he hisses the words toward the ceiling, a loud exhale following as his fingers tighten on your jaw. He starts to slide his cock out, then thrusts forward to fill you in again. You moan. It feels good, especially with his lower member gliding and rubbing against your clit, making your belly coil.

Tightening every hand he has on you, Sukuna’s pace is slow but hard, shallow thrusts, easing the heaviness of himself into you. And when longer moans begin tumbling out of your mouth, he drops his head back to look at you.

“You like that little slut?” he growls through his teeth. Red eyes soaked with arousal, his thighs keep flexing, and he keeps pumping into you in rougher spurts, skin slapping sharply, pussy so wet, staring down at you, filling up your body with him.

But suddenly, he eases to a stop.

Your brow folds.

“What are you doing?” Your protest has him grinning.

“It’s time to take all of me,” he coos deviously.

Reaching down with the same hand, he pulls his soaking upper cock from your pussy, and presses the thick head up against your asshole. You gasp, choke on a breath as he feeds it into your hole, taking his time to enter you so you feel every ridge and swell. The tip of his lower dick comes next. Using his left hand, he guides it into your cunt, your legs shaking.

Halfway into you, he tugs back on your hair.

“Eyes here, nowhere else,” he murmurs, pupils swelling to blackness, and he leans forward, pressing his chest into your back. So close and intimate, you nod and keep looking at him.

Fingers pushing into your hips, he comes forward, bringing his pelvis and you together. Deeper. Tighter. It stings. You moan and whine when it comes, both his dicks filling you so completely, your inner walls tighten, squeezing around them until his eyes narrow, and he groans.

Buried inside, he pauses, leans back and looks down.

“Exquisite,” he purrs, rubbing his lower right hand along the curve of your ass while gazing down at you impaled on him. “You’re so perfect like this, taking all this cock so deep and so well.”

Heat fists inside your stomach at the sound of his praise.

“Now...” Slowly, he eases out, body coming away until only the tips rest inside. Meeting your eyes, he lowers his head and releases another drop of spit onto his upper shaft. “Let me break you.”

Inhale. Exhale.

You breathe.

Shaking.

Again, you feel his enormous size, and again, he takes his time. Admiring. And you wait. Panting.

He pauses his savouring, then moves his lower hands, finding their way to your waist while his other hands follow—one sliding into your hair, the other wrapping around your chest to grip your throat, keeping you lifted off the futon. You gasp at the sensation of being held up by him, completely under his control. 

“So perfect, in fact,” he purrs seductively, and out of the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of him towering over you, the flash of teeth as he grins wickedly.

“That I could just—”

Snap!

He slams his hips forward, burying his cocks inside you.

A harsh, uncontrollable scream scorches up your throat, spilling out and filling the room.

You’re unprepared when he starts to pound into you, driving his lengths deep, fucking you hard like some hedonistic, mindless animal, rutting into you violently. 

And all you can do is surrender.

Surrender to his control. Let go of everything you’re meant to be and fall into chaos. Let him guide your body. Let him take his pleasure just as you take yours.

Thrust after thrust after thrust. Your entire being jerks and sways within his monstrous hold, back and forth. Thrusting in deeper. Harder. The tops of his muscular thighs smacking into the back of yours over and over, his thrusts becoming more brutal than the last, and almost all his weight pushes into you, heavy. Full. You feel so completely full. It’s overwhelming. So much so that only broken, high-pitched sounds escape your lips, mingling with Sukuna’s thick, heaving grunts.

Despite being unable to see his face, the sounds escaping his throat and the way he moves paints it all in vivid detail. Deeper breaths, his mouth slightly agape, brow furrowed with lust, eyes locked on the sight of your bodies colliding—the way your sweaty, wet skin moulds into his hands, how it slaps against him, how he’s taking you apart bit by bit on his massive lengths.

Thrust after thrust after thrust.

Bliss and ecstasy.

It’s so much.

So good.

Eyes hazy, they lift and settle on the fading mural stretched along the wall before you, landing on the depiction of winter, where a single flower, hued in red, peeks through the snow.

A winter flower.  

Surviving just barely.

So familiar.

Dizzy and already fuck drunk. Questions crawl through your mind lazily—things you long to ask and understand. But the way he’s taking you, with such urgency, speaks of something else entirely.

And then, something inside you breaks.  

Overcome by a melee of warring emotion, you toss back your head and chase down your anger, desire and shame.

“Harder!” you shout out your demand of him.

Sukuna’s hips lift back while pulling your body with him, then slams into you once, your whole being shuddering. He pauses, his balls resting against your sensitive clit.

“Harder?” His warm breath tickles against your neck as he tilts your head gently toward him. “Is that what you want? Harder?”

With heavy-lidded eyes, you dip your chin.

Even if it’s from him, you crave a reminder of something beyond self-loathing and emptiness. And you know Sukuna is more than capable. Able to be the one who can unearth you, expose your depths, and bury all the thoughts that follow you.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Fuck me hard. As hard as you can.”

His mouth twitches at your request.

“If you’re so desperate to be claimed like that, convince me. Beg,” he growls through his teeth, staring at your lips, fingers gripping your hips painfully. “Beg for me to take you like that.”

Your skin rages hot. His cocks twitch inside you.

“Please.” It’s the only word you can manage.

“Again!” His eyes flare wide and feral. “Beg me more!”

“Please!” you seethe harshly at him, vision squinting blurry so you don’t see the triumphant smirk spreading across his face. “Take me harder! Just as much as you hate me!”

Sukuna’s whole presence goes taut.

He tenses and stares.

“Please…” you add quietly.

His jaw clenches.

Then, slowly, agonizingly slow, he begins to withdraw—only to pause.

You wait, breath held.

Snarling, he drives back in and starts hammering into you. You let your screams dissolve into sobs. It’s the only thing you can do before his hips surge forward, and he pushes your upper body down to meet the futon, the curve of your ass in the air. Two hands remain on your hips while one shifts to hold you pinned by the nape of your neck. Turning your head to the side, you watch his last hand sink into the bedding next to your face, and then the King of Curses’ chest curves over you.

You can’t breathe.

He’s everywhere. It’s all-consuming.

His large body sheltering yours, hiding the light and only giving you him.

And it’s all you want. Want to forget everything for a moment.

Again and again.

Faster, harder, deeper, he takes you with brutal abandon, his body crashing into yours, fucking into you rough. You are nothing but tension, spiralling out of control. The sound of his balls smacking against your damp skin grows louder than the fire burning in the corner, putting you on the verge of release.

“Yes!” you cry out, the word trailing in your ears, “just like that. Don’t stop!” You push back against him, meeting his rigid pounding, feeling his swollen dicks pulsate.

“Filthy whore!”

His movements grow urgent, rougher. He keeps thrusting, keeps fucking.

“Then take it!” he hisses in pleasure, and one of his lower hands suddenly lifts away from your hips. A splitting pain burns across your right ass cheek, his hand coming away with a loud crack. You whimper, jerking forward uselessly atop the soft bedding, the stinging slap collecting tears in your eyes at the intensity.

“Ah!” you breathe out, and the ache of it all has you clenching around him. “Again!”

He groans.

Thrust.

Your heart hammers.

Crack!

A harder slap collides across your sweaty, naked backside, the sound filling the room. Moaning, you tip your head back, his fingers moving to flex around your throat.

“More!” Another plea. “Make it hurt!”

“Yes,” he rasps in primal satisfaction, his voice so deep and dark it stings, pulling you down further, smothering you in him.

Crack!

Harder.

A louder cry. The skin along your ass burns with agitation, which he soothes with a rub of his palm.

Bringing another hand up, two of Sukuna’s massive hands engulf your throat. Your watery eyes flutter as subtle pressure is applied until your vision dances.

Controlled and dedicated. You know he won’t hurt you—he’s already done enough of that. Even if a shadow within him still harbours the desire, you’re certain, in some way, that he can’t bring himself to follow through.

At least, you hope.

Turning your head to the side, he leans in, bringing your faces close enough to share a breath. Pelvis punching forward, he takes you with his whole body. Fucking you with his supposed hatred. But the way he looks at you says otherwise.

There’s always been two battling sides to him, two sides clashing, and you can see it now as he stares into your ecstasy-ridden face. The way he claims you, like he’s desperate to feel you after all this time. After all this wickedness and madness. But the intensity behind it makes your eyes slide shut. 

“Look at me,” Sukuna breathes quietly.

A gentle squeeze at your neck draws your eyes open. His gaze floods with heat and torment—the same torment you saw that day when you asked about the denial of something he truly wanted.  

Your stomach knots.

“Look at me,” he repeats, his grip firm as he takes hold of your jaw, his thumb dragging slowly over your bottom lip.  

“I am looking at you, Sukuna…” you whisper, your voice quiet and your eyes honest. The bedding stirs under you, shifting with the rhythm of your uneven breaths. “I have this whole time… far longer than all of this.”

The air between you both goes still. Sukuna slows his pace to nothing.

He retrieves his thumb from your mouth, and the King of Curses stares at you.

