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v-nnie · 3 months ago

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SEX YEAH ! ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

mission brief a self-imposed sex ban during finals week sounds like a great idea…until your favorite professor stops playing nice. w.c 11.3k

risk assessment 18+ content mdni, smut & crack, second chance at love, cnc (adding just in case), fuck-buddies/fwb relationship, reader is of age and is a college student, age gap, exhibitionsim, unprotected p in v sex, jerking off, scenting, cosplay (the wolf of wall street reference), spanking, cowgirl, fem-dom, cock-warming. ft! choso, toji, nanami, gojo, sukuna

a/n: do people even read a/n's? lol

☆ CHOSO KAMO: CUM LAUDE AND OTHER HONORS

Choso Kamo — Professor Kamo to the rest of the campus, or “that one hot literature guy who talks about knights dying for pussy” — had really, truly, not expected to spiral like this. And it wasn’t even the whole “fucking a student” thing.

Sure, that had its own risks and thrills — medieval metaphors about sin and secrecy practically wrote themselves every time he bent you over his desk after a lecture on Dante's Inferno. But no, the real kicker here was how quickly the entire situation had devolved into something almost pitiful.

He was a man of principle. Of poetry. Of well-tailored tweed jackets with elbow patches. He annotated Beowulf in his spare time and kept a hand-written syllabus, for God’s sake. But now? He was a walking hard-on with a PhD and a steadily unraveling sense of self.

Because it started so innocently.

You’d shown up to class late on the first day, hair a little damp from rain, muttering apologies while trying not to slip on the tile floors. He'd looked up, ready to sigh, but then froze when he saw your face. Something about the tilt of your head, the way you bit your cheek while scanning for an empty seat.

“No fucking way,” he’d murmured.

And later, when you caught him in the corridor after class, backpack slung low, eyes bright with mischief—

“Hey, Kamo. Did your emo phase die with that mustache?”

You had said it like a challenge. Like a spark tossed onto dry kindling.

He remembered how your lips had tasted that first time again — after years — pressed against his mouth in the backseat of his shitty Honda. He’d driven you home like he was sixteen again, one hand on the wheel, the other trailing down your thigh, unable to focus on the road signs.

And the sex. Jesus.

“Are you gonna read Sir Gawain to me after you make me cum again?” you’d panted once, still catching your breath as he kissed down your stomach.

“No,” he muttered against your hip, smirking. “Only if you fail the oral quiz.”

He was funny back then, or thought he was.

Before his identity began orbiting entirely around whether or not you were free to sneak into his office.

He still remembered how you’d grabbed the edge of his desk to keep your balance, skirt bunched around your waist, his fingers deep inside you as you whimpered, “F-fuck, I forgot the assignment—”

“I'll let it slide,” he’d whispered like some depraved academic deity, licking into your mouth while curling his fingers just right.

Which made it all the more humiliating when, two weeks before midterms, you’d pulled away post-orgasm, adjusting your shirt like you were zipping up a compartment in your brain.

“So I'm gonna need to focus for a while. No more of this until after the exams.”

He blinked.

“Wait, you’re—what?”

“No distractions. You qualify as one. Temporary ban.”

“Temporary—” he sat up. “You’re banning me?”

You kissed his forehead with horrifying gentleness. “Don’t be dramatic.”

And that, quite precisely, was when Choso Kamo began losing his damn mind.

It was subtle at first. Quoting love poetry during completely unrelated lectures, spilling coffee on his own lecture notes, and more recently, spending ten whole minutes monologuing about chastity belts before realizing what he was saying and hastily switching to feudal taxes.

But the eyes. His big, brown, tragically earnest eyes. When you told him, they’d gone glossy, wet around the edges — not full tears, not yet, but a threat of them, like he’d just witnessed the burning of the Library of Alexandria and been denied a hug.

“You’re being very stoic about this,” you told him, trying not to smile.

He blinked rapidly. “I'm literally about to cry.”

Meanwhile, you were surviving. Thriving, even. If you counted staying caffeinated and not flunking your upcoming Philosophy elective as thriving.

The sex with Choso had been — frankly — excellent. Top-tier, euphoric even. Toe-curling in a very literal, very real way. His tongue knew things, his hands remembered places. And your cervix? Familiarized. Reacquainted like an old friend.

But unlike Professor Kamo, Ph.D., who had the luxury of retreating into his office with leather chairs and pearl-clutching guilt, you were an undergraduate scraping by with cold lattes and colour-coded notes. The breakup all those years ago had been dramatic in the way only high-school love could be — he’d told you he wanted a PhD like he was announcing he had been drafted for war.

“I need to go,” he had said, sixteen and a half and full of dreams, with his stupid floppy hair and that hand-me-down hoodie that still smelled like your perfume.

“Go where? Oxford?” you’d snorted. You didn’t mean to cry, but you did. Grossly. He’d held you through it, apologised even while making that determined man chasing legacy face, and you had let him go.

But now — now, you had midterms, and your brain had no space left for sentimentality. Or dick. Which was basically the same thing in this context.

So, like a responsible adult (or the closest approximation of one), you took yourself to the library. And, like the tragically naive idiot you were, you chose the medieval literature aisle for reasons you tried to dress up as “academic curiosity” when in truth you were just…a masochist.

The library was empty.

You should’ve known. No one studied in this section, not unless they had a god complex or an obsession with incest-coded epic poems.

You reached up toward a volume you pretended to be interested in — Courtly Love and Other Medieval Lies or something like that — and that’s when you felt it.

Something solid and warm absolutely pressed against your back.

You froze.

“If this is some hallucination brought on by lack of sleep and unresolved sexual tension, I swear to God,” you muttered aloud.

“It’s not,” came a familiar voice. Warm, low, and stupidly fond.

“Though I am flattered you’re hallucinating about me.”

You turned your head slowly, dread pooling somewhere near your pancreas. And there he was.

Choso Kamo, medieval literature messiah, complete with a cardigan that had patches on the elbows again, holding a copy of Le Morte D’Arthur like he hadn’t just pinned you to a bookshelf.

“You’re kidding,” you deadpanned.

“I come here for peace,” he said, tone saintly. “And the tragic poetry.”

“You come here because no one can see you cry in this corner,” you snapped.

He blinked. Guilty. Then, because he was unbelievable, he leaned in — just a little. Just enough for you to feel that he was very real and very not over the whole “temporary ban” situation.

“You smell like that lavender thing again,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “Makes it really hard to respect your ‘study boundaries,’ y’know.”

You exhaled slowly, book still hovering in your hand, brain refusing to cooperate with basic motor function.

“Do you need something, Professor Kamo?”

He looked at you with that wounded, damp-eyed expression he had no business making in a public academic space. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I need you to maybe let me kiss you for, like, two seconds so I can remember what peace feels like.”

And that, right there, was how your study break ended — pinned between Choso Kamo and a bookshelf older than both your childhood homes combined. You were kissing like you’d forgotten what oxygen was, like air didn’t matter when he was mouthing at your bottom lip like that, with hands sliding under your blazer and pressing against your waist like he couldn’t stand the idea of space between you.

