syria

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

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

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

Or at least try to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That shuts him up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I beg your finest pardon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The man looks spooked,” Hiro agrees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sukuna, the bedroom is right the—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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