As if knocked by the small vulnerability hidden there in your tone, his nostrils flare, and his slitted eyebrow furrows deeply. A shadow of something dark slides over his hauntingly beautiful mien.

Now, you want to look away. Every aspect screams for you to, but you know better. Having pried open this small part of yourself. You hold his gaze, and you wait. 

A moment passes.

With the hand pressing against your jaw, he begins to angle your face away from him, forcing you to look at the narrow space before you instead. And with that, he shuts you out completely, raising every wall and sealing himself off.

Instantly, you regret yourself.

“Now, you cum for me,” he demands aggressively from behind.

Sudden weight pushes down on you, pulling you up and out of that momentary quiet. Sukuna dominates his way into you, taking your body and ramming it vigorously into the futon.

In that moment, you exist solely as a vessel for his pleasure.

Two hands gripping your throat and two sliding to hold on to the swell of your ass, he guides you back into a bouncing rhythm. Back and forth, skin slapping together, rebounding you again and again while his massive lengths plunge into your wetness, seemingly trying to take you apart.

And you’re about to. You’re about to come undone. 

So close.

Sukuna squeezes your throat harder, and you squeeze your eyes shut, ready to surrender to the sensations when warmth spreads up your spine, lavishing and crowding across your back. It tingles, wet and sticky, accompanied by bursts of hot air—his stomach maw. Writhing beneath this monster, the massive tongue maneuvers around your hands, licking, twirling along your tailbone and breathing at the centre of your back, sending little bursts of lightning shooting up your body. The muscle moves further down, coming to swipe sloppily around your holes that are being pounded, making them even more soaked.

So filthy and wrong. 

Lovely sin and a lovely perversion.

More.

More of everything.

Face falling forward into the pillows, you cry out in bliss. Bound wrists tugging at your back, your fingers curl into themselves, desperate to grip something, but you can’t.

To your right, the bedding suddenly dips under pressure. Your eyes cut over to find Sukuna’s right foot planted firmly there, his leg extending past your right thigh.

The new angle. The leverage.

He pauses and readjusts his grip on every contact of your body, pulls out, pauses, and drives his dicks into you. Short. Hard. Furious. 

Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.

So thick and deep inside you.

You scream, climax building to a peak—

“Fucking cum for me!” he roars.

—and then it releases.

“Oh god!” You cum, your orgasm crashing over you, violently and blissfully taking you apart. Screaming, you arch up and back into his tight hold, trying to reach for his hips. Holes clenching and swallowing his swelling dicks, and you’re cursing and moaning, giving him everything. Every bit. All the while, his thrusts turn erratic, unsteady, urgent.

Over and over.

Another thrust.

Another.

Another.

Another!

“Fuck!” he snarls, slamming down one final time and stilling himself balls deep. His cocks pulsate, then he’s pumping you full and tight with his cum. Your nerve endings burn apart as the heat pours into your pussy and ass, holes soaking wet with his seed until it trickles out, hot and scorching down your thighs.

Sukuna lets out a low, guttural groan. Goosebumps flush along your skin at the sound of it. 

Clutching you tight, he rides you through his pleasure while one of his hands leaves your backside to touch the warm trail of release that leads back to where you’re connected. He grinds into the mess a few more times, breaths shaky until he mumbles something quietly to himself before easing his hands away from your neck, and you turn your head to the right, eyes finding the wall.

Muscles tender and trembling, your limbs loose—you feel good, but also numb. You don’t want to feel numb. You don’t want to look at him either. But this is what you wanted—what you took for yourself, damning the consequences.

Easing a bit of weight off you, something nuzzles into your back. Dragging along the curve of your neck, you realize it’s the tip of his nose, tracing a path into your hair. Warm breaths and the faint heat of his mouth graze your nape, making you shiver.

Now, you want to turn around, but you don’t.

The touch lingers before it drifts lower, trailing down to your back.

“I should have stolen you sooner,” he whispers, his voice barely reaching your ears as you lie beneath him. Instead, the words slip into the space between your shoulder blades, searing hot against your skin before dissolving and leaving nothing behind.

Another warm pressure there has you relaxing before it’s quickly replaced with the cool air of Sukuna’s absence. He pulls away.

You don’t make a sound when he does.

And you don’t make a sound as he holds your hips and slides his softening cocks from your exhausted body, and don’t react as his seed drips out of you, don’t move as he begins to undo the tie binding you.

Between you, it’s quiet, only the fabric of the sash whispering as he tugs it loose.

“Since all that lies between us is hatred and distrust,” he suddenly begins flatly from behind.

One more tug, and your hands are freed. Quickly, you bring them forward and push them into your front to hold on to yourself.

“And since there is nothing else but a desire to destroy each other,” he continues, the futon dipping under his weight before his bare feet tap softly across the room. “You’ll have your wish.” 

There’s a pause, followed by the faint rustling of clothing.  

Then, silence.

You listen.  

“Call it a consolation,” he grumbles, “...if you like.”  

Curving your body inward, you don’t turn to look at him, though you can feel his eyes on your naked figure, on his cum that trickles from between your thighs.

“Before you drag me any further into this worthless spiral.” The fire crackles and hisses, fracturing the quiet while he tends to it. His heavy footsteps retreat soon after. “Today. I want you gone.”

The chamber door slides open, stirring the red glow that flutters against the wall you stare at.

“You’ll take your mare and leave before the sun rises… I won’t come for you again.”

Another pause, and you curl tighter into yourself, wishing to vanish into the sweaty, rumpled bedding that smells too much of the sex just shared between you two.

“I release you from this union.”

Your eyes collapse shut against the words.

You say nothing to the King of Curses because you owe him nothing. Because this is what you asked for—what you wanted. You should feel free and unbound. Instead, you feel unmoored and drifting somewhere you cannot name.

Inhaling, you wrap your arms around yourself for comfort.

Now it’s clear why he took you so hard and desperate. He was purging you from his system for good.

A sickness that needed to be culled and then cured.

And he did.

After a moment, Sukuna exhales deeply, his feet tapping lightly against the wooden floor. A pause lingers before the door closes with a soft, muted click.

asking gojo about it face to face seemed funny at the time— you, nobara , and yuji had been in stitches over the thought, even though megumi couldn’t find the humor in it. and since you lost the bet, you’re the one stuck confronting him. you can’t prove yuji and nobara didn’t rig the bet knowing you have a crush on gojo but you’re pretty sure they did because they’re giggling like school girls a few feet away.

as you stand before your tall, imposing professor and the weight of what you’re about to do sinks in—you must’ve been out of your mind to think this was ever a good idea.

“no,” you shake your head and hold your hands behind your back stiffly.

“so my adored student just wanted to come say hi?” with a smile, he tilts his head slightly, leaning down just enough to bring his towering frame closer to your level, “how nice~!”

“i have work to do,” nanami sighs at gojo before turning to you, “if you have any questions you know where to find me but please, keep it essential.”

since nanami knows gojo is one of your professors as well, he figures whatever you have to say can be said to him. it’s clear nanami takes any chance to escape gojo’s antics and he’s using you to do so now so you nod at him with a polite smile before he leaves.

gojo hums in a question, in a sing song tone, urging you to speak.

“i was just wondering-,” you press your lips together and let out a muffled huff in an attempted concealed laugh, “what size pants you wear.”

“huh?” he draws out, tilting his head a bit more as his face contorts in playful confusion.

“is one of my esteemed students gonna buy me a gift?” he coos as he stands straight once again and rests his hands on his hips, coming to the conclusion that you’re asking so you can buy him a pair of pants.

you press your lips together briefly and shrug noncommittally.

“i’m usually a size medium,” he says with his natural smile.

you hum, a laugh brimming on the surface as you hear the mumble of yuji and nobara snickering a few feet away.

“are they.. too tight?” you question with hardly concealed amusement, making his brows twitch in slight confusion.

“tight?” he repeats, growing lost on what you’re really asking as his gaze flickers down at his pants briefly.

“they seem a bit tight,” you blurt out, a giggle escaping as you bolt back to your friends, not giving gojo a chance to respond.

he’s left standing there, blinking in confusion and checking the back and front of his pants like he’s worried there’s some kind of a stain somewhere. you crash into nobara and yuji, both of them bursting into giggles as they fast-walk alongside you, asking you to piece together what just happened since they only caught parts of it. meanwhile, megumi trails behind with a bored look, eyes half-lidded as if this is just another typical day for him.

the mischief you, yuji, nobara, and megumi got up to deflated as soon as you got home. alone in your dorm, you’d found yourself groaning, face in your hands, cheeks burning as you replayed what you’d immaturely said to the most popular, attractive professor in your college. cursing yourself under your breath, the thrill of the moment now felt more like embarrassment.

the next day in gojo’s class, it’s a little uncomfortable for you, but with over fifty students filling the room, you figure it’ll be fine.

gojo taught his class with the same playful energy as always, but when his gaze lingered on you for just a moment mid-lecture, you sank awkwardly into your seat, that familiar heat rising to your cheeks.

after class, as you tried to slip away within the crowd of students, he stopped you in your tracks. you gave him a polite, slightly relieved smile when all he did was ask if you could deliver a stack of papers to professor geto on your way out. you figured he must have forgotten about your little encounter or just brushed it off as a harmless joke from some silly students.

lunchtime on campus, even in college, still has its cliques. some tables are for the smarter students, others for the athletes, with groups shifting from one table to another but always sticking to their usual crowd. but two of the circular tables never change: the ones ‘reserved’ for the professors. even when none of them are there, those tables stay empty, a silent understanding that they belong to them alone.