“Keep it quiet back there,” called the old librarian from somewhere far down the aisle, voice like brittle parchment. You barely pulled away, breathless, whispering a quick, “sorry!” toward the void before biting down a laugh and burying your face in Choso’s chest.

“Do you think she knows?” you mumbled against the fabric of his shirt.

“Absolutely,” he said. “She probably thinks I'm shelving books. Badly.”

“You are shelving something,” you muttered.

He groaned. “You’re disgusting.”

But he was already lifting your skirt, huffing like a man on a mission, swearing under his breath when he realized how many layers you’d cursed yourself with this morning.

“Why,” he whispered, mouth pressed against your shoulder as he unbuttoned and unzipped and peeled like his life depended on it, “Why do you do this to me.”

“Because the weather said fourteen degrees,” you hissed, clutching onto the shelf behind you, fingers brushing the cracked spine of The Canterbury Tales. “And because I didn’t think I’d be fucked next to Chaucer, Cho.”

He finally got to your thighs, his warm palms skimming over skin and stopping when he saw them — the lacey black pair. The ones with the tiny bow and mesh trim.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, kneeling slightly, letting his thumb drag just under the waistband. “You still buy these?”

“They’re comfortable.”

“They’re fucking ruining me,” he whispered.

His hands gripped under your knees as he pulled one leg up and hooked it over his hip, tugging the lace to the side, the cold air of the library kissing wet heat just before he pressed himself into you. You clenched around him on instinct, a soft, surprised sound escaping into the dusty rows.

“God, shhh,” you hissed, forehead knocking against the shelf. He let out a strained chuckle, already starting to move.

“You shush me,” he muttered, nose brushing your temple. “You’re the one making those tiny fucking noises, like you’re trying so hard to behave.”

“Maybe I am trying to behave—”

“You’re failing.”

His thrusts were slow at first — painfully deliberate, his breath warm against your cheek, his hand cupped around the back of your thigh. The faint creak of wood beneath you, the occasional rustle of fabric, and the obscene sound of wet heat meeting flesh echoed faintly through the aisle. You were half-laughing, half-gasping, fingers digging into the bookshelf, one palm flat against The Song of Roland, muffling a whine into its faded cloth cover.

“Does this count as sacrilege,” you mumbled.

“Absolutely,” he groaned, speeding up, his hips snapping sharper. “But I'll repent after you cum.”

“What a gentleman.”

“Shut up and let me ruin your study schedule.”

He angled his hips and hit something that made your breath stutter, made your hand fly to his chest and fist the fabric there, biting down hard on your lip. His lips found your throat, mouthing along your pulse, and he whispered — raw, reverent — “You’re so fucking tight. Every single time.”

You couldn’t reply, not verbally. Your mouth opened, but no real sound came out — just a high, broken gasp as his fingers slipped between your legs to circle over your clit, his rhythm stuttering when you clenched around him again.

“Cho—”

“I know, I know, baby,” he murmured, thumb working in slow, cruel circles. “Come on. Be good for me.”

And you did. One hand still clamped over a book, the other wrapped around his shoulders, hips twitching as you came with a quiet, strangled cry into his neck, teeth grazing skin. He followed right after, groaning low, clutching you close like he needed to anchor himself in the reality of what just happened.

Silence settled in the dusty air, with only the sound of breathing, of fabrics shifting.

A beat passed. Then choso whispered, still catching his breath—

“So... still banned, or…?”

☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO: THE EXAM BEFORE THE EXAM

Toji Fushiguro — head of military sciences, habitual menace, and the reason half the student body walked with a permanent limp (some from sparring, others from fear). Getting into the program was doable. Surviving it? That was where dreams went to die. And you? Well, somehow, you were still standing. Walking the tightrope of respect and rebellion, womanhood and war, biting sarcasm and battle simulations — and managing not to crumble under the weight of Professor Fushiguro’s ice-cold stare.

Which would have been fine. Normal even, in the way bootcamp trauma is considered “character-building.” But the universe, in its infinite cruelty, had one little twist for you:

The man who railed you within an inch of your life at a bar this past summer — the one with the deep voice, veiny hands, and that mouth like a loaded weapon — turned out to be your fucking teacher.

You didn’t know when he pulled you into that coatroom that night. Didn’t know that those strong hands were government-funded or that the man who bit your shoulder when he came was going to be barking orders in a lecture hall two weeks later.

And yet.

You walked into class, and there he was. Professor Fushiguro. Same green eyes, same build.

Same mouth you’d kissed while breathless and begging, now saying things like “form a perimeter” and “that’s a piss-poor excuse for a flank.”

To his credit, he pretended not to recognize you. And you, in return, tried to pretend he hadn’t once called you baby while dragging his cock over your dripping folds like it was a reward.

But see, the pretending didn’t last.

Not when you started lingering after class, not when he’d walk past you during drills, and you’d stand just a little straighter, thighs pressing against each other just a little tighter.

Not even when he found you one evening in the training hall, wrist-deep in frustration over a jammed dummy rifle and an even more jammed libido.

“You still don’t listen,” he’d said that night, voice low as he boxed you against the wall. “No wonder you’re always behind.”

“Guess I need someone to show me,” you’d snapped back.

And then it spiraled.

Into on and off fucks in staff storage closets, under the flickering lights of the weapons bay, in his office when the door “accidentally” locked behind you.

He was always rough. Not cruel — he never hurt you (unless you asked). But rough like he had to get it out, had to get you out of his system or else he’d lose it. He’d mutter shit like, “always so wet for me,” while shoving your panties to the side with two fingers, pressing into you like he was reclaiming something he never really gave up. You’d scratch down his back, gasping into his mouth, feeling his teeth on your collarbone, hands gripping your thighs like they belonged to him.

“Gonna make you fail, fucking you like this,” he’d say, voice rasping near your ear, hips snapping into you as you braced yourself on his desk, your notes crumpling beneath your palms.

“Then don’t stop,” you’d dared. “Make me fail.”

But then.

A week before exams, he pulled back.

“No more,” he said, arms crossed, mouth tight.

You blinked. “You serious?”

“Yeah.”

He ran a hand down his face like he’d aged five years in the last month. “You’ve got exams. I've got integrity.”

You snorted. “Since when?”

“Since now,” he gritted out. “And don’t give me that look. Just because we’re…” he paused, made a vague hand gesture that could’ve meant ‘fucking’ or ‘cursed soulmates’ — hard to tell, really.

“…close, doesn’t mean I'm gonna grade you easier. You get that?”

You stared at him.

This six-foot-something walking contradiction, trying to draw a line now, after he’d already crossed ten of them balls-deep.

“Got it, sport,” you said, tone dry enough to parch a desert.

He flinched. You smiled. And just like that, the sex-ban was in place.

But if the look on his face said anything — clenched jaw, hands tightening into fists every time you so much as breathed near him — it was affecting him way more than it was affecting you. And that was just the beginning of his downfall.

Physical examinations were hell — plain and simple. Muscle-aching, sun-scorched, sweat-slick hell. Your limbs felt like lead, your lungs were raw, and if the grass beneath your boots felt soft for a moment, it was only because you were seriously considering collapsing into it and never getting up again.

And of course, he had to be the one barking orders.

“Outside. Now. No one gets a free pass, not even the ones whining about cramps or puking their breakfast. Ground. Move.”

Toji Fushiguro — mean as ever, especially toward you lately. His green eyes barely brushed your face now, jaw so tight you could practically hear the teeth grinding.

It was almost funny, if it weren’t also kind of sad.

You passed him in the doorway, shoulder brushing his arm. No glance, no grunt, nothing. You’d dare say he was acting like a kid. And fine, let him sulk — you had a test to get through without dying.

What you didn’t know, though, was that he stayed back. That he lingered in the quiet of the empty break room, your scent still clinging to the air like a cruel reminder. That was his first mistake.

His second?

Green eyes drifting to the bench where you'd left your bandana. Sweat-soaked black cotton, creased from being tied around your head all morning, the faintest sheen of your hair oil still warming it. And Toji — old, bitter Toji — picked it up like it weighed something.

He told himself he wasn’t gonna do anything stupid. He was just gonna…hold it. Maybe tuck it into his coat pocket and return it later, like a normal adult. But then he rubbed the fabric between his fingers.

Thin, soft, still warm. It smelled like you — that impossible mix of salt and cheap soap, shampoo and skin, and something earthy and feminine that always made him a little crazy.

He felt it in his gut first. That low throb — not just in his cock, but in his goddamn chest. Regret, guilt, arousal, shame — an ugly stew of it. He groaned under his breath, thumbing the bandana with a clenched jaw, eyes fluttering shut. His cock was hard already, straining against his pants. Fucking great. “Just five minutes,” he muttered, like some kind of prayer. “Five minutes and I'll forget you ever existed.”

He palmed himself, rough and fast, still holding the bandana like it might anchor him to something other than pure depravity. His breathing grew louder, chest heaving under the thick black shirt he always wore like armor. It was pathetic. He knew it was pathetic — jerking off in a break room like some depraved teenager, when he was old enough to have tenure. But then again, hadn’t you turned him into this? You and your little shorts. Your mouth that always had something smart to say. Your eyes looking up at him like you knew what he was thinking.

He fisted his cock, hard now, thick and twitching in his grip. The ache was unbearable — heavy, pulsing, the kind that made his teeth grit and his thighs tense. And all the while, he kept the bandana close to his face, his nostrils flaring, moaning low like he was about to die from it.

“Fuck…fucckkk, you little brat…” he muttered. He was close. So fucking close —

And that’s when the door opened. Fast. Sudden.

“Shit, I forgot—”

You stopped. He didn’t.

His hand froze around the base of his cock, the bandana still in his other hand, flushed red and eyes blown wide as you stood in the doorway, breath hitching.

You stared. He stared back. The silence was so thick, you could hear the clock tick on the wall. And Toji — Toji fucking Fushiguro — had never looked more ashamed.

Not when he lost comrades. Not when he failed his last marriage. Not even when he nearly got caught sleeping with you in his office two months ago. This was different.

This was you, standing there with your hand still on the doorknob, eyes flicking from the bandana to his cock to his face. And fuck, he didn’t even have the words.

You blinked, slowly.

“…You’re seriously jerking off in a student break room?”

He swallowed, chest heaving. “I—”

“With my bandana?”

“…It smells like you.”

The words escaped before he could stop them. And yeah, he was definitely going to hell for this one.

You stepped inside, shutting the door behind you.

“Well, that’s one way to say you miss me.”

Of course, not one word was said. Not a gasp, not a curse, not even the ghost of a reprimand. You stepped forward, fingers curling around the very bandana he’d just fucked his fist into like a shameful teenager, the cloth warm and heavy and damp with the evidence of his so-called self-control, his cock still twitching in the aftermath. His jaw locked in mortification as you slowly peeled it out of his hand — never once breaking eye contact, not even when your thumb grazed the wettest patch, not even when you gave a soft amused hum that made his stomach flip and his spine stiffen.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t say a single thing as you brought it up, shook it out once with a flick of your wrist, and with casual, deliberate hands, tied your hair back with it, the fabric brushing your cheek, cooling slightly as it met your skin, still sticky from the heat of your morning drills.

And then you turned and walked away, boots loud against the linoleum, leaving the break room like nothing happened, like he was the only one caught in the storm — because all said and done, you still had an exam to give, and unlike him, you didn’t waste time. You were built for war and score sheets both, and you weren’t about to let a pervy, emotionally repressed head instructor knock your GPA off track.

Toji didn’t move for a full minute after that. Not even a twitch. The only thing that stirred was the sick realization setting in his gut that there was no walking back from this now — not after what he’d done, and definitely not after what you’d done right back.

Later that day, when the sun was dipping low and the training ground had mostly emptied out, he waited until the hallway was clear, eyes flicking left and right before grabbing you by the elbow in that no-nonsense way that meant you were in trouble — dragging you down the hall with that rough, controlled gait of his, jaw working like he was chewing through glass.

“Office. Now.”

You didn’t resist, didn’t even roll your eyes. But the smirk on your lips told him you knew exactly what this was.

The door slammed behind you, the lock clicking a second later, and you barely had time to drop your bag before he had you pressed against the nearest desk, hands already on your hips like he was restraining himself and failing miserably. “You’re gonna pretend that was nothing?” his voice was low, frayed, voice-box rasping like he’d smoked too much or screamed too long. “You think you can just walk outta there with my fuckin’ cum in your hair and act like that’s normal?”

You tilted your head, just enough for the smell to hit him again. Thick, raw, intimate. The combination of his own musk and your shampoo, grounding and familiar in a way that made his knees want to give out. He groaned — long and guttural — pressing his nose into your head like he was being punished, inhaling deep, and the way his grip on your hips tightened was almost painful.

“You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”

“Takes one to know one,” you replied sweetly, and that was all it took for his control to snap.

His hand shoved up your shirt, not gently, the rough pads of his fingers grazing over your ribs before sliding down to the waistband of your pants, yanking them down just enough to expose what he needed, and his breath stuttered when he saw the slick already gathering between your thighs — your pussy already wet and twitching like you knew this was going to happen. He didn’t even undress himself fully. Just unzipped, pushed his briefs down to free his cock, already rock hard and leaking at the tip, angry red and pulsing with every beat of his blood.

“You got no shame,” he hissed into your ear, lining himself up and sinking in without a warning, hissing through his teeth when the tight heat of you clenched around him like a vice. “You like being filled up that bad, huh?”

“I like multitasking,” you gasped, knuckles white on the edge of the desk, nails scratching into the wood as his hips slammed against you, the sound of skin on skin echoing around the cramped office. “Told you — I can focus.”

“Focus, huh?” he growled, fucking into you harder now, every thrust raw and punishing, like he was trying to fuck the memory of earlier out of both your heads. “You’re dripping, girl. You soaked through your damn pants, and you call that focus?”

You moaned, jaw slack, lashes fluttering with every thick, deep push that filled you to the brim, the friction of him inside you so blindingly good it almost knocked you off your balance. Your breath caught when he reached around, pinching your nipple through the fabric of your sports bra, a little cruel, a little possessive, all of it insane. “Guess you’re grading on a curve now, huh?” you managed, and he laughed, breathless, wrecked.