“you’re saying nothing happened? he didn’t even ask you what you were talking about?” yuji questions you in his natural loud manner with a mouth full of his sandwich from across the table.

“what do you mean?” nobara scoffs a laugh, “she pussied out and didn’t even say what she was supposed to say.”

you huff and drop your bag down beside you to rest your forearms atop the table, elbows brushing against nobara’s and megumi’s.

“well, he kinda-” you steal a quick glance over your shoulder at the professors' table, where professor gojo and a few other male professors are chatting over lunch, before cringing and quickly turning your attention back to your friends, “-gave me a look in class.”

nobara perks up at this as yuji shoves more of his sandwich into his mouth, even though megumi likes to feign disinterest with his head in his book, you can tell he’s tuning into the conversation as well.

“a look? what does that mean? like a ‘look- look?’” nobara questions with amusement and two jumps to her brows, jabbing your arm with her elbow.

you snicker at the insinuation while yuji seems lost and megumi simply cringes a bit.

before you can respond, yuji tilts his head and swallows a huge mouthful painfully before chewing it properly and speaking quickly.

“huh? what’s a ‘look- look’?” he asks innocently, assuming it must be a sort of ‘girl’ thing.

“how stupid are you?” nobara insults yuji in her natural insulting way which never seems to bother him, “context clues?”

“come on, tell me!” yuji whines before turning to megumi, “what’s a look look?”

“don’t ask me, idiot,” megumi says in a monotone before he politely takes a bite of his chip.

“it’s that look megumi gives you after a long day,” nobara teases dramatically, “you know, the one where he’s just longing to push you against the wall and whisper sweet nothings into your ear while he—”

“do not finish that sentence,” megumi warns, looking up from his book to send nobara a glare that she simply brushes off with a snicker.

“wait, gojo gave you that kind of look?” yuji asks with his mouth in a literal ‘o,’ showing off all of the mush inside. yuji either knows that nobara is trying to tease him but just doesn’t mind, or he’s very ignorant.

you shake your head immediately with a playful eye roll and a smile that conveys you’re used to your friends’ behavior, “no, he definitely did not give me that look.”

“then what?” nobara prods, less enthusiastic now but still interested as she snacks on her lunch.

“it was more like,” you sigh and squint at the ceiling as you attempt to think of what to call it, “a -she-looks-familiar—is-she-the-weird-girl-who-said-something-about-my-pants-being-too-tight- look.”

megumi snickers at you quietly without even looking up from his book as yuji simply continues ravishing his sandwich.

“ah,” nobara snorts and pats your shoulder awkwardly, “that’s rough buddy.”

“eh—i’m sure he doesn’t care,” yuji dismisses, small bits of lettuce flying out of his mouth, “professor gojo is cool.”

“he probably thinks i’m a weirdo,” you rub your hands down your face with a breathy laugh.

you’re not overly worried; it’s more of a lighthearted concern than a serious one. you’re aware you’re likely not so special as to be seen as anothing in gojo satoru’s world, much less a weirdo. gojo has many students and probably doesn’t remember most of them. still, you like to think you stand out since he often asks you to help him with tasks, like delivering things to other professors or grabbing items for him after class.

“well, look at it this way,” nobara says with a shrug, “at least now he’s thinking about you, even if he’s thinking you’re a freak who’s obsessed with his pants.”

“yeah!” yuji calls out enthusiastically, “he’s probably like, ‘what color panties does my weird student have on today?’”

yuji laughs at his own joke but it’s silent otherwise as you all blink at him—even megumi.

“dude,” nobara deadpans with a grimace, “you’re a perv.”

yuji’s gaze flickers at all three of you as his face contorts in offense, “what? i was joking!”

you snort and megumi grimaces at him before turning back to his book.

“anyways,” nobara brushes yuji’s transgressions off, “this is a good opportunity for you! get into his pants and confirm or deny the rumors.”

“huh?” yuji shouts at nobara with a mouthful, “you’re the perv!”

you huff and shake your head before standing as nobara flicks yuji’s forehead harshly, “i’m gonna go get lunch, be back.”

as you reach to pay for your usual at one of the cafes surrounding the cafeteria tables with some crinkled up bills in hand, a sleek black mastercard suddenly appears in front of you.

“oh—! throw in one of those cookies too,” a familiar voice sings like a child with a sweet tooth before they swipe their heavy, luxury card.

your gaze travels up the long fingers, and your eyes widen for a moment before you quickly try to mask your surprise when you meet the familiar sight of white hair and that charming smile aimed at the blushing lunch lady.

“professor goj— you didn’t need to do that,” you let out an awkward laugh as you grab your packaged food and gojo snatches one of the cookies from the display.

“don’t be silly! come on,” he coos, giving your head a quick pat before slinging an arm over your shoulders and guiding you forward. you find yourself stumbling to keep up, his long legs striding effortlessly while your shorter steps scramble to match his pace.

your face betrays a blend of fluster and slight panic as you avoid the gaze of the many students watching and whispering. fortunately, not all of them are focused on you—some watch discreetly while others remain absorbed in their own conversations.

“this is my free hour-” you say nervously, attempting to politely express your desire to join your friends for lunch rather than follow him to whatever teaching-related errand he likely has in mind, “uh—where are we going—”

“you’re gonna eat anyways so—eat with us,” gojo chirps as you approach a table of familiar, intimidating professors in their suits, jackets casually removed. they had been quietly enjoying their lunches, but now they glance up at you, curiosity evident in their expressions.

“o-oh— um—” you stutter nervously, your gaze darting to the side where your friends are staring at you with their jaws dropped.

“let the poor girl sit with her friends, satoru,” professor geto shakes his head softly, clearly accustomed to gojo’s antics and unpredictability. l

everyone knows that professor geto and gojo are close, with rumors of their friendship going back to high school. the way they interact only adds weight to the speculation— they’re often seen chatting or sitting in on each others lectures.

you glance up at gojo, still weighing your shoulders down with his long arm, and give him a questioning look, silently asking if you can follow geto’s suggestion.

“aww,” gojo pouts theatrically as he gazes down at you, “you’re gonna hurt your favorite professors feelings!”

he’s making it clear in a playful way that you’d have to find a way to slip out of his grasp somehow as to get out of this situation. it’s as if he knows it’d be too awkward for you to try to get away at this point since he payed for your food.

your mouth opens and closes and before you can respond, he speaks again with amusement.

“sit,” gojo chuckles and nudges you toward the open seat.

you lower yourself into it hesitantly, while gojo practically bounces into the chair beside you, already unwrapping his cookie. despite your best effort to press your legs together, your knees still brush against gojo’s manspread thigh on one side and geto’s on the other. every bit of your stiff body language shows your discomfort, as though you’re instinctively trying to make yourself smaller, hoping to disappear into a hole in the ground.

as you settle into your seat, you glance at your friends and catch nobara gesturing at you with urgency, her expression screaming, ‘what are you doing?’ in response, you give a panicked shrug that conveys, ‘i don’t fucking know,’ before redirecting your focus to the professors.

professor nanami sighs, clearly disappointed by gojo’s antics in bringing a student into this setting. he adjusts his tie and turns his attention to you.

“hello again,” nanami greets you with polite formality, treating you like just another student—which you are—the absurdity of your presence at this table is impossible to ignore. it’s not about rules; professors just simply don’t sit with students, you assume it’s more due to needing time to themselves and a break from taking on that professor persona than anything else.

“uh— hi,” you greet back, slowly setting your food down in front of you as gojo takes a big bite of his cookie.

professor geto says your name with his signature soft smile, “it’s nice to see you again.”

“oh- it’s nice to see you too, professor,” you smile awkwardly with a brief short nod.

a moment of silence passes— an awkward moment for you. geto’s not too surprised since it’s difficult to phase him but its definitely a bit different to have a student at the table, nanami’s irritation is directed at gojo like usual, while gojo remains blissfully cheerful and nonchalant.

“relax~” gojo sings dramatically and nods down at your food, “eat, eat, we’re all friends here.”

you blink down at your food, then glance up at the professors, bewildered. how can you eat when it feels like the entire lunchroom is buzzing about you? the unspoken barrier between teachers and students looms large, highlighting why these interactions are rare.

you can hear nanami sigh before he resumes eating, clearly judging gojo’s inappropriate comment suggesting that a student and a professor could be friends.