“No,” he muttered into your shoulder, voice cracked and hoarse, hips stuttering as his cock twitched deep inside you. “You’re just that fucking smart.”

☆ NANAMI KENTO: THE WOLF OF WALL D

You never really envisioned a life of ledgers, equity risk premiums, and the horrors of double-entry bookkeeping. In fact, if anything, you’d always assumed you’d end up somewhere in the arts — or at least somewhere where the word “asset” didn’t come with twelve subcategories and a spreadsheet the size of a tombstone. But one ambitious internship, two mock stock wins, and a dangerously persuasive LinkedIn mentor later, here you are: enrolled in one of the most prestigious finance programs in the country, selling your soul for a theoretical future on Wall Street.

Except, no one warned you about the real economy — the one where your old hookup turns out to be your new professor.

It was Halloween. Pre-college euphoria, post-exam breakdown — a sloppy cocktail of confidence and denial. You’d just gotten the admission offer, the kind that comes with a fancy crest and a pretentious Serif font. You were glowing, and frankly, you wanted to celebrate. And maybe — maybe — dressing as Margot Robbie's Naomi Lapaglia from The Wolf of Wall Street was a little too on the nose. Thigh-highs, heels, the pink velvet micro-dress, the accent — you committed. You even practiced the line in the mirror. Yes, that line. Yes, that scene.

And just your luck — of course the man who walked into the party with his sleeves rolled, Rolex glinting, and a perfect scowl under his sunglasses had gone as Jordan fucking Belfort. Expensive cologne clinging to his collar, the soft pull of his silk tie hanging low, like he already knew he’d be using it later. And he did.

Nanami Kento — although he hadn’t introduced himself with his full government name that night, just “Nanami” in that bored baritone, fingers skimming the rim of his glass like he was about to sign off on your performance evaluation. He didn’t even smile when you pointed out the cosmic horror of both of you showing up as horny power couple chaos incarnate. He just raised a brow, sipped his whisky, and drawled, “Well. It would be criminal not to commit now, wouldn’t it?”

And you did commit.

Specifically: to the floor of a stranger’s (Nanami’s) bedroom, sitting pretty and poisonous in the center, legs spread just enough to tease, your dress hiked up your thighs with practiced ease. No panties, of course — what kind of tribute to Naomi would it be otherwise? The heels stayed on — tall, glossy, a shade that caught the light like blood. You sat like you belonged on display, like he should’ve paid just to breathe the same air.

Nanami was in his shirt sleeves now, his tie loosened but still there like a noose. He hadn’t broken character once, hadn’t so much as cracked a smile since you’d started this absurd pantomime of power — but his eyes were molten. Reverent. He dropped to his knees slow, like something sacred was about to happen.

And just before he got close enough to bury his face between your thighs, you tilted your head, voice sugary and venomous.

“And you know something else, daddy?” you asked, tone lilting. “Mommy is just so sick and tired of wearing panties.”

He inhaled — sharp and shaky, like it was pulled straight from the pit of his chest — then let out a stunned, broken:

“Yeah.”

You blinked slow, smiled crueler. “Yeah?” you echoed, mocking his tone with a tilt of your lip.

His mouth opened like he was going to say more, but nothing came. just another rough exhale. and then he moved, hands coming forward as he began to crawl to you, something primal starting to flicker in his posture, like he’d shed the suit entirely and become all instinct and hunger. His face was already dipping low, gaze locked on where your thighs parted.

And that’s when you stopped him. Your heel — clean, sharp, and merciless — pressed right to the center of his forehead.

“But no touching,” you cooed, all faux sweetness and full control, dragging the sole down just enough to smear your heat along the crease of his brows.

He froze, arms shaking, still breathing hard.

And you pushed. Not gently, not cruelly, but enough. Just enough to tip him further down until he was on his stomach, the full weight of him humbled under your foot, cheek scraping the floor as he groaned from deep in his chest like it hurt to be treated like this and hurt more to be denied. You just sat there, thighs parted and glistening. His own personal hell, framed in pink velvet and sin. And you said nothing.

Because the message had been sent — he wasn’t getting this. Not tonight.

And then you’d leaned back on your palms, one knee lifting slow as a threat, and whispered, “You’re not gonna touch me, Nanami. You’re just gonna sit there and look.”

And he did. For longer than you'd thought he could manage.

But later on, you don’t know what was more embarrassing: the sound you made when he spat on your pussy and shoved two fingers in without ceremony, or the fact that you came — hard, embarrassingly fast — when his mouth dragging up your neck as he muttered, “You’re not going anywhere until I say you are.”

You should’ve known then that Fate was laughing at you. That this wouldn’t be the last time.

So imagine your shock when a year later, you walk into your first Financial Management and Ethics lecture — yes, ethics, the irony is its own punishment — and see Professor Nanami Kento himself standing behind the podium, glasses perched neatly on his nose, tie done up to the throat this time, looking like he’d never so much as held a condom, let alone wrecked someone with their own pantyhose. You couldn’t speak. Your body went cold, like someone had poured iced coffee down your spine. He, on the other hand, barely reacted, didn’t so much as glance your way during roll call.

And then, later that night, an email pinged into your inbox — along with the standard welcome email he’d drafted for the rest of the class. But yours? Yours came with an extra paragraph. Entirely formal. Impeccably punctuated. Polite to the point of threat.

Regarding our prior acquaintance, I trust that you will exercise discretion. Kindly refrain from referencing the event under any circumstances. It is not relevant to your coursework. Sincerely, Professor Nanami Kento, M.B.A., C.F.A. Adjunct Lecturer, Department of Financial Management Certified in Ethical Finance & Professional Conduct

You stared at the screen for a good five minutes, equal parts humiliated and deeply entertained. Because yes, Professor Nanami may want to pretend nothing happened — but you still remember the way he groaned your name like a warning, the way he muttered “greedy little thing” while stuffing you full, the way he unbuckled his belt like it was procedure. And you’re betting ten-to-one that he remembers it too. After all… it was his tie.

Nanami, meanwhile, was losing his mind — with an elegance only a man like him could bring to a full psychological collapse.

He’d never really been a “party guy,” let alone someone who dressed up for one. Halloween, to him, had always been one of those inefficient Western distractions, mostly an excuse for adults to wear synthetic wigs and pretend they weren’t miserable. But last year, for reasons even he didn’t fully understand (perhaps an existential crisis, perhaps two glasses of aged whisky), he gave in and indulged. Picked out a suit he already owned, added a pair of shades, tousled his hair on purpose for the first time in his life, and called himself Jordan Belfort.

The real kicker? He had just watched The Wolf of Wall Street the night before. The whole thing, from top to bottom, credits and all. Not because he wanted to — because a colleague said he should “loosen up.”

And that’s when he saw you.

You, in that godforsaken, serotonin-triggering pink velvet dress, hair sprayed into a perfect blowout, gloss on your lips, and a walk like you knew exactly what scene every man in that room was already imagining. And when your eyes met his and you smirked and asked, “You seen the movie?” — he knew. God help him, he knew.

You didn’t even need to discuss it. The two of you fell into that scene like it was muscle memory, like it had been choreographed months in advance. You sat on his bedroom floor, all spread pink and no panties. And Nanami — normally so composed, so neutral — crawled. Hands and knees. Ready to abandon God and dignity both just to get a taste.