“we don’t bite,” gojo urges you playfully like you’re a scared kitty as he leans down closer to your level, nudging your leg with his, “go on.”

geto lets out a soft huff in amusement before shaking his head gently and taking a swig of his coffee.

you let out a soft, nervous chuckle before hesitantly starting to eat, trying to block out the way the chatter of the students suddenly grows louder the moment you take your first bite. it’s as if you taking a bite solidifies the fact that you’re actually eating lunch with them.

gojo says your name slowly, like he’s recalling something, “you wrote that paper on the idea that humans would be able to teleport if we had the right equation, didn’t you?”

your brows raise in surprise and you quickly swallow your bite as you glance up at him beside you. half of you expected him not to even read the papers his students submit since he has so many, much less remember your name from it.

“oh— yeah that’s me,” you chuckle nervously with a small smile and nod.

“very interesting,” he compliments with his charming smile, “i love students who think outside the box.”

you can’t stop the warmth creeping into your cheeks at his praise; professor gojo is so charming it’s almost painful.

“that does sound interesting,” professor geto hums and chuckles a bit, “we don’t get fun topics like that in history much, do we?”

you huff softly, some tension dissolving because of the way they’re speaking so naturally to you, clearly attempting to make you more comfortable.

“i love history, actually,” you timidly express with a small smile towards the professor, causing him to smile back softly.

“oh, really? that’s good to hear,” geto expresses sweetly.

“pft,” gojo playfully teases, “physics is much more fun than history.”

professor nanami, who’s a calculus professor simply sighs and doesn’t interject on the topic. if he did care enough to say something, he’d say school isn’t meant to be ‘fun,’ but to improve on one’s learning.

“physics is just over analyzing things that dont need it,” professor geto dismisses mockingly, setting down his coffee cup and giving it a slight push to emphasize his point. “like pushing and pulling—it doesn’t really need an explanation.”

you glance back and forth between the two playfully bickering, finding it amusing to see your professors acting so lighthearted together up close.

“at least we’re living in the future, history is just the study of what’s already happened,” gojo banters back, “boring— been there done that.”

professor geto rolls his eyes lightheartedly before continuing to sip his coffee.

“right, my new favorite little student?” gojo sings as he nudges your side with his elbow, making you jerk a bit.

“oh- i don’t know,” you laugh nervously, still flickering back and forth from the two.

“don’t bring a student into your foolish nonsense,” nanami intervenes, making gojo ‘boo’ at him.

“no no, i wanna know too,” professor geto huffs with a soft smile, ignoring nanami, “history or physics?”

“you wont get in trouble~ c’mon, choose,” gojo taunts with a smile.

you gulp as you eye the both of them awaiting your answer, anxious to be put on the spot and for both attractive professors to have their eyes solely on you.

“sorry,” you say with a slight cringe at geto, “physics is just so engaging— not that i don’t love history too though.”

“ahh,” gojo calls out boisterously, “looks like i win.”

geto acts as if he’s been shot in the chest, though not very dramatically. “and here i thought you loved my class.”

“i do!” you claim with a small smile as gojo wraps his arm around your shoulder and forces your head to rest slightly on his chest.

“it’s okay,” gojo says to you in a teasing whisper though he’s looking at geto, “you can tell him his class sucks, he’ll only take it partially up the ass.”

“language,” nanami monotones with his tired eyes focused on his salad.

“oops!” gojo brushes him off nonchalantly as he briefly squeezes your shoulder with his hand that’s so large that his finger tips graze the side of your chest, “we’re all adults here, right?”

after a moment of silence, your confused gaze flickers from the two professors eyeing you and then up at gojo before growing flustered again.

“oh— um— yeah, i’m twenty two,” you explain with an internal cringe that you made them wait for your answer.

“see?” gojo sings as he moves to rest his forearms back on the table, “a little cursing won’t send her to the corner to think on her actions.”

nanami simply rolls his eyes.

geto snickers, clearly amused by how his two friends treat you as though you're some naive young woman, despite being only six years younger than him and gojo, and even closer in age to nanami.

“definitely won’t,” geto adds on with a soft genuine smile, despite the way he’s obviously joining in on gojo’s teasing, “you do curse, right?”

you blink at him and let out a playful, hesitant huff, half-expecting them to laugh it off as a rhetorical joke, but they seem serious—aside from the barely hidden amusement they're clearly enjoying.

“uh— yes,” you answer slightly humiliated to be forced to say that aloud to the older men who know damn well already that you curse— since you were fourteen in fact.

“naughty,” gojo teasingly points at you as if reprimanding you, “so then, what’s your favorite one?”

“my favorite,” you pause with a confused twitch to your brow, though you’re already aware of what he’s asking, “curse word?”

he hums with a smile and nods.

“um— i guess,” you clear your throat as the tips of your ears heat up ,“fuck.”

you’re aware it’s not taboo to curse in front of them since you’re all adults, but it still feels a bit wrong because of their status— as though you’ll get in trouble or something.

gojo lets out a bubbly laugh as geto chuckles airily.

“that’s a good one,” gojo speaks through giggles, “my favorite too.”

you awkwardly extend your arms and clasp your hands together, then squeeze your thighs around your hands, a harsh heat rising to your face as you chew on your inner cheek with a smile that feels mandatory.

you glance at your friends, who are still watching you intently, bickering among themselves about what you might be discussing and how gojo seems to be laughing, before turning your attention back to your professors.

“anyways,” gojo sings, crinkling up his cookie wrapper and moving to face you with one ankle lazily resting over his knee, “we ate together, you love my class, and now i know your favorite curse word. i’d say that means we’re officially friends, don’t you?”

“uh-” your brows twitch slightly, unsure of what he’s getting at, “i suppose.”

“good~!” he sings cheerfully, “then that means you can help me out with something, riight?”

you glance at the other professors who eye gojo, unsure of what he’s saying.

“like what?” you question curiously, expecting some kind of paperwork help again.

“what was that thing that you said to me the other day?” he asks but it seems as though this isn’t the answer to your question of what he wants from you yet, more of a preface to it.

you choke on your spit briefly before uttering a respectful ‘excuse me’ and wiping your mouth with a handkerchief professor nanami offers you as heat burns in your cheeks and ears.

“w-what did i say? i didn’t say anything to you the other day,” you ramble as you clench the handkerchief in your lap.

“oh, you remember!” gojo says with a giggle, genuinely believing your claim but urging to refresh your memory, “something about my pants?”

at this, nanami’s dissatisfied expression towards the situation and generally at gojo turns into a slightly cocked brow at you in curiosity. geto’s curiosity seems to be piqued as well, quietly sipping on his coffee as his gaze lands on you.

“oh,” you gulp and attempt to hold a poker face, “i— uh— don’t really remember.”

“either way,” gojo waves you off casually, “it feels like my students are acting off lately and since we’re such good friends now, i thought you’d be able to tell me what your peers are up to.”

gojo’s words make you realize that your encounter with him wasn’t the only one he’s had like it recently; the rumor has become quite popular, and you’re honestly surprised none of the teachers seem to know about it.

“is this about that rumor?” geto questions gojo curiously, making your brows perk up.

“what rumor?” gojo repeats with interest, leaning into the table towards geto.

geto and gojo turn towards you comically simultaneously and even nanami’s eyes are on you, waiting for you to elaborate.

just as you’re about to respond, your mouth closes abruptly when a loud voice rings out across the cafeteria, piercing through the chatter and ensuring that everyone within earshot can hear it.

it’s a male student attempting to imitate what he believes are a woman’s moans, dramatically punctuating his performance with a semi-coherent sentence that escapes his lips in an exaggerated tone.

“fuck~ how big is it, professor gojo?” with a clearly mischievous grin, the male student shouts before sprinting off with his friends, their laughter echoing behind them as they make their exit.

a few days after the humiliating lunch with your favorite professors, you approach the door of professor gojo’s classroom with intentions to play the role of messenger once again and return a stack of files that professor geto requested of you.

but as your fingers graze the cracked door door, ready to swing it open, your face drains of blood as your hand hesitates at the sight of professor gojo in his desk chair, jerking himself off with his brows pinched and lips slightly parted.

his infamous cock, the one that's been on everyone’s mind lately, stands proudly amidst his unbuttoned slacks and a tuft of white hair, a sheen of moisture highlighting its pink hue. his large hand strokes it slowly and knowingly, coaxing clear, milky fluid to weep from the tip as if he’s purposefully teasing himself.

as you watch another bead of pre-cum dribble out, swiftly gathered by his thumb to provide extra lubrication for its impressive length. you can't help but gawk, fully aware now that the infamous rumor is undeniably true.

satoru gojo’s dick is huge.

you almost act appropriately, preparing to back away and return the files to geto with some half-assed excuse— but when a throaty groan escapes his lips as his hips stutter upward into his hand, you pause.

metaphorical drool leaks from your lips as you abandon all morals and watch through the crack of the door as your professor gets himself off in the empty classroom he teaches in—teaches you in.

after a few frustrating strokes with his shirt getting in the way, he pulls it over his head and tosses it aside, showing off his sculpted body as his abs and bicep clenches and releases with every desperate hump into his hand.

the first time he speaks makes you jump, guilty mind immediately assuming you’re caught but when you hear what he whines out, your eyes widen briefly in a trance as your chasm pushes out a drool of slick to pool into your panties.