But what kept him up at night wasn’t the act. It wasn’t the bruises, or the heel mark on his pride.

It was that goddamn care package.

Nanami prided himself on being considerate. He'd laid it all out for you on the bedside table:

A bottle of VOSS water, chilled.

A small silk bag with clean makeup wipes (bought from a boutique skincare store, not that pharmacy crap).

Travel-sized cleanser and moisturizer.

A protein bar (he googled “best post-sex snacks” at 2AM).

A mint.

A goddamn luxury tampon pack — in three sizes, just in case.

A note: “Thank you for tonight. Please take an Uber Black on me — money’s in the envelope.”

And it was. The exact fare + tip, calculated down to the decimal. He even folded the envelope with a golden paperclip. The one thing missing? His fucking number.

In all his obsessive curation, he forgot the single most basic detail. And when he realized it, it was already too late — you were gone. Slipped through his fingers like lingerie and regret.

He thought about it for weeks. Might’ve written a little poetry about it in his notes app, which he absolutely did not save. But fate, cruel bitch that she is, handed him a distraction: his alumni called. Said they were building an elite course track, needed a finance pro and thought of him. And Nanami said yes, thinking, surely, this would be a fresh start. But then he walked into the lecture hall, and you were there.

Front row. Same gloss on your mouth. Same eyes that once looked down at him like he was nothing more than a toy. You crossed your legs — the pink of your dress peeking out from under your coat like it knew what it was doing.

Nanami almost dropped his lesson plan.

And you? You smiled, gave a polite little nod, as if you weren’t the reason he woke up half hard most mornings. As if you weren’t still, technically, the only woman to ever shove him to the floor and then leave without a trace.

Later on in the semester is what was supposed to be a one-time “closure” meeting — two adults, one flat white, and a mutual agreement to never speak of Halloween again. Easy. You even wore flats. That's how serious you were about not being tempted.

Nanami, unfortunately, showed up in that same goddamn tie. Pale blue, subtly striped, definitely too expensive. The man must buy them in bulk, and you’re convinced there’s a hidden shelf in his penthouse that’s just ties and guilt. You tried to talk like adults. Really. You even brought up the contract he typed out like it was a sexless prenup.

Well, it was supposed to be a contract. A “mutual cessation of erotic activities in the interest of academic integrity,” as Nanami put it, complete with an italicized heading, numbered clauses, and an embarrassing amount of legalese clearly lifted from somewhere between a divorce form and a workplace harassment pamphlet.

You signed it with a pink glitter pen, under the heading that read: “Student–faculty agreement to abstain from sexual relations and/or activities that might invoke the carnal, the erotic, or the emotionally destabilizing.”

Clause 1.1: No sexual conduct, explicit or implicit, including but not limited to oral gratification, penetrative intercourse, hand stimulation, or any roleplay reminiscent of prior encounters involving cinematic characters.

Clause 3.4: Even suggestive eye contact during class hours to be avoided — especially if wearing high heels, pink dresses, or gloss.

Your personal favorite, Clause 5.2: Nanami Kento retains the right to amend or dissolve the agreement if academic integrity is compromised or if the student in question “moans like that again.”

You snorted when you read that part. “Moans like what again?”

He didn’t answer, just stared at the lid of his coffee like it wronged him personally.

Clause 4.0 (added later): If the student is to arrive in a pink dress, she must also be wearing undergarments.

Clause 5.6: Should any aforementioned clause be violated, the offending party shall write a 500-word reflection on self-restraint.

You honestly thought he was joking until he printed it on letterhead.

Until he asked for a second copy “for record-keeping.”

Until he slid it into a folder labeled “important documents” right next to his will.

And still, despite the theatrics, despite the absurdity, you tried. You kept your skirts modest. Wore flats. Avoided eye contact in the lecture hall like Nanami Kento was the sun and you were but a humble, horny moth. But temptation, much like New York traffic, does not yield to logic.

Especially not during one rainy Wednesday, when you walked into his office to ask about your project grade and caught him mid-sentence, blazer off, sleeves rolled, sipping his espresso like a tragic European novella character — and there it was. That tie again.

“You only own one tie, don’t you?” you said, shutting the door behind you.

“I have seven of the same,” he said, not looking up. “Consistency is important.”

You crossed your arms. “Is sexual tension included in the syllabus?”

“Not until post-graduation.”

But then you leaned on the edge of his desk — his very clean, very expensive, very wide desk — and when the angle gave him a flash of your lace waistband, all bets were off. “You’re breaking clause four,” he said, already flushed, shifting in his chair like a man being tortured.

“Guess you’ll have to penalize me,” you purred, toeing off your flats like they were irrelevant.

“This is a violation of so many subclauses,” he whispered.

“Which one stops you from bending me over this desk?” you asked sweetly.

He didn’t have an answer.

“I am deeply—” he groaned as he pushed everything off his desk with one dramatic sweep and yanked you onto the wood, “—disappointed in both of us.”

Your thighs hit the edge with a thud. Your ass was in the air by the time he undid his belt, cursing softly, reverently. You shoved the pink dress up over your hips, smiled like a girl who studied hard and sinned harder. “And yet your mouth is still open.”

His mouth was, indeed, very open. The action was scholarly — like he was trying to write his thesis on you. You clenched his tie in your hand like a leash, and his groans vibrated all the way up your spine.

He fucked you like it was an unscheduled exam — brutal, precise, every thrust a line crossed in that ridiculous contract. The wood was cool under your cheek, the desk wobbling under both your bodies as he muttered incoherently into your skin. Somewhere in the blur of sweat and polished wood creaking beneath you, you moaned his name — and he froze, like a glitch in the matrix.

He nearly collapsed.

After, while wiping his glasses and adjusting his cuffs like nothing happened, he muttered, “I'll need to rewrite the contract.”

You, legs dangling off the desk, lipstick smeared and dress hiked up to your ribs, laughed. “Don’t forget to add Clause 6.9: No begging in the faculty lounge.”

He did rewrite it. This time, on thicker paper. Embossed.

But neither of you signed it.

☆ GOJO SATORU: CURRICULUM VIT-A-DICK

You should’ve known from the moment he strutted into the university auditorium like a six-foot-tall migraine in human form that life was going to test you.

Gojo Satoru — excuse me, Professor Gojo — who you first met at a tragically overfunded science fair where he proceeded to obliterate your carefully calibrated quantum demonstration with the same ease he probably uses to open cereal boxes. No, he wasn’t a judge. No, he wasn’t even supposed to be there. Yes, he still wore those obnoxious sunglasses indoors. The man had main-character syndrome, and unfortunately, the plot seemed to agree.

You thought that was the last of him, you really did. But then, scholarship in hand, you walked into your first advanced theoretical physics seminar and there he was — standing in front of the whiteboard with his hair gelled like it was afraid of gravity, grinning like a man who absolutely remembered insulting your entire personality and research method six months ago.

And that’s where it began: the pettiest academic rivalry known to mankind.