“yeah? if you want it then touch it— better yet let me open you up?”

it’s as if he’s drifting into a daydream, moaning out words to deepen his immersion in the fantasy. you find it all too familiar— when the sensation of holding your bladder for too long, the pressure teasing sensitive spots, lures you to envision that pressure as a lengthy cock pushing against your walls in a vivid reverie, or when you’re all alone and grind against a surface you know you shouldn’t, imagining it to be someone’s face.

it’s as if his words are steeped in a fantasy of breaking someone in, his fist tightening around the tip as he delivers short, forceful thrusts, never going beyond the upper middle of his cock—like he’s trying to force his way into a tight cunt that he can’t seem to penetrate.

“o-oh! there we go,” he hisses, finally pushing past that first metaphorical ring of muscle and jerking his tight fist all the way down to the base where his white fluff is, “wasnt so— ngh— bad was it? gon’ move now.”

he then keeps his fist wrapped firmly around the underside of his tip, rhythmically thrusting all the way up into his unmoving hand like he’s actually thrusting balls deep into pussy. his jaw is clenched tightly, a conflicted expression etched on his face as his eyes shut tightly and his head tilts back, as if he’s desperately trying to control the pace, fighting the urge to cum too quickly.

“aww,” he coos through humps, the sound strained as he fights to suppress a whine, his tone trembling with every movement, “don’t cry baby—f-fuck— it’ll feel real good in a second.”

your knees grow weak as you chew on your bottom lip, your lidded, glazed eyes glued on his trembling body. you expected the outgoing, dominant professor gojo to remain silent and maturely stoic in the throes of pleasure, but it’s a happy surprise that here he is— a quivering, whiny mess, embarrassingly lost in the fantasy of fucking a crying virgin? who seems to be sobbing at the sheer size of him.

his virgin fantasy would be amusing if the sight wasn’t so fucking hot, making it difficult to focus on anything other than the way his clothed thigh muscles and exposed abdomen tenses and relaxes with every jut into his fist.

then, as he repeatedly murmurs "harder? sure you can handle that?" in a breathless cadence, he seems unable to resist the urge to finally allow his fist to aid his hips, thrusting his hips against his helping hand in a desperate pursuit of that mounting desire.

“i’m sorry— i’m sorry—fuck!” he suddenly moans, the sound louder than anything he’s made thus far, and maybe if you weren’t heart-eyed at the sight of ropes of cum splurting from his tip, you would have glanced around the hallway to ensure no one was witnessing this— or witnessing you witnessing this.

as the realization hits you that he’s apologizing because he’s creaming inside his fantasy virgin girl, you can’t help but let out a soft, deep satisfied breath as one thigh rubs against the other in deep need for friction.

his shaft twitches as cum travels through it, making it feel as though you’re able to see the anatomy of it all, how the muscles in his cock contract and twitch rhythmically to propel milky semen to shoot out and splatter against his clenched, glistening abdomen and hand, some even landing on his black slacks.

you salivate watching as he whines through it, like he can’t handle the high of it, like he’s a victim to his own self induced orgasm. but when the short moment subsides, and you watch as he sighs deeply in satisfaction before tucking his still- hard dick back into his slacks, you gulp and straighten up.

you turn toward the exit, the door you were just peeking through to your right. just as you’re about to speed walk all the way to your dorm to shamelessly rub yourself into next week, you briefly clench your eyes shut and let out a soft exhale, mentally cursing yourself for succumbing to the urge to see what would happen if you entered his classroom.

before you realize it, you’re pushing open his door, surprisingly successfully concealing your amusement as you watch him jump slightly and clear his throat at the sight of you. he quickly straightens his shirt and leans the front of his hips against his desk, hands resting atop it lazily.

“oh, i’m sorry,” you say contorting your face into an innocent student who feels bad for potentially disturbing their professor, “did i interrupt something? i should have knocked, i can come back—”

“huh? oh—no, no, of course not,” he nervously huffs, his natural playful nature tinted. he glances at the clock on the wall before flickering back at you, “it’s late, what’s up?”

“professor geto wanted me to give these to you,” you smile respectfully as you set the pile of files onto the desk, eyes lingering on the white stain of leftover cum on his slacks.

“ah— i see, thank you.” he lifts the first file, feigning interest at the front of the one beneath it, which reveals nothing but a name. his gaze then flicks up to meet yours that’s trained elsewhere, and you quickly look away from the stain, warmth creeping into your cheeks as you realize he noticed your wandering attention.

by the look on his face, it’s clear he doesn’t know exactly what made you flustered; he simply recognizes that he’s caught you off guard, his expression neutral yet attentive.

“it’s no big deal,” you dismiss, hands intertwined behind your back as you rock back on your heels and glance around the room like you’re observing it even though you’ve been in this classroom more than fifty times by now.

his eyes dart down to his pants where your gaze had lingered curiously, and they widen in realization. he clears his throat and hastily shifts the pile of files to conceal his front where the cum stain is, a hint of fluster crossing his features.

“is there anything else i can help with?” he questions, making you hum in thought.

“actually— yeah,” you nod with ‘genuine’ concern, making his head tilt in slight curiosity.

“can you break me i—” you can hear his breath catch as his body stiffens, his ears perking up at your familiar words, making the corner of your lips twitch smugly and undetectably, “—i mean, can you break in my grade a little for this semester? i just really need those credits, maybe there’s some extra work i can help with?”

he blinks for a moment and then shakes his head to dispel his thoughts, laughing lightheartedly at himself for clearly mishearing you.

“right— uh— extra credit you said?” he repeats, face contorting in one that’s trying desperately to focus.

you hum and nod.

“honestly, professor, i’ve been struggling,” you frown, making his brows twitch in sympathy, “it’s been such a big load lately, so big it’s hard to cope with. it’s so hard to fit into my schedule that i can’t help but cry trying to fit it all in.”

gojo swallows hard, his jaw briefly tightening as a charged silence stretches between you. his intense gaze locks onto you while you look down at your feet, a genuine expression of stress tugging at your pout.

when he doesn’t speak, you lift your eyes to him, curiosity prompting you to see what’s keeping him quiet. your gaze seems to pull him from his trance, and he blinks, startled back to the moment.

“i- um- i’m really,” he sighs, licking his lips briefly, “-sorry it’s been so hard for you, sweet girl.”

you can’t help but let your eyes flutter shut at the pet name, a rush of warmth flooding through you as you inhale sharply. instantly, you rub your eyes, pretending to fight back tears, determined to cover your reaction.

“i-it’s okay,” you murmur as you keep your face in your hands, making him sigh and walk around his desk to stand in front of you and lean back against it.

he reaches out and affectionately pats your head, prompting you to peek out from behind your hands and look up at him. slowly, you lower your hands to your sides, concealing the excitement bubbling inside you at his petting.

“we can figure out how to get you some easy extra credit so it’s a bit smoother for you, okay?” he coos softly, sympathy for his struggling student evident in his tone but it’s tinged with a deep raspy whisper.

“you should be having fun in college, going to parties and having fun with your friends, not crying over assignments.”

you hum softly in agreement with a nod, more aware of his prolonged touch against the top of your head and closeness of your bodies than whatever he’s saying about school.

“you’re right,” you huff, as if suddenly embarrassed of yourself, “i’ve never even been to my first college party or had the chance to find my first boyfriend.”

he takes a deep breath, exhaling just as fully as he clenches his teeth, causing rhythmic dimples to appear and vanish in his jaw before he finally pulls his hand away from your head.

“t-that’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he briefly scratches at the back of his neck before shoving his hands into his pockets as if to keep himself in check, “your.. firsts should be special.”

you can’t help but let a smile grow on your face before nodding with gleaming eyes up at him.

“well anyways, i’ll make sure to have a hand ready whenever you have a job for me,” you say, making him cough on his spit and quickly clear his throat to regain composure.

“right,” he nods with pinched brows, as if conflicted, “i’ll—uh— make sure to look for some assignments for you.”

“thank you,” you smile, gaze flickering down at his pants once again, face suddenly growing serious making gojo follow your eyes, “oh no, you have a stain on these.”

“oh,” gojo holds his hands out with a nervous chuckle as you sink down to your knees in front of him, “it’s no big deal, it’s fine. just got some— uh— mayonnaise on it from my sandwich.”

“no, no, these had to be more than a couple hundred dollars,” you glance up at him, brows raised, surprised by how unbothered he seems about ruining his expensive pants.

gojo gulps and shakes his head with shaky breaths, “i’ll just buy more— it’s really nothing you need to worry about.”

“i don’t mind, i actually have a little trick that’s been passed down in my family,” you explain with a smile, “it seems silly but it really works!— mayo you said?”

“yeah, mayo. but, seriously—” gojo cuts himself off with a sharp gasp, his eyes widening in shock, freezing with hands hovering in the air, as if unsure of where to settle them as you press your lips to the stain and start sucking on it. he can feel you even lap your tongue at it skillfully as your eyes flutter shut in concentration while occasionally tilting your head to find a better angle as if this were completely ordinary.

his eyes flick between the classroom door and you, your mouth pressed against his upper thigh— terrifyingly close to where his hard, throbbing dick is getting even harder with every suck of your pretty little mouth on his cum stain.

as if being slightly brought back to earth when the thought arises that someone could walk in, he tangles his hand into your hair and gently nudges you to stop with a ‘ah— ah no no no, wait,’ despite the way he can’t help but roll his eyes back softly. and even though the tug on your hair lacks any real conviction, you still do what he asks and pull back, licking your lips as you gaze up at him.

before he can even say anything, you gesture at the stain and he glances down to see that it’s now non existent, you sucked it all out, the thought making his dick pulse out a glob of pre into his boxers.

“all gone,” you smile up at him, acting unaware of his hand still tangled in your hair, “see? nice trick, right?”

he gulps as you stand, making him take his hand back awkwardly and shove them both into his pockets in attempt to cover his protruding dick. he can’t help but be thankful for that silly rumor going around about him now that he’s popping a very obvious boner, hoping that rumor is aiding to make it seem like maybe he’s just that big naturally while soft instead of being terribly hard right now.

“r-right— uh— thank you,” he nods, pursing his lips briefly as he grapples with what just happened. thanking you for sucking his cum out of his slacks without your knowledge of what you actually just ingested causes guilt but not as much as it sends blood to his cock.

you nod and smack your lips briefly with a laugh, “weird tasting mayo.”

he almost chokes on air at your words, making the apples of his cheeks flush pink, “o-oh, yeah i get the—um— vegan.. kind.”

you hum with a sweet smile, “it’s actually pretty tasty.”

and now he actually does choke on air, making him cough and curl into himself as he tries to catch his breath.

“professor? you okay?” you ask as you lay a comforting hand onto his back, unable to push away the amused smile on your expression now that he can’t see your face as he’s huddled over.

he finally catches his breath and exhales deeply before gulping and standing straight once again.

“yeah- yes,” he clears his throat, “you should probably get back to your dorm, it’s late.”

you glance back at the clock and then nod with a smile.

“oof— it is late. thanks again for being so willing to give me extra credit, i’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

you approach the exit with a growing smile before pulling the door open. holding it wide, you glance back at him over your shoulder, your expression warm.

“you’re definitely my favorite professor,” you compliment sweetly before turning back to the door.

he lets out a chuckle that doesn’t sound so genuine, prompting you to stifle a snicker as you walk through the door. you can't help but relish the thought that he has no idea you've been teasing him all along, believing himself to be the perv when, in reality, you've been subtly planting ideas in his mind since the moment you stepped into the room.

“have a good da— night,” he calls back, stuttering over his words, fully aware that you’ve already slipped out the door and likely out of earshot.

frustration and embarrassment he hasn’t felt since his highschool days washes over him as he drags his hands down his face, muttering at himself, “what the hell is wrong with you?”

he quickly winces at the realization that his hand likely still has remnants of cum on it and he snaps it away from his face with a grimace before gathering his things to go home. maybe he’ll call nanami to confess his sins, not that he’s a priest, but he would undoubtedly have an earful to say about it. it feels like he deserves some kind of punishment for allowing a student to unknowingly taste his cum.

you can’t help but clasp your hands over your beaming smile in disbelief and amusement as you pace out of the hallway, practically bursting to call nobara and share every detail of what just happened.

———

A cheerful bell above the door rings, signifying the start of another tedious shift at the ramen restaurant that you work in. Like clockwork, you tie a black, stained apron around your waist, sighing as you look at the customers coming in. Every week is the same. You spend your weekends dishing out food, and clearing it off the tables. It’s simple enough. And every week is the same as you keep telling yourself ‘Just a little longer.’ until you finally graduate from university and you can finally leave the job that funds your studies. The restaurant that you work at is far from perfect. You deal with the same sleazy customers every week; the same scum that come in with a scowl on their face, gamble, lose, and leave with a scowl on their face. There’s really no pleasing any of them, so you don’t even try. Most of them don’t even care, their minds too occupied by whatever horse race is airing on the rundown, static television in the corner of the room. 

And then there’s him. Toji Fushiguro. You only know his name from your boss, who seems to be an acquaintance of his. But an acquaintance is definitely not the word you would use to describe your relationship with him. Toji Fushiguro is a cocky and inconsiderate scumbag. He spends his weekends at the restaurant, gambling and causing chaos with other customers. Toji finds any little thing to complain about when he knows that you’re on shift. He ordered tea? It’s too cold. He ordered ramen? There’s not enough meat. He ordered a desert? It’s too sweet. And on the rare occasions that the food is to his standard, the tables are a mess and the choice of seating is inadequate. 

Fushiguro finally makes his appearance. He treads towards the counter, an irritated look already plastered on his face. The scar on his lip does nothing to help him. It makes him look even more intense than he actually is. “Morning, doll.” He smirks. You try to mask your annoyance, but he knows how you hate when he calls you that. And that’s precisely why he does it. “What would you like today, Fushiguro?” You ask the man, mentally preparing yourself for the bullshit yet to come. “How about some sake?” He flatly responds.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit too early for drinking?” You ask the well-built man, tilting your head in a way that Toji finds adorable.“Don’t you think you should mind your business?” He bites. You simply nod, not having the time or energy to deal with him. 

He stares intently as you prepare his drink, purposely provoking you, reminding you not to mess it up. When you bend down to grab a clean cup from below the counter, his eyes wander like the pervert he is. Toji knows that you can’t be less than 21 years old, but you’re nowhere near the same age as him. There’s some sick part of him that likes it. He likes how no matter how much shit he gives you, you’re going to do nothing but take it like a good girl, respecting her elders. This continuous cycle of Toji giving you more reasons to despise him continues for weeks, until the day you finally see him, outside of the restaurant. 

–

On a night out with friends, you’re sitting at a bar, ordering drinks while the rest of the group are on the dance floor. The ice cold metal from the bar stool brushes the bottom of your thighs, visible from the short dress that you regret choosing to wear. It leaves little to the imagination and you can feel the lustful stares from the men around you, trying to ignore it. Of course, you are not aware that one of those lustful stares is coming from Toji Fushiguro. The same man that spends his weekends finding ways to aggravate you is now spending his evening, thinking of how he’s going to rip you away from those pesky friends of yours. He wonders why you are even in such an establishment. You seem like the type of girl that would be home by 8, in bed by 9 and asleep by 10. The type of girl that wouldn’t be ordering shots like nobody’s business. Toji is pleasantly surprised when he watches you let loose and he wonders just how far you’ll go for the night.

When you’re about to pay for your drink, the bartender informs you that somebody has already done the honours. “Who?” You ask him, a confused look on your face. You turn to where the man is pointing and the confused expression on your face turns into a skeptical one. Toji stands up and you sigh. He strides towards you, a drink already in his hand, before he takes a seat beside you. He has that same smug look on his face, but you can tell he’s already been drinking. The alcohol gives him a dazed look that you find oddly attractive. You take his appearance in completely, eyeing the dark compression t-shirt that he’s always wearing, only in this lighting, it makes his muscles look even more defined. The black jeans that he’s wearing fail to conceal the absolute monster that he’s ‘hiding’ in his pants. For a moment, you even wonder if he’s hard. “You know, my eyes are up here, darlin.” Toji teases, looking down at you. You roll your eyes at him, going back to your drink. “Jeez, I don’t even get a thank you. How unappreciative.” He mumbles, staring into your eyes.

“Get lost, old man.” You spit out, to which Toji’s grin widens. He starts to play with your hair as if you’re some kind of toy. “Is that how you talk to me when the boss isn’t looking? You usually treat me so well at that shitty restaurant.” He jokes, resting his head in his hand as he leans on the bar counter, eyeing you up. Your eyes flicker between the zip on his jeans and his face, struggling to concentrate on his words. “I wouldn’t even piss on you, if you were on fire.” You snarl, the alcohol clearly taking effect. Toji moves the drink from in front of you, letting out a loud laugh, one that you’re used to hearing. “Damn, sweetheart, you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“Do you need something? Toji?” You reply, clearly getting annoyed. The tall man hums before he responds.  “Do you need something? Doll?” He questions, his face inching closer towards yours. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” You ask Fushiguro, moving away from him. “I don’t know, doll. It’s just that, the entire time if you've been sitting here, you’ve been struggling to look away from my dick.” He growls in your ear, before licking the shell of it. Toji doesn’t miss the way your thighs clench together. 

“Oh, shut up. Don’t you have other things to do?” You try to avoid his remark and your face warms with the mix of lust and shame. “I can think of something I’d like to do. Or someone.” He tells you, his hand resting over your right thigh, which is shaking with anxiousness. You don’t realise it’s there until he squeezes your thigh and you turn to look at him. “The last thing I wanna do is fuck you. You asshole.” You attempt to lie, struggling to make eye contact. “Oh yeah? Is that so?” Toji asks you teasingly. You nod. Toji forces you to look into his eyes. “Then why haven’t you moved my hand from your pretty thigh?” You glance down at his hand. Sure enough the lengths of his fingers are rubbing circles into your thigh, waiting to be stopped. 