You interrupted every lecture with hypotheticals that started with “But wouldn’t that break down under—” and ended with Gojo pausing mid-sentence, sighing, and rolling up his sleeves like he was about to conduct a scientific duel instead of finishing the unit on entanglement.

The first time you lost a bet — over the probability collapse theory, God help you — he didn’t even gloat. He just handed you a page with “AFTER CLASS” written in blue gel pen and walked off humming the Jeopardy theme. That was your first “correctional training” session, he called it that. “Brat correction,” in reality, said in the tone of someone who absolutely loved how your jaw clenched every time he said it.

He likes to think he’s the authority figure in the room — Professor Gojo, head of department, youngest theoretical physicist with two international awards and a cocky little writeup in a nature magazine about quantum entanglement that he sends to every new TA like it’s a Bible. But none of that means shit when you’re in the front row again with your leg crossed just so, lips pursed in a smirk that tells him you’ve done your research — and worse, you’re going to use it.

The thing about debunking Gojo’s teachings is that it’s become a tradition now. An academic bloodsport where you come armed with papers, formulas, and sheer insolence, and he comes armed with that patronizing little chuckle and the smug belief that nobody, nobody, is ever going to outdo him in his own damn classroom.

And when you don’t? Well, let’s just say your ass knows the weight of his disappointment very intimately. There’s a very specific kind of warmth to his palm when it lands flat on you, almost reverent, like he’s patting down the remains of your pride after dismantling it entirely.

“Disrespecting your teacher again?” he murmurs, voice all low and falsely dismayed, fingers trailing the hot skin beneath your panties as if it pains him to have to teach you this way. “And I thought we were making progress. You’re gonna make me grey, sweetheart.”

You snort into the table, biting back a moan. Liar. His hair’s been white since tenure.

But when you win — oh, when you win — he drops the act entirely. Gojo becomes Satoru, sloppy and glassy-eyed as he stares up at you from where he’s half-kneeling on the floor, the lines of his shirt rumpled and his tie hanging undone like a leash you might tug if he talks back. And you’ve got one foot on his chest, the ball of it pressing ever so gently down, just enough for him to feel it and shudder like a dog in heat.

“Now say it,” you hum, tilting your head. “Say you were wrong about the decoherence model, Satoru.”

He actually whimpers. “I—I was wrong—Fuck, you were right—”

“And?”

Your foot inches lower, brushing against the bulge straining in his pants, feeling the heat of it beneath thin, overpriced fabric. He's sweating now, cheeks flushed, panting like he’s running a fever that only you can break.

“You’re smarter than me,” he gasps, voice cracking, so wet and wrecked you wonder if he even remembers what the original debate was about.

“Mmhm.” your foot presses harder. “Good boy.”

There’s a certain irony to it, really — you came here to study quantum physics, and somehow ended up mastering the laws of cause and effect in the way Satoru Gojo responds to your foot in his lap. The man can theorize particle-wave duality until he’s blue in the face, but one good press of your heel and he’s unraveling faster than any atom he’s ever split. And the best part? you still haven’t told him you’re publishing a paper that contradicts his entire thesis. Maybe next week.

But then comes finals season.

Oh, finals season. A time of chaos, caffeine, collective breakdowns — and Professor Gojo’s personal renaissance. He is, without a doubt, in the best mood he’s been all year: cheery, chipper, even. Students whisper about it like he’s some kind of academic sadist, thriving off the pain of others, grinning like the devil in a tailored button-down as he posts the final exam that reads more like a dissertation than anything else. And the worst part? He isn’t grading on a curve.

But you, his prized little rival-slash-pet project, get… kindness. Or something adjacent to it. A gentle reminder before class ends, said with an infuriatingly sweet smile:

“No staying after today, sweetheart. You’ve got bigger things to focus on.”

And then, like the most deranged cherry on top:

“We can always catch up on our…activities later.”

You almost pity the way he says it, like it doesn’t make his dick twitch. As if he hasn’t been pent-up all semester, denied of your touch and your scorn and your heel on his chest like a guilty little sinner. As if he’s not walking around with just enough self-restraint to keep from humping the podium.

But here’s where it gets fun.

Because he thought this would break you. That his absence, the sudden lack of punishment and provocation, would mess with your head just enough to send you spiraling, slipping, making one teeny-tiny mistake in your finals that he could then circle in red and jerk off to later. And it almost works. He's giddy as he grades, bouncing his leg, lips twitching in anticipation. Every other paper is a war crime, the red ink running out. But when he gets to yours? Blank.

Blank, as in: no errors. Not even a formatting issue. Not even an ambiguous variable name. Not even a single goddamn typo.

And you signed your name with a heart.

The gasp he lets out is not professional. He's sitting alone in his office with the door locked, hunched over the paper like it just whispered dirty secrets to him. His hands tremble a little — out of horror, out of awe, out of the frankly humiliating pressure building in his boxers. Because this is it. This is what he wanted.

To lose. To lose to you. And you knew it, you knew — that smug little smile when you handed it in, the way your fingers lingered against his as you passed it across the desk. You knew you’d fucked him academically and emotionally and now, he’s sitting there, legs spread and back arched like some kind of fucking... exam-brained toy.

When he returns the paper the next day, it’s with a practiced expression, the mask of Professor Gojo firmly back in place. But his hand brushes against yours — too slow, too soft — and you can feel the static hum between your fingertips like tension in a charged field. “Full marks,” he says smoothly, like he didn’t have to jerk off in his office to even touch this paper. “You've made me proud.”

You smile. “I always do, don't I, professor?”

He swallows so hard you can see the twitch in his throat. Yeah, he’s not mad at all. In fact, he’s already mentally clearing his schedule for next semester.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Gojo Satoru, professor, physicist, prodigy — is currently a blubbering, overstimulated mess beneath you, his palms flat and useless against his own silk sheets, hips twitching every time your ass connects with his thighs in that cruel, delicious rhythm. He's crying fat, glossy tears as they trail down his cheeks like he’s in mourning, but it’s just you. Just you, sitting pretty on his cock like the goddess of academic revenge, one hand planted on his chest like a paperweight, the other gently curling around his throat with all the casual authority of someone grading a multiple-choice test.

You bounce slow, unhurried, torturously controlled — and he loves it.

“F-fuck, you — you did so good,” he slurs, head thrown back so hard the veins in his neck twitch under your fingers. “So smart, baby — so fucking brilliant, top of the class, top of me —”

“Yeah?” you whisper, leaning forward just enough so your breath brushes his wet cheeks. “Who's the valedictorian now, professor?”

He whines — whines — something like a yes and a laugh and a sob mashed together, a hiccupping mess of praise and need. “M’so proud of you, fuck — fuck, y’ride me like you solved me, figured out the whole equation— m’just a— a variable— oh god—”

He’s delirious. Incoherent. Flushed chest heaving, hair a sweaty halo against the pillow, and it’s kind of funny — the irony of it all. Because this is the same man who used to look at you with that cocky glint in class, dreaming of your downfall, picturing you stuttering through corrections and red ink like a scolded schoolgirl, only to end up here: broken and blissed-out beneath your hips, all heart-shaped eyes and thank-you-mommy energy, mouthing nonsense like it’s a second language.