It takes you way too long to shove them off you. “You’re the worst.” You mumble.

“I know, baby. I know. But if you come home with me tonight, I’ll make it up to you.” Toji tells you. It’s the last time he tries to lure you in. And it’s the first time that it works because you find yourself holding his hand, following him out of the crowded club. You don’t have the means or time to say bye to your friends, your mind only focused on Toji’s defined biceps as he pulls you out through the door. Fushiguro suddenly crouches down before you feel his strong hands grip onto your thighs. You yelp in shock as he lifts you up, carrying you over his shoulder like a ragdoll. “Put me down, Fushiguro!” You shout. He laughs at you, carrying you down the street as if to say you’re his property. It only takes a minute before he reaches his house. He unlocks the door swiftly and practically slams it behind you and then he carries you upstairs. 

Toji throws you on his bed. You sit up, ready to scold him for his lack of care and tenderness, but he speaks first. “I’m gonna give you one last chance to leave. Otherwise, I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you.” He tells you, staring into your pretty eyes. “Are you staying?” He asks you, to which you nod. “I’m gonna need you to use your words, doll.” He informs you.

“I want you to fuck me.” You quietly admit, clenching your thighs together like a needy slut.

“Huh? Say it a bit louder.” He orders you, tapping on his ear as he leans closer to you.

“I want you to fuck me, Toji.” You shamefully cry out. He smirks, blood rushing to his dick, which is now throbbing in anticipation.

“That’s a good girl. Lie down.” The man instructs, the praise making you blush. 

You remove your tight, black dress before you lie down. Toji wastes no time pulling your heels off. You hear two thuds as he discards them onto his bedroom floor. He grips your legs, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed and he kneels down. Your pussy throbs expectantly. The skin of your pussy is met with the cool air as Toji peels away your underwear. “Slutty little panties.” He mumbles, pocketing them into his jeans, which he unzips, freeing his cock. Toji groans as he lays his eyes on your pussy. “Such a pretty little pussy.” He mumbles, pushing one of his fingers in. You moan at the praise. “You’re already so fucking wet for me.” He pushes another finger in before he leans forward, kissing your clit.  

Toji allows his tongue to play with your pussy, flicking up and down your clit, sucking it little by little. It’s teasing, cruel, almost. You whine desperately as his long fingers thrust at a quicker pace. “That’s it, baby. Tell me how good I’m making you feel.” He slurs, the vibration of his voice bringing you even closer to an orgasm. “Don’t stop..” You moan, tugging at his hair to bring his face closer to you. He groans in response, curling his fingers inside of you until you jolt. “Hmm… So that’s where you like it..?” He teases, repeating his movements. Your moans turn into cries as he starts ruthlessly fingering you, curling his fingers to hit that sweet spot. Just when you’re about to cum, he stops. “Need you to finish in my mouth.” Toji mumbles before you feel his tongue poke inside your pussy. It feels so dirty, his wet tongue playing inside of you. But it feels too good. The man eats you out like he’s starved. He eats your pussy like it’s his favourite meal. You start to grind your hips on his face and he licks your folds before circling back to your clit. “I.. I’m gonna cum..” You moan sensually. Toji grips onto your thighs, pulling them apart to make sure that no part of your pussy is left unloved. 

Fushiguro’s tongue has your legs shaking as you cum rapidly. He doesn’t stop licking your pussy, nor does he remove his grip from your plush thighs. “Toji, stop. It’s too much..” You tearfully wail while he laps up your cum. He ignores your pleas, completely absorbed in your twitching pussy. While Toji over-stimulates your needy cunt, you almost cry, trying hard to close your legs. You can’t take it anymore. Your ears ring as he forces another orgasm out of you. You cry out, begging him to stop, which he doesn’t. His tongue endlessly toys with your cunt. It makes you slowly start to lose your mind and you lose your ability to even speak. He notices you stop begging, your words turning into slow, erotic moans. “Poor girl, can’t even take my mouth. I wonder how you’ll even take my cock.” He groans as he finishes abusing your pussy. He plants soft, loving kisses on your pussy and inner thighs, rubbing them soothingly. Toji watches as your pussy is still twitching, begging for more. The tip of his cock leaks with pearly white precum, waiting to be swallowed by your tight hole. 

“Tell me, baby, you ever sucked a dick before?” Toji asks you. You hum in response, nodding shamefully. He tuts. “Dirty fucking girl.” He teases. You sit up and kneel before him on the bed. He towers over you, staring in awe as you submissively gaze at him. Your tits are perfectly plump and perky, nipples perfectly hard, both ready to be toyed with. Toji starts to grope your breasts. “You’re such a good fucking slut..” He groans. Although his constant praise turns you on, all you want is for him to hurry up and pound you. “Just hurry up and fuck me, Toji.” You burst, catching the man off guard. He stops playing with your breast and grabs your face, forcing you to look at him. “Who do you think you are? Ordering me around in my own house?” He asks you, stroking your face. You stay silent. “I think you should be punished. Punished for being such a slut. Punished for not respecting your elders.” He continues. You do nothing to defend yourself, preparing yourself for whatever punishment Toji has prepared for you. “Open your mouth.” He orders. 

Toji spits inside. You keep your mouth open, partly from shock, partly because you want him to do it again. He spits in your mouth a second time, this time slowly, allowing it to drop into your mouth. You close up, swallowing his spit like a shameless whore. He smirks, undoing his belt and putting it on the bed. His trousers drop to the floor and his cock springs completely free. It’s huge, perfectly veiny and way too thick. Toji notices how your expression falters a little. “Too big for you?” He teases.

“I’ve seen bigger.. It’s nothing impressive..” You lie, a smirk forming on your face, which is quickly wiped off as Toji’s hand meets your cheek. “Fucking bitch. I’m tired of your fucking attitude.” He grabs your hair, yanking you down from the bed and onto the floor. It’s utterly humiliating. He forces you to look at him, your face right below his balls. And although you hate Toji Fushiguro, although he’s 10 years older than you, although you already came twice, your pussy is throbbing, begging to be abused by the man in front of you.

“You gonna shut me up, old man?” You tease, digging your grave a little bigger.

“Hmm yeah..” Toji hums, rubbing the flesh of his penis on your soft face. You pout, fluttering your lashes at him. “You gonna teach me a lesson?” You ask submissively. Toji continues rubbing his dick on your cheeks. “Sure..” He tells you. You giggle in response. He’s had enough. “Open your mouth for me, sweetheart?” He asks with false kindness. Toji positions the tip of his cock at your glossy lips, prompting you to open up. Big mistake. He grins and you realise just how much trouble you’re in. Toji forces himself into your mouth, but it’s not just the tip, it’s all of him. All eight inches of cock are now inside your throat as you begin to choke. 

You try to breathe through your nose, the scent of his crotch is intoxicating. It’s absolutely fucking degrading. You’re ashamed of yourself and for a moment, you wonder what your friends might think if they saw you like this. Toji moans as he feels you physically swallow his cock. Your throat warms his dick perfectly until he pulls out. Before you can even speak, his dick is back inside your mouth. He starts to fuck your throat, spit collecting and acting as lube. It’s painful and demeaning, but there’s a sick part of you that enjoys every second of it. “Stupid little brat. That’s what happens when you run your mouth.” He laughs, fucking your face. You gag on his length. If you weren’t already crying, you definitely are now. Toji grins, watching as mascara runs down your face. Your fingernails dig into his thighs for support, though he doesn’t mind the pain. 

The constant abuse of your throat makes you lose your mind. You stare up at him, a pleading look in your precious eyes, which is ignored as Toji mockingly stares back at you. He pulls out and you gasp for air. Your relief is short-lived when Toji grips the base of his cock, lifting himself so that his balls can rest on your face. “Suck my fucking balls, bitch.” He orders. You whimper lowly before licking his balls. One lick turns into two, which turns into you slotting both of his balls into your mouth, sucking gently. Toji pumps his cock with his rough hands, moaning as you pleasure him like a good slut. “Nasty little whore..” He almost laughs. “Use your hands.” He instructs, allowing you to take over and rub his dick. Toji groans vulgarly, watching while you do your best to get him off. The way he looks down on you has your stomach fluttering, even though it shouldn’t. 

Your lips part from beneath his dick, returning to form kisses on his shaft. “I love your dick.” You tell him, mesmerised. His dick twitches at your words. You start to lick his length and suck at the tip of his dick, getting a taste of his precum. Toji intervenes, pushing his cock back into your mouth while you suck him off. “Let me see you play with your pussy while you suck my dick.” He grunts and you do exactly that. Toji’s dick twitches as he watches you. You’re playing with your pussy and fingering yourself while you suck him off. The sound you make, sucking and swirling your tongue around his dick is almost enough to have him cum down your throat, but when you moan from toying with your clit, Toji’s just about ready to cum. “Stick your tongue out..” Fushiguro slurs, while he pumps his cock. Thick ropes of cum paint your tongue white as he finishes. He slaps his dick on your tongue a few times, spreading it out before he moves to cum on your face. 