“Wanted me to fail so you could play teacher again, huh?” you coo, slowing down until your movements are a slow, grinding circle that has his toes curling. “But now you get to be my little after-school project instead.”

“Yesyesyes,” he gasps, voice breaking mid-word. “Use me, please— you earned it, you aced it— s’the least I can do, swear— wanna b’good for you— f-for my valedictorian—”

You press your palm firmer against his neck. Not hard — not yet — just enough to remind him that the only thing keeping him grounded is you. “That’s right, professor,” you murmur, licking the sweat off his jaw. “You’re just my bonus credit now.”

And he moans like you handed him a lifetime achievement award. If the education board ever saw this, you think, they’d have to rename the curriculum: quantum physics and Gojo Satoru’s public humiliation, taught by you, graded by orgasm count.

☆ RYOMEN SUKUNA: A+ IN ANALYSIS, D- IN SELF CONTROL

If there was anyone who could make a student’s life flash before their eyes with a single look, it was Professor Sukuna.

Department: Modern History. Specialty: war crimes, chain-smoking, and looking like he belongs on a “do not approach” government list.

The man walks around like tenure is just a polite word for “try me,” tattoos curling up his neck and peeking through the gaps in his shirt like they, too, are sick of the dress code. He wears formal clothes the way one wears a hospital gown — reluctantly and out of necessity — and the scent of his cologne is nicotine and disdain.

He doesn’t lecture, he warns. Powerpoint slides are a thing of myth in his class. If you miss a date, you don’t get a reminder, you get a monologue about how the fall of Rome wasn’t as embarrassing as your lack of attention to deadlines. He’s harsh, terrifying, and objectively hot in that “he will ruin your self-esteem and your cervix” kind of way — not that you'd ever say that out loud.

You never had any special rapport with him either. You just sat in the front row like a chronically anxious nerd, too scared to even sneeze wrong. That is, until he found you crying in a quiet corner of the library, head in your history textbook like it could somehow absorb your heartbreak. He assumed you were overwhelmed by the syllabus — which, okay, rude — and muttered something that was equal parts pep talk and emotionally repressed threats against “whatever loser made you cry.”

Since then, Sukuna’s been...different. Not soft, not kind — don’t be delusional — just less sharp around the edges when it came to you. He'd still verbally dismantle any student who tried to correct him without citations, but when it came to you, he asked things like “you eating?” and “sleeping or still reading?” in passing. And he did it through email, because of course he did. Because Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t text students. He barely even types. He pecks at the keyboard like it owes him money. You’ve got a folder now, unintentionally titled “passive aggressive motivation,” where emails read like:

Subject: stop crying no man is worth bombing your GPA over. eat something. drink water. also your thesis outline was dogshit. fix it. -r.s

or:

Subject: your seminar slides don’t present this without adding a section on postcolonial analysis unless you want to embarrass yourself. also that guy who came to pick you up last week looks like he can't read. don’t bring him around again. -r.s

Every email ends with lowercase letters and an implicit threat. And it’s all very… professional. Totally, completely normal professor stuff. It’s not like he lingers outside your class when it ends to “make sure nobody bothers you,” or that his hand just happens to brush yours every time he gives back a graded paper. Or that when you send him an email past midnight, he responds faster than your own friends. Strictly educational, completely above board. Absolutely not the start of a very complicated, slow-burning, morally grey something.

…Right?

Right.

He wasn’t supposed to be there. The bar, that is.

Sukuna didn’t even like bars. Hated the smell of cheap beer and watered-down perfumes and whatever desperation clung to the sweat-slick air by midnight. But he’d gotten dragged there by another tenured professor who thought he needed to “loosen up,” which was ironic considering Sukuna’s idea of relaxing involved reading war manifestos and judging grad students.

So he’s already annoyed, even more so when he steps outside for a smoke and sees you there. Sitting on the curb, arms hugging your knees, hair pinned up like you’d tried too hard tonight. He knows that expression — the mix of hurt and embarrassment and the beginnings of oh god, don’t cry in public. It makes something seize in his chest.

“Seriously?” he mutters, walking up with the cigarette still burning between his fingers. “Who the fuck takes a girl to a bar for a first date?”

You just blink up at him, and he rolls his eyes like he’s not already halfway down the spiral. He drives you home, his untouched drink forgotten. The silence in the car is stiff, quiet, the kind that makes his knuckles tighten on the wheel every time you shift slightly in the passenger seat. When he drops you off and you say thank you too softly, he doesn’t say “you’re welcome.” He just stares ahead and mutters, “Get inside safe.”

But when he wakes up to your smaller body curled against him the next morning — God, fuck. He barely remembers letting you in, just that your eyes were glassy and your voice broke when you asked if you could stay, and then you’d fallen asleep on his bed before he could make a choice. And now you’re here, mouth slightly open in sleep, your wrist resting against his bare chest like you belong there. He slips out of bed like it’s going to absolve him of anything. It doesn’t.

So the next week? He ignores you. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares too much. Because he’s your professor, and you’re his student, and this shit is so far past the line that the line is a fucking dot. And yet—

You stop raising your hand in class. Stop sending over-enthusiastic thesis emails. And that’s when Sukuna knows he’s fucked. Because ignoring you only works until he realizes the silence is your reaction to being ignored. He doesn’t even think before knocking on your apartment door one night, hair still damp from a too-fast shower, jaw clenched in some attempt to be rational. You don’t say anything. You just look at him.

And he cracks.

It’s the wall. The bed. The damn kitchen counter. His mouth on your neck, your thighs, your breasts — sucking marks like he wants to leave proof of the apology he can’t voice. His voice is low, gravelly, drunk off the taste of your skin. His hands are rough, too big, too familiar now, and you tremble with every movement. “You still mad at me?” he grunts against your cunt, tongue swiping through your slick like it’ll get him forgiveness. Your hand fists his hair.

“You’re such an asshole,” you moan, shoving him deeper. He hums into your cunt like he agrees. And he does.

That night ends the same way they all do — tangled limbs, sheets kicked to the floor, and your breathless whine of “you never talk to me after.” And he means to, he really does. But he leaves again without saying anything, guilt burning like nicotine in his lungs.

So the cycle repeats.

You cry, he shows up. You argue, he pushes you up against the nearest surface and apologizes with his mouth and hands and cock — biting your shoulder, squeezing your hips, kissing the angry tear-track down your cheek until you’re choking on his name.

“Say it,” you gasp, nails raking down his back as you ride him.

He doesn't. He can't. He just slams you down harder and lets his mouth fall open, guttural noises spilling out like prayers. Fuckfuckfuck—

You make him feel alive. And all he can do is keep fucking up the same way, hoping one of these days, you’ll forgive him before he can find the words. And yet, finals season’s supposed to be your personal hell, not his. Sukuna’s brooding harder than usual, a semi-permanent crease etched between his brows and his arms crossed so tight over his chest that even the most clueless undergrad knows better than to raise their hand today.

You had said it nicely — too nicely — when you showed up to his office hours that weren’t even real office hours, just you dropping by like you always did, except this time, you had a script memorized.

“I just… I think it’s better if we don’t see each other until exams are over. I can't focus. And you’re kind of… a distraction.”