When he’s completely bottomed out, he stops for a moment to admire his little masterpiece. Mascara is running down your eyes and there's an erotic blush on your face, which is covered in cum. Your lips are swollen and his cum drips from your mouth, down onto your tits, little by little. You’re on your knees before him and your hair is slightly dishevelled from him tirelessly gripping it. You stare up at Toji, whimpering from his wrath. He hums before speaking. “I don’t think we should let that cum go to waste..” He tells you, swiping a little off your face with his index finger, like icing on a cake. He doesn’t even have to tell you what to do because you’re opening your mouth and sucking Toji’s cum off his finger. And just like that, he’s hard again, feeling as your tongue swirls around his finger. He watches carefully as you swallow his cum.

Fushiguro leans down to lift you up gently. Although he just completely ruined your face and your throat, he is still somewhat a gentleman. He sits you down on his bed and you move back a little. Toji moves closer to your face, his two arms supporting him as they rest beside your face. “Come here, doll.” He mumbles before placing his lips onto yours, which are soft and plump compared to his own. Your tongue grazes on the scar of his lip before he pushes his own into your mouth. Your heart pounds dangerously as you make out with him, wrapping your arms around him to pull him in closer. Something about it feels so right, but you tell yourself not to get hooked. It's difficult when he’s kissing you so tenderly. You moan against his lips and you lift your legs up, allowing him to place his dick against your pussy. Toji groans at the contact, grinding himself into you as reciprocate. 

Toji pulls away from your lips before he’s, kissing your cheek sweetly. His kisses migrate down your jawline until his lips are on your neck. The kissing turns into light sucking as he teases you. You mewl in response, feeling his lips curl into a smile. “Hmm.. She’s sensitive there..” He teases before he continues to leave love bites along your neck, moving down towards your breasts. You expect him to start toying with your nipples until he sits up, properly aligning his length with your pussy. “Fuck.. Your little pussy’s just begging to be filled.” He murmurs, eyeing as you twitch around nothing in anticipation. Toji uses your arousal as lubrication to push his dick inside you. A visible bulge forms beneath your stomach. He’s so fucking big compared to your tiny pussy. He could almost cum as you start to whimper, telling him you can’t take it. “It’s okay, baby, you can take it.” He reassures you, giving you a moment to adjust to his size while his dick stretches you so good. “You’re so big..” You moan, your pussy throbbing on his length. 

Toji lets out a light chuckle before he leans closer to you, his face inches away from yours. He starts off slow. Slowly thrusting himself in and out of your pussy, which feels heavenly around him. Your pussy is nice and warm, tightly squeezing him, but it’s still wet enough for him to fuck you good. “God.. You feel so fucking good, squeezing my dick like that.” Toji groans into your ear, making you moan in response. He whispers praises into your ear before he bites it tauntingly. “Stop teasing me.” You cry out. Toji fakes his sympathy.

“I’m sorry, baby. Please forgive me.” He murmurs before kissing your soft lips. You moan into the kiss and he speeds up his thrusts, fucking himself into you. Your hands make their way around his back, pulling him in closer. 

The way you’re moaning has Toji completely entranced. The feeling of your soft hands caressing the hard muscle of his stout back hypnotises him. He pulls away from your lips and looks you in the eyes. “I’ve been wanting to fuck you since the day I met you.” He confesses, your eyes widening as you look at him. “What.?” You ask him, stuttering as he continues fucking you. “You’re so fucking cute.. Such a pretty girl..” He mumbles, clearly drunk on your pussy. You smile knowingly before you pull him in for another kiss. You can feel that Toji’s about to cum when he twitches inside of you, speeding up his thrusts. His right hand makes its way to your pussy, teasing your clit while you take his cock. His fingers are fast and resolute as he works to make you cum. All of a sudden, it becomes too much. The smell of Toji’s cologne is intoxicating, paired with the faint smell of cigarettes coming from his bedroom. He’s now fucking you so rough and so good, abusing your clit with just his fingers. “Toji.. I think I’m gonna cum.” You squeal, clenching your pussy on his cock.

“Come on, baby. Cum on my dick.” He groans, pounding into you with purpose. 

And just like that, you let out the most erotic moan that Toji has heard in a while. You’re a blabbering mess the man above you continues to fuck you, chasing his own orgasm. “Where do you want me to cum?” He asks you, to which you weakly respond.

“Inside..” He groans in anticipation. The thought of him filling your pussy with his cum riles him up. “You want me to breed your little pussy? Hmm? Want me to use you as my personal cum dump?” Toji questions and you nod beggingly. He kisses you on the forehead before he leans back away from you, gripping onto your thighs. Toji pulls your body closer to him, using you like a fleshlight as he pounds into you. He moans passionately as he bottoms out inside of you, filling you up with his cum, just like you wanted. “Fuck..” He slurs, slowing down his thrusts and wrapping his thumb and index finger around the base of his dick. He slowly pulls out halfway, allowing the rest of his cum to stay inside of you. 

When he finally pulls out, his cum slowly oozes out of your pussy. Toji wishes he could picture this moment forever, watching as you collect your breath, completely in a daze and all fucked out. “You’re letting my cum go to waste.” Toji teases, slapping your thigh tauntingly. You mewl from the feeling. The sight of cum dripping from your pussy is enough to make Fushiguro want to fuck you again. He’s not sure how, but he knows that he has a few more rounds in him and he just hopes that you’re the same. “Think you got one more round in you?” He asks. You freeze and he notices.

“I can’t..” You whine, completely ruined by Toji’s huge dick.

“Aw.. Come on princess.. Just one more? Promise I’ll be gentle.” He urges. You know he’s lying and so does he. “Just one more.” You repeat. Toji doesn’t respond with words. Instead, he rapidly flips you over, pulling your ass closer to him and you yelp. 

“I wanna fuck you from the back.” Toji growls as you lay your face down on the bed with your ass up to him. You look and feel like a complete slut, ready to be bred a second time by Toji Fushiguro. Testing the waters, he delivers a harsh slap to your ass, which recoils so beautifully. You let out a pleasing hum in response and that’s when Toji knows that you’re a little slut who gets off from being spanked. “Fucking little, slut.” He slaps your ass again. You whine as you feel Toji’s thick, wet cock line up with your entrance, yet again. He uses his cum as lube and pushes himself into you. Although you’ve already been fucked by him, it still feels too big for you and you need time to adjust. But Toji doesn’t care. He starts to fuck you, completely absorbed in the way your ass bounces off his dick. The only thing you can do is lie there and take it. 

Toji’s hands grip at your waist, pushing his dick further inside you than before. You’re sure that the tip of his dick is hitting your womb and the feeling drives you insane. As he’s fucking you, Toji loses interest in your comfort. He’s too busy pulling you back and forth on his dick, desperate to fuck his cum into you. You cry out in pain as he spanks you continuously, muttering degrading and sensual words that bring you closer to orgasm. He spends the next couple of minutes fucking your pussy from behind like a beast before he’s gripping your hair and forcing you to arch your back completely. “Toji… ahh! It’s too much!” You cry out, gasping for air. He ignores you. “Please…” You beg him. He ignores you. “I can’t take it..!” You start to sob. He wraps his right arm around your neck. “You can’t take it?” He asks you as if you are even capable of responding. “No.. baby, you’re gonna take it.” He tells you as his hard biceps start to choke you and he pounds the fuck out of you. 

That’s when you realise that you should’ve stayed at the bar. Once again, you are reminded that Toji is a cocky and inconsiderate scumbag. He doesn’t care about making you comfortable. He’s already given you three orgasms and that’s enough. All he cares about is ruining you and leaving you full to the brim with his cum. Toji plants kisses into your scalp, telling you not much longer. Your back is seriously starting to ache and you can no longer feel anything below the waist. Your hips jerk up abruptly as Toji’s dick hits your special spot. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he continuously attacks your sensitive area until you're squirting on his dick, crying and drooling as you cum from the abuse and overstimulation of your pussy. Your orgasm is followed by Toji’s when he drains his balls inside of you, filling you with his cum. He slows down and lets your body drop back onto the bed, your perfect ass still in the air. 

The older man watches as his cum drips out of your pussy, which is now red and swollen from being tormented by his dick. He bites his lip, enthralled by how out of bounds you look. He rubs your ass apologetically but you don’t move until he pulls your legs back, allowing you to completely lie down on your stomach. You’re a whimpering mess, unable to form a sentence and in complete ruins, trying to recollect your breath. “You’re an asshole..” Is the only thing that you can mumble before you close your eyes. You hear him grab something from the pockets of his trousers before he answers.

“I know.. Baby. I know.” Toji murmurs, lighting a cigarette.

I'm so fucking sorry for this. LOL.

Lowkey wasnt nasty enough for me 😝