Him? A distraction? In his own subject? He doesn't even know if he should feel insulted or flattered. He decides on both and sulks accordingly. And you didn’t even say anything mean. There was no fight, no cold-shoulder aftermath. just soft words, a guilty look, and then nothing.

You didn’t show up to his class again. It was optional, sure — study week lectures aren’t mandatory, professor, he can hear your smartass voice in his head — but still. It's him. You always came for him. So when you don’t? That's when he knows it’s bad.

He tells himself he doesn’t care. Tells himself this is what he wanted, anyway — distance, boundaries, some room to breathe. Maybe he’s too old to be dealing with this kind of nonsense from someone who probably still has their ex-best friend’s Netflix password memorized.

But then he finds himself at the library. Not for you, of course not. He was returning a book — something dense and miserable on post-war treaties. Definitely not stalking. Absolutely not peeking between the shelves. Except then he sees you. Head bent over your notes, hair tied back, lips slightly pursed in concentration — and then there’s him. The most annoying little shit in his class, sitting beside you like he’s earned the spot, asking questions like he actually gives a damn about the League of Nations.

It takes everything in Sukuna not to walk up and knock the guy’s books to the floor. Instead, he glares from the second-floor balcony for an unhealthy amount of time before dragging you out the second you’re alone.

No explanation. No “hey, can we talk?” Just him grabbing your wrist and leading you into one of those back hallways that smell like too much disinfectant and stress sweat.

“Are you tired of me yet?” he says, low and flat.

You blink. “What?”

His jaw ticks. Fuck. It sounded pathetic out loud. He hadn’t meant to say it like that, all quiet and cornered. But now that it’s out there, the rest just comes spilling out in the most emotionally constipated way possible.

“You stopped showing up. You didn’t even reply to my last email. Now you’re with that… kid,” he mutters the last part like it physically wounds him. “You’re just—moving on?”

You stare, confused.

“I told you I needed to focus on finals.”

“Yeah, and I thought that was your generation’s code for leaving someone” he snaps.

The hallway goes still, the lights above continuing to buzz. Your fingers twitch at your sides, and Sukuna catches it — that little tell you have when you’re about to say something heartfelt, and God, he braces himself.

“You think I'm replacing you?” you say finally. “Sukuna, he was helping me revise flashcards.”

“Flashcards,” he repeats like it’s the filthiest word he’s ever heard.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re confusing,” he counters, but softer, quieter. Almost like he’s embarrassed. “You say I'm a distraction and then just vanish. I don’t know what the fuck you want anymore.”

“I wanted to pass. And maybe try not lose my mind.”

He leans back against the wall, head tilted up, arms now slack by his side. “Well,” he mutters, “Congrats. Because I'm losing mine.”

And he is. He misses your smart mouth, your late-night emails about history memes, the way your legs hooked around his waist like you belonged there. He misses the way you made him feel young again, even though he’s not — not really — and that fact creeps up his spine every time he watches you laugh with someone your age.

You reach for his hand, pull it away from the wall, and squeeze it gently. “I'm not replacing you,” you say. “I just needed to take a breath. But I'm still here.”

His thumb brushes your knuckles before he even realizes what he’s doing.

“…Good,” he says, voice rough. “Because I don't want to go back to pretending I don't give a shit.”

You smile, and his brain short-circuits the same way it always does when you do. He's still grumpy, still tired. still convinced he’s about five years and one existential crisis too old for you. But you’re still here. And that, somehow, is enough.

Monday morning smells like pencil shavings, stress, sweat, and betrayal. Not yours, of course — his. Because there you are, nestled so sweetly in his lap at his home desk, thighs spread across his, sunk down around his cock like you belong there. Because you do.

You’re not even moving. That's the part that’s driving him feral. Just sitting there all cozy and full and smug, keeping him hot and throbbing inside while he tries — tries — to grade the final batch of modern history exams. It’s the academic equivalent of edging, and Sukuna, for all his big scary professor demeanor, is fucking losing it.

Your breath is warm against the side of his neck as you lean in lazily. You’d had your fun earlier — broken him open on his own sheets like you were studying anatomy, and now you were just… resting. Inside him. Sheathing him. Cockwarming him like some kind of reward, like he was your treat. And the worst part? He didn’t even hate it.

“You've been on question three for five minutes,” you murmur, lips brushing his ear, and he jolts — not from your voice, but from how the shift grinds your cunt around him just the tiniest bit.

“I'm focusing,” he lies, throat tight.

You hum like you don’t believe him. “You’re twitching.”

“You’re warm.”

“You’re hard.”

He glares at the paper like it’s personally responsible. “It's correction season.”

“Mhm. And you’re grading while balls-deep in your student. Who's the distraction now?”

He grunts — but it’s weak. He's weak. Because he’s still inside you and your cunt is so soft and wet and hot and he swears he can feel your heartbeat around him when you clench just once, just to remind him who’s got the power here. And then, as fate would have it, the worst fucking name in his roster shows up on the next paper.

“You've gotta be kidding me,” he says, voice dry, mouth downturned.

You peer down. “Oh. Him.”

Sukuna goes still. You don’t even need to say the name — it’s the boy from the library. The one you studied with during “the dry spell,” aka the week you ghosted him for focusing on your exams, and he swore he’d never be that soft again. Well. Jokes on him.

“He used zeitgeist in a sentence,” Sukuna says, with venom. “Unironically.”

You smile, slow and cruel. “He’s not wrong though.”

He turns to you, jaw tight, cock throbbing. “Say that again.”

“The answer’s worth full marks.”

You say it like it’s nothing. Like you don’t know exactly what that does to him.

His hand slips under your ass and pulls you down hard, deep. You don’t make a sound, just breathe against his cheek, but the flutter of your walls around him has him practically vibrating in place.

“Take it back,” he rasps.

You smile. “Never.”

He’s back to bouncing his leg again — a nervous tick turned torture as every shift sends your warmth tightening around him, soaking him, milking him. He can barely hold the pen. He scribbles out a 10 and replaces it with a shaky 7.

“He gets a C,” Sukuna mutters, spiteful.

“Abusing your authority?”

“Yes.”

“Because you’re jealous?”

“Yes.”

You lean in close, lips just barely grazing his jaw. “Say it.”

“I hate that fucker,” he breathes.

“No,” you purr. “Say what you really hate.”

His head tips back, neck flushed red, pulse hammering under your mouth. “I hate that he got to see you smile.”

You grin. “You’re seeing it now.”

And you give him a single roll of your hips — slow, devastating, slick and sinful — and his breath catches, his eyes flutter shut, and his cock twitches helplessly inside you. “Holy fucckk,” he moans, low and wrecked.

“Mark the damn paper,” you whisper, licking the shell of his ear.

He scribbles an 8. “He gets a B- and that’s generous.”

You laugh softly and clench around him again. “You’re such a mess,” you coo, brushing his sweat-damp bangs back. “And you haven’t even cum yet.”

“You’re evil,” Sukuna whimpers, half-hysterical. “I missed you so fucking much.”

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I know.”

a/n: thank yeww for reading!! this took way too long to format, i hope you enjoy xx. i probably won't be writing any part 2's or continuations of this trope, so please respect me and my work and not comment about it/asking for it.